Megan Gailey is one of our favorite stand ups. She’s also more knowledgeable than everyone on the BYT staff about sports so we’re asking her about sports. Today’s column poses the question, why did I go to the Belmont Stakes ?
I went to The Belmont Stakes on Saturday. I realized a lot about myself: I have a gambling problem (I’ve been thrown out of two casinos) and I don’t like drunk rich kids. Drunk old people are great but anyone under 24, puking in seersucker is apparently not my thing. I also hate skiing so my chances of marrying rich are pretty much obsolete.
It was an incredible gathering of some of the worst humans I have ever been around. Here are my favorite evil trust funders.
– The girl yelling (to no one), “CAN I VENMO SOMEONE FOR A CHEESEBURGER!?”
– Anyone chanting “USA!” to the horses.
– The girl who asked me to take a picture of her and her three hot friends in rompers. I took 5. She then, immediately, walked up to another stranger and asked him to take more. She was also Venmo cheeseburger girl so she really made an impression on me.
– The boys behind me that booed Bill Clinton. Then blamed him for the housing crisis. I don’t know anything but leave Slick Willie alone!
– Two girls crying and hugging as one said, “I don’t want to fight with you about a sandwich anymore.” I actually like them!
– Twenty year old boy that told me he was going to frame his winning ticket because he already had a million dollars.
– Stained Lilly Pulitzer, broken Tory Burch, ripped Ralph Lauren
– “Who won?” I hate that girl a lot.
– The entire crew in the vintage Yale football sweaters
– The Goo Goo Dolls. Yes. They played.
But there were some people I liked! The security people that kept celebrating every time they confiscated alcohol because they knew they were going to keep it. I also loved all the old people that had clipboards to organize all the horsey information.
American Pharaoh won the Triple Crown and I lost $100 on horses and $86 on tall boys and a hot dog.
Sporting events need a majority of its fans in wife beaters or jerseys and in thousands of dollars of debt. Taking a drunken fried chicken nap in the infield of the Indy 500 is the real American pastime.