“I Was There” Files: Kentucky Derby


Whoo lordy jesus! I been staying prayed up for the past week cuz it done took me a minute to recover from the madness but here you go, good chilluns, I’m about to break it down.

A couple things to know about the Conny and why this trip was spectacular: Conny’s a negro. Conny’s good friend and Kentucky native Tippy Porter decided to bring her stylish, Latino, severely infected with the ghey boytoy and a nappy haired, charcoal-skinned yet articulate colored gal to the Souf. Yeah, we fit right in.

Also, Conny, up until her release into the real world, was a good African girl which meant alchohol tastes icky (remember when alcohol didn’t taste like the sweet nectar of merciful demigods), only Ewe boys with engineering degrees need apply and the only puff puff she was exposed to was during Igbo potlucks.

So, twas a bit of a culture shock as Tippy’s family, who are good gracious Southern folk, also enjoy some herbal refreshment from time to time. And by time to time I mean, hourly. Soon as we get in the car, two blunts were passed in two hours and being a weed virgin, I caught the ill contact high and dozed off. Luckily I was woken up later by a minor family crisis that resulted in Tippy’s stepfather’s negro ( I mean KNEE GROW — I’ve never met a blacker darkie steeped in colored culture in my life) behind riding in the trunk while we left her country sister on an intersection in downtown Louisville. Good times.


While we were there for the Derby, horses ain’t really our thing so much as drankin’ and getting into trouble is. So we went to the hotspots and Louisville’s charming laid-back vibe is much like my hometown of Boston or Brooklyn (you know, if the BK wasn’t teeming with so many insecure douchebags). So eventually with all the herbalism going on, it was getting awkward trying not to smoke. I was tired of sitting in the bathroom and stuffing rugs under the doors to insulate myself or taking a walk during the daily family toke-up so at one party after hours of filling my veins with the devil juice (Bourbon is a hell a drank…) I buckled down and sucked my first puff. Getting high for the first time was fun because pop culture suddenly made a lot more sense. After years of Beavis and Butthead, Half-Baked and Bush’s presidential addresses, I could only imagine what the hubbub around the marijuana was about. And this also meant, I was free to be more phool than ever!!!


Like after a day of smoking and drinking and walking around, we see some old flabby shirtless dude with gray chest hair and a c-cup (barf!!) strolling along the dock like he was a sexually confused cabana boy tricking for Pucci on the Riviera in the 1950s. We take a picture of the Kentucky phoolery and when dude, who we learn is named Rusty (I mean, how much more country can you get? He might as well have been named BillyBob The SheepFucker and Fatback Gobbler) and he invites us on his boat. Yeah, he is some random old ofay in a former slave state but I’ve basically drinking gasoline and sniffing Ajax all day so why not? Of course you know those ol’ time Southern men love the dark meat so while everyone’s getting they drank on, I’m getting followed by this fool who looks like he snuck into my plantation quarters to get a sniff of the woman bits. Then wired up from the herb he started backing it up like only an athritic, twisted Kentucky fogey can and I nearly fell off the boat from laughter.

Speaking of Kentucky men, why are all of them out of their cotton pickin’ minds? My first night on the herb we went to this one party which had a photo booth (which is the best idea in life ever) and about 30 minutes in we realize we are one of the few children with our shirts on. Apparently the thing for “straight” young men in the ‘ville to do at a party is to shuck and jive for a bit then get nekkid with other smelly boys and dance to faggy electro. Um…yeah…Clearly, nothing was popping off at that joint so we go to another party in search of other forms of phoolery and then our little nekkid friends from other party roll through in full force, gaying up the dance floor with their gay-ass gayness. This phenonemon that we encountered at nearly every party we eventually dubbed “Trashed in the Closet” because while it was allegedly the good Louisville boy thing to do, we’re from Brooklyn and we know some local homos blowing off some steam when we see it (see above pic).

Also, shout outs to all the weirdos who hit on me and my boy Jose the Good Pimp the whole weekend. While I was high and falling asleep at some party (as usual) I attracted some phool who looked like he just shot an elk in his pickup ‘fore he rolled through.  And poor Jose just had the “straight” ‘ville boys all up on his nutsack. Phools would just roll up, grab a hunk of ass meat and then giggle like they don’t know that’s the international gay handshake. I mean, if you got the ghey, HAVE THE GHEY!! House that shit! I mean, clearly there’s enough fellas cruisin’ for tube steak so the lot of you should just get together and have at it already.


Ok, so this post is long as shit but basically I got high about ten times (LITERALLY) in two days and eventually it just felt like I was lighting my head on fire. Louisville thrifting is that crack (I’m looking dapper in my $2 100% silk Ferragamo scarf as I type and Jose nearly had an anneurism thinking of all the hot shit he got). And Louisville is packed with some incredibly sweet (if at times sexually confused), proper people.

“I’ll lynch a bitch…I’m from Chelsea…”


One Response to ““I Was There” Files: Kentucky Derby”


    I never get tired of reading this foolery. Specially cuz i dont remember it. Thanks for keeping us Abreast! yeah.

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