I was the biggest loser and you were too if you attended.

Last night was my first ever demolition derby. I entered the arena with a glee comparable to a child on Christmas morning. Maybe it was the excitement of loud engines and crunching metal that had me excited, or maybe it was the pitcher of beer I had at Sol Az before rolling in. You decide.

The arena was packed. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting that many humans. I hope the fair made a truck load full of cash. I’m no mathematician but at $10 a head, I think they’ll be satisfied when they rack it up.

The fair looked epic. The rides weren’t nearly as rickety as I remember. Hindsight being 20/20, I should have spent more time out there than inside at the derby.

The first thing I realized was that I should have drank more water before I arrived. The temperature inside the arena was close to what I assume Satan keeps his thermostat set on. I was sweating like a cat burying poop on a marble floor. At first, I assumed wearing a shirt with cut off sleeves was just standard derby apparel that I missed out on, but I quickly realized it was just good forethought.

Rednecks 1. Chief 0.

I realize no one could control how hot it was going to be. But, damn. A man with a cooler of ice towels could have made enough to retire early.

The first heat rolled on the the track and the schmucks and I were ready to gamble. We all picked a car and put a Lincoln down. The cars did their thing, beating and banging, then it all just ended. I have no idea what happened. No one collected cash because no one knew who won. The announcer just assumed everyone in the crowd was derby aficionados and knew what the hell was going on.

The next heat was the same thing, then the night went to hell.

Heat three started much like the others. Beating, banging, hooting, hollering. Eventually, there were only four cars left and those four cars lasted for an HOUR. They chased each other around and around and around. No one could land a lethal hit.

At one point, Ole Nephew got himself lined up for a home run. He had the full track to land a haymaker on an unsuspecting beta. He laid his foot to the wood and was chugging hard.

Then. He. Hit. The. Brakes.

The arena joined me in my displeasure. I thought they were going to riot. I assume the police had to guard him as he loaded up.

It went on so long, the announcer decided it was time to work on his stand up routine. He wasn’t busy telling people how the derby worked so hell, why not? His first joke, “Are y’all gonna hit somebody or get in a pile and cuddle,” was a hit. Everyone ha-ha’ed. It was so good, a few minutes later, he pulled another one out of his hat. “Is this a derby or ring around the Rosie?”

It was at this point I asked my lady if we could leave. She said no. She wanted me to suffer.

It finally did end. In the same manor as the previous two, they randomly waved red flags and called it good. I and half the arena were tripping over each other to get the hell out of there. We didn’t need to see the feature, our Derby quota had been met for a lifetime.

Like I said, I hope the derby brought in piles of cash. I realize it’s not always like that. I’ll most likely go back, but before I go I’ll go ahead and order that second pitcher from Sol Az.