                  Super Bowl, World Cup, West Minster Dog Show. They are all tremendous spectacles of sport, each deserving of the attention they garner from around the globe. But, as I have stated here previously, I do not vest my happiness in the outcomes of games or seasons- it is simply not in my nature. The rest of my life parallels this sentiment in that there are very few occasions in which my enthusiasm for an event causes me to quiver in anticipation. Last night, however, was just such an event.
	
That’s right ladies and gentlemen, the pinnacle of modern sports was once again on display as the Demolition Derby returned to the Western Kentucky State Fair Grounds for yet another heaven-sent night of smashing cars and funnel cakes. When you walk through the gates, you feel something different. At first you may think it is the mud hole you were forced to step in, as it sits DIRECTLY in the path of the ticket takers. No, that can’t be it. There is something in the air. Its certainly not shampoo or even filtered cigarettes. It is excitement. It is the promise of the fact that on this night, a new champion will be crowned king of all that is wrecking cars. That, and the outside shot someone may get “blowed up”. 
	
I will set the stage for those of you who have not had the pleasure of attending this hallowed affair. There is a track about as wide as a football field and just a bit longer that is framed off by telephone poles laid long ways, nailed down with railroad spikes. It is moist with water to keep the speed of the cars under 70. It is surrounded on two sides by fans in bleachers and a grandstand that have come to see blood. It is NASCAR without the money or pretty-boys. There are two ways in which you can be eliminated in this gladiator arena. One, you can be knocked over a telephone pole and hung out to dry. Two, your car can cease to run and be given the proverbial 10 count after failing to crash into any of the competition. In the words of Tony K., “that’s it; that’s the list.”
	
The night begins with a “Best in Show” competition; a beauty pageant of sorts for the competitors who have spent the time, effort, and possibly $20 dollars in making their beasts as aesthetically pleasant as spray painting their girlfriends’ name can do (I personally liked ‘Cristy’ without the ‘h’). There were only three cars in this particular contest. The winner came in the form of a pink number with flames going down the length of each side. The driver just happened to be a female and I will venture to say this was the first competition based on traditional standards of beauty that she had ever won. She was a crowd favorite immediately.
  	
Enough with the pageantry, it was now time to smash em’ up. In the first of the night’s two heats for the big boy cars, our female driver in her oh-so-pink sedan was matched up with a variety of late model cars and station-wagons (incidentally, I am concerned about the future of the sport when eventually Accords and Camrys are forced to suit up on the field of demolition- it will be like recasting 8 mile with Clay Aiken [the pop version of this message boards ‘maconvolfan’]). Our lady was the crowd favorite with the top 3 in this heat as well as the next advancing to the finals for the big money. However, a wrinkle was added this year in that there would be a bonus $50 awarded to the “most aggressive driver” in each heat. This ensured that the normal rule against driving motor first into the driver’s side door of the competition would be totally ignored. It was. They lined up the cars across from each other on the short side, then turned them loose with the waving of the green flag.
	
 Our pageant winner was the first eliminated. Her car failed to turn over and she was immediately knocked out of the ring within seconds of the start. So much for the fan favorite. Later, when she exited her car, again it became painfully obvious the sport is still waiting for its Danica Patrick. Given her generous proportions, I feel she would have been more competitive sans car. The rest of the first heat was fairly uneventful in that three cars got stuck together which allowed the top 3 to leave the round relatively unscathed. 
	
The second round featured a bit more excitement. The fan favorite in this heat was a brave, young gentleman who will be returning to Iraq for his third tour of duty in less than a week. He received an ovation very deserving of all that serve our country so bravely. This heat featured more car bashing and less knocking over the rails. You know its good when the cars’ trunks block the view from the back window. The crowd was fever pitch. Had they been selling alcohol, I am fairly sure the right side of the grandstand would have seceded from the Union. The highlight of this heat came when our soldier, driving his lime green station wagon with the words “Kiss my Ass” painted on the back, suddenly, but not unexpectedly, became engulfed in a reasonable sized fire. At this point, he had a decision to make: Wait for the volunteer fireman or take his chances playing chicken on foot in the Derby. He chose the latter. Now that my friends is adrenaline. He survived and was once again honored by the announcer to which he received huge applause. I, along with everyone else, was a little saddened, as we all wanted him to have that trophy. The top 3 finished, the finals were set, and it was time for the compact car division.
	
The compact car division is what it is-small cars doing very little damage to each other in a match that seemingly never ends. It is sort of like watching two drunks fight: they can’t really hurt each other and by the end they sort of just wear out on their own. This event only had 3 competitors so no one went home without a trophy. Kind of like Matt’s ribbons from field day, they really just said thanks for competing.
	
The next heat was the consolation round. If you could get your car to the track, you could vie for the chance of coming out of the loser’s bracket into the main event. The pink lady rumbled back out with her virtually dent-less car (save where a front loader had ripped off her bumper unhinging her from the telephone poles in heat one). This round featured cars on their last leg but did provide some good hits. The pink lady was once again beaten fairly early and showed that like Michelle Wie, the fairer sex still must prove itself amongst the men folk. A winner was claimed and the field for the finals was set.
	
SCANDAL!! It was announced just prior to the final bout that any car would be allowed to compete in the main event if it could get started and make it to the track on its own power. What!?! You can’t just invite Hofstra to the Final Four! Shenanigans I say! But, the governing body was not without questions to begin with. The powers that be also suspiciously declined to drug test its athletes for this event. Is meth ‘performance enhancing’? We’ll save that debate for another day. The finals were spectacular. The drivers bashed em’ up nice. Real nice. The last four cars hit so hard they virtually welded their bumpers together forcing a pause in the action and prompting many in attendance to yell “throw some water on em’”(if you are from the city, spend some time at your local dog park to understand the phrase). The cars were separated via forklifts and a winner was ultimately named following a series of vicious hits. The next to last car was left dead in the water. While the driver worked feverishly to get it started, the eventual winner took his time in lining up the last three hits from the length of the track. Remember in Blood Sport when Jean Claude Van Dam was about to crush Chung Li's head in the final bout only to stop short and show some mercy? Obviously, Blood Sport didn’t offer $50 for the most aggressive fighter. A track official eventually put an end to the awesomeness by waiving the checkered flag and anointing the victor. I really made an effort to remember the winner’s name to give him his due but alas it has escaped me. No matter, I am sure he wasn’t in it for the glory. It’s all about the groupies


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