Let us bow our heads, everyone.
Dear Heavenly Father. We all gather before You on this dreary Thursday afternoon under entirely different circumstances. Some of us are at work. Some of us are hydrating and stretching and mentally preparing in the rain. Some of us already shotgunning Seagram’s in a backyard in Irvington, off and running early at a mighty brisk pace. All
of us, however, are eager to start Race Weekend in earnest, which – according to established Indiana case law – officially begins Friday morning at first light. (see Nationwide Ins. Co. v.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯ , 471 N.E.2d 1340 (Ind. App. 1984))
In 500's past, Oh Lord, we have routinely called upon You for guidance and watchfulness … but at the 11th hour, so to speak – about 20 minutes before the actual races were to begin. And that’s some fucked up shit when You think about it, Almighty God. Because 20 minutes before the race is about 36 hours too late, imo. We need Your protection and wisdom, like, RIGHT NOW
. We need Your counsel and strength and favor as we set off on this never-ending bender of house-parties and cookouts and the buffet line at Brad’s Gold Club, through the unyielding barbecues and beer runs and shirtless rounds of golf at Coffin – we need You in this blessed odyssey of our Race Weekend. And so we turn to You now...
Keep us hydrated, Dear Merciful God.
Keep our minds and tongues clear of all political and business matters. Nobody in a Hamm's Light codpiece and a Dale Davis jersey should be discussing such things, and nobody should be forced to endure it. Let us only discuss Pancho Carter and fucking shit up and things of that nature.
Keep our friends in the Coke Lot and the surrounding lots drunk and un-stabbed, Heavenly Lord. For they are our warriors on the front lines of Race Weekend. Watch over them as they joyfully roam Your Kingdom naked as hell, as they build their fully functioning roller coasters out of turkey legs and mud – as they live out the goddamn Indy 500 dream.
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Keep our Uber prices halfway reasonable, Gracious Lord. Something like 1 out of 3 American citizens or some bullshit like that will be here for the Race, although that may not be an exact number. No matter. I’m sensing some heavy SURGE PRICING headed our way. Don’t be a dick, Uber.
Keep our minds sharp, Blessed Father, and our eyes clear of the some of the gross shit on Carb Day. We judge not, Oh Lord, but let’s get this straight right here and now: we need not see Clive the HVAC guy boning his old lady near the 8th tee in the infield (again) or those latchkey kids bow-hunting possum in Turn 4. We pray to not see many things on Carb Day, O God in Heaven.
Keep our alcohol and beef intake at a sustainable pace, Eternal Lord. We are weak and dumb and prone to overdoing it early … and then we find ourselves in a pickle at 2 o’clock on Saturday afternoon. (With “pickle” meaning “pudding shot coma.”) Give us the wisdom to take a Powerade and a break now and again.
Keep watch over those who are less fortunate than ourselves, O Blessed Ruler – those fancy Senators and clergymen and olds who are too proper and/or quote-unquote “mature” to wallow in their own filth and poor life choices for 72 straight hours. For they know not what they miss, Dear Father.
And so as Race Weekend breaks tomorrow at dawn and the sounds of Whitesnake begin drifting through the morning haze, bless our Jose Cuervo tank-tops and cargo jorts and see that they serve as our divine armor – that they get us through this most glorious and yet perilous stretch of days. For many years from now when the scars will have faded and the hepatitis will have hopefully been cured, the memories will be fresh and pure.
Keep us safe, O Lord. Keep us somewhat coherent and wise. Keep us 500.