The Grand Prix of Sin
Why Thousands Can’t Wait to ‘Come’ to F1 Weekend in Montreal.
It used to be that the Formula 1 Grand Prix, at least the one that takes place in Montreal every June, was about the actual race.
But, as it turns out, the real action happens off the track, where scores of horny men, local V.I.P.’s, and out-of-town strippers come to flaunt their assets for a chance to compete in the big leagues.
As if Montreal needed another reason to be bad.
The “F” in F1 should really stand for F*cking
Grand Prix weekend is a time when decadence, delirium and debauchery are out in full force.
If you aren’t getting fleeced by the grossly-marked-up menus, you’re probably taking in the views…and by views I am, of course, referring to the huge tits and short skirts pressed up against the Ferraris.
But no matter what the draw, one thing is certain: The Grand Prix is the perfect backdrop for man’s eternal quest to lay and get laid.
Except now, the stakes are higher, and the hotel rooms are a lot pricier.
A Race to the (X-Rated) Finish Line
And, just like so many of life’s other delicious ironies, the true contest happens on the Sunday night–long after the checkered flag has been waved:
- For club owners, it’s their last chance to dish out one more, must-attend soiree complete with all the extravagant extras.
- For men, it’s a battle to see if they can squeeze in one last slam session before their flight home.
- And for women (or at least those who know how to play the game properly), it’s their final moment to mooch another magnum of champagne from older gents with deep pockets who’ll do anything to attract eye candy.
I love this city.
Cheaters Cheaters Everywhere…
Even though, by last night, I had had my fill of F1 weekend events, I couldn’t help but notice how many party-goers were still willing to take one final lap (pun intended) around the velvet ropes.
St. Laurent Boulevard was bustling and the vodka was free-flowing. It seemed everyone had an agenda: to see and be seen.
And it appeared as though all of the men at the bottle service tables were engaged in a fierce competition to see whose Grey Goose was bigger (oh, and here come the bevy of supermodels circling overhead!).
I especially enjoyed seeing an old friend—who knows NOTHING about race cars—come to enjoy the festivities (a.k.a. leaving the wife and kid home to lick tequila off the chest of a girl half his age).
After all, isn’t that what F1 weekend is all about? Giving men the perfect excuse (and alibi) to eat, drink and be merrily adulterous?
I even decided to make a game out of it: Every time you see a dude with a wedding ring tan line during Grand Prix, you take a shot. Just keep the Advil close by.
In the end, everybody wins during Grand Prix. The Montreal economy gets a much-needed boost, a few extra cocks get sucked, and strippers get to pay their way through another semester at law school.
Event marketing—and sportsmanship—at their finest.
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