This essay was originally published on Medium, in May of 2025

The thing about mint juleps is—they’re just not the same without bourbon. And yeah, I know, that’s like saying pancakes aren’t the same without pancakes. But sometimes you’ve got to state the painfully obvious when you’re trying to fake a tradition. And with a rocks glass full of crushed ice, some muddled mint, a splash of Ritual zero-proof “whiskey,” and a dropper of Durban Poison tincture, if you squint hard enough, you can almost pull it off. Sort of. On Derby Day, you’ve at least got to try.

I’m at my kitchen table, computer open in front of me, the aforementioned glass of fake whiskey and real cannabis tincture sweating circles into the wood. On the TV across the room, tuned to NBC, Churchill Downs looks like soup. Horses are heading to the gate, skittish and stomping, flinging mud. The crowd, buried in ponchos, still looks electric. You can feel it through the screen.

And they’re off! A clean break from all runners on a muddy track at Churchill Downs. Citizen Bull bursts from the gate, grabbing the early lead from the rail. Neoequos and Owen Almighty press forward. Journalism stumbles briefly out of the gate but regains stride, slotting in mid-pack. Sovereignty lags early, dropping back to 16th through the first turn. Baeza trails near the rear, saving ground…

This is the one day a year I bet on horse racing. The one day I bet on anything, really. I always go for the long shots. I never win. But I do it anyway. It’s the principle of the thing. What fun is it to play it safe and win seven bucks? I’d rather lose spectacularly.

Not too many years ago, I would’ve sworn there was no way I’d enjoy this event without real bourbon. Because that’s what alcohol does. It convinces you it’s the main character in every good memory. Not the moment. Not the company. Just the booze, trying to take all the credit.

I used to feel the same way about beer and ballgames, red wine with pasta. But eventually, the hangovers started lasting days instead of hours—which becomes a real issue when you’re stacking them back to back. “Fun” started to look more like self-harm with a decorative label. So I quit drinking.

It’s been a few years now. And I’ve learned something surprisingly boring: the experience is still the experience. You don’t have to be wrecked to enjoy it. For the most part.

Quarter mile time: 22.81 seconds. Still fast considering the mud. Citizen Bull leads the charge into the backstretch, Owen Almighty and Neoequos at his heels. Journalism holds steady mid-pack, waiting for daylight. Sovereignty bides his time, far outside. Baeza quietly picks off a few stragglers…

As they race through the slop, I glance down at my placed bets scribbled on a yellow sticky note: Coal Battle to win. 24–1. He’s a mudder, or so I’ve been told, and in fact he has won two races on muddy tracks this year. I also boxed him with Journalism, Sovereignty, and Tiztastic in a trifecta. Which, yeah, is probably $150 I’ll never see again. But hope is cheap, and it’s Derby Day.

When I say “I placed bets,” I mean I Venmo’d a buddy in Kentucky. He’s the one standing at the legal window like a respectable citizen. I live in Texas, where “personal freedom” is the state slogan—unless it’s a book you want to read, a medical decision you want to make, or a horse race you want to bet on. We’re big on liberty here. Just not yours.

So I send the money, he places the bets, and I sit here in my kitchen, pretending I’m not casually committing at least two crimes. Maybe more. One for the betting. One for the Durban Poison tincture in my drink, smuggled back from Colorado last time I was there.

Believe it or not, Texas actually has a medical cannabis program now—crazy, I know—and I’ve got a card. But the strain options are about as thrilling as a church potluck. If I want my favorite sativa, which, if I’m being honest, I like because it most closely mimics a two-drink buzz, I still have to go full Smokey and the Bandit. Minus the Trans Am. And the mustache. Allegedly.

Half mile: 46.23. Journalism starts to stir, creeping into fourth. Sovereignty is still out wide but making up ground. Baeza cuts the corner and improves position. Citizen Bull is showing early fatigue as the leaders close in…

Also—for those teetotalers keeping score at home — when I said I quit drinking earlier, I was careful not to use the word sober. And I’m definitely not the kind of guy who goes around proudly declaring himself something as hackneyed as California sober, God forbid.

But if you held a gun to my head and made me pick a label, I guess that’s the one: no booze these days, but I’ll still partake in a little weed now and then. The AA crowd might not approve. That’s okay. To each their own.

Cannabis has never had its claws in me like bourbon did. It just shifts the perspective a little. Warms the lights. Tilts the frame. But it does tend to make me sleepy, so I counter it with coffee and a nicotine pouch or two—since I also quit smoking years ago.

That’s my cocktail these days: THC, caffeine, and nicotine. Kind of like the saddest, most suburban Fear and Loathing bender imaginable. No mescaline, no cocaine, no blotter acid. No tequila. No raw ether. Just mint leaves, fake whiskey, a carefully measured dose of THC, a Zyn pouch, and half-caff from my Keurig.

Three-quarters: 1:10.78. Sovereignty is rolling now. He sweeps past Owen Almighty and Neoequos. Journalism follows suit, launching a bold outside move. Baeza is charging up the rail. The favorites have taken over. Citizen Bull is done…

Speaking of altered states and the good doctor—every year on this day, I reread The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved. Thompson at his finest. Slurred brilliance. Unhinged, wide-eyed, stumbling journalism. It still hits. Still makes me want to write something with even half that edge—without sliding into parody.

There’s an epidemic out there, and I’m not talking about booze or gambling, I’m talking about writers—yes, mostly white, male writers of a certain age—trying to sound like Hunter S. Thompson. Full-on impersonation. You can spot it a mile away: the forced mania, the overcooked metaphors, the cheap theatrics dressed up as edge. And it never really works. Because none of us are Hunter. Nobody ever will be. And we shouldn’t try to sound like we are.

I’ve felt that pull, though. That temptation to slip into his rhythm, steal a few cadences, maybe light a fuse and see what explodes. Because that style is seductive. You start to think if you can just channel enough chaos, the truth will come out sounding profound and feral. But the thing is, it only worked for him because it was him. The madness in the writing came from real madness. The drug-fueled brilliance was a symptom, not an act.

Final furlong: Journalism clings to the lead—but Sovereignty is surging! Head to head. Nose to nose. Baeza flying in third. Final Gambit hanging on for fourth. Mud everywhere. It’s chaos down the stretch…

Like a lot of guys my age, I idolized him. Hemingway, too. Not just the work, but the damage. The drinking. The unraveling. Like maybe the suffering was part of the magic, not just the myth. And maybe it was, in part. I don’t think the substances made them talented, but without them, I’m not sure we get the exact work they left behind. Especially in Hunter’s case.

A sober Thompson wouldn’t have written like that. Probably couldn’t have. Maybe he’d have lived longer, wouldn’t have put a bullet through his head in 2005, but I’m pretty certain we wouldn’t have what we do from him. The wild, brilliant stuff that tore a hole in the page and dragged journalism—kicking and screaming—through it.

It’s a brutal trade-off… and it’s a mistake to try to imitate it.

And at the wire… Sovereignty finds one final gear and pulls away. He wins the 151st Kentucky Derby in 2:02.31. Journalism second by a length and a half. Baeza third. Final Gambit rounds out the superfecta.

The trifecta hits. But not mine.

My long shots sank somewhere in the back half, covered in muck and regret. Coal Battle was swallowed whole in the stretch. Tiztastic vanished completely. Publisher finished somewhere near the popcorn stand, probably wondering what the hell just happened.

My Kentucky Derby losing streak remains perfectly, gloriously intact.

And I’m okay with that. I bet and lost about what I would’ve likely spent on bourbon this weekend anyway. But I still had fun. I watched the Derby without the booze, and I still enjoyed it. Just like I’ve enjoyed baseball games without the beer and papardelle without the chianti.

And even if I enjoyed it alone at my kitchen table—re-reading Hunter’s gonzo masterpiece, tapping out my own meandering poor-man’s knockoff about a horse race from 800 miles away, and texting friends at real parties where I assume no one was sipping zero-proof whiskey or nursing half-caff coffee before sunset—it didn’t feel like missing out.

And the money I lost didn’t really feel like losing. Because with that loss comes a win. I’ll wake up tomorrow with no hangover. No bourbon-fueled shame. No midnight texts I need to apologize for. No hazy arguments or rogue social media posts I’ll have to quietly delete. Just a quiet but good weekend. One I’ll actually remember.

And if I can still scratch that old degenerate itch now and then—with a little quasi-legal cannabis and the very occasional ill-advised wager—that feels like a pretty good trade. I guess that’s not nothing.

2025 Kentucky Derby full results

1. Sovereignty
2. Journalism
3. Baeza
4. Final Gambit
5. Owen Almighty
6. Burnham Square
7. Sandman
8. East Avenue
9. Chunk of Gold
10. Tiztastic
11. Coal Battle
12. Luxor Cafe
13. Neoequos
14. Publisher
15. Citizen Bull
16. American Promise
17. Render Judgement
18. Flying Mohawk
19. Admire Daytona

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Nick Allison is a college dropout, former Army infantryman, and a writer based in Austin, Texas. His essays, op-eds, and poems have been published in The Chaos Section, HuffPost, CounterPunch, The Shore, Eunoia Review, New Verse News, and a few other places. Ever since discovering the Mac shortcut for the em dash way too late in life, he’s been abusing it—constantly—and has no plans to stop. Also, he secretly enjoys writing his own bio in the third person because it probably makes him feel a little smarter and more important than he actually is.