The cast of loons one sees at the Kentucky Derby pales only in size and scope to the hangover sure to follow on the first Sunday in May.

And so it was on Sunday, May 2. For those of us who do not - or no longer - indulge in the spirits of adult beverages, it can sometimes be emotional tonic and entertainment to watch our fellow man bury his head in his hands…negotiating the apparent movement of the carpet…holding onto the handrails of life.

Smarty Jones crossed the finish line at 6:14 p.m. on the first Saturday in May, but the damnedest thing happened 12 hours later. Along came 6:14 a.m. That's about as bad as the news gets for those infield revelers who bonded with bourbon and befriended the beer.

Louisville's quaint Standiford Airport lends itself to closeness. To be sure, 99.5 percent of the folks strolling its cozy concourse on May 2 were heading home from Kentucky Derby 130. Those parked in chairs had already cracked open the local paper, where passers-by glimpsed the bold-faced headline "Smarty Jones Perfect".

When the gentleman sitting next to me dropped his high-held newspaper to his waist, the morning took a sudden turn for the worse.

Here strolled, God strike me dead if I'm lying, a 20-something man wearing one of those early 1900s-styled, red-and-white-striped, one-piece bathing suits. Shaved head and sunglasses (no doubt helping a half-bottle of Excedrin to reduce the thump), the young man staggered down the concourse.

He was not alone, however.

No, that just would have provided a smile.

The candy-striped passenger stumbled to and fro with a plastic, inflatable floatation device wrapped around a waistline that will not be cast anytime soon in the Ab Roller infomercial empire. And we're not talking about the kind of floatation device the flight attendant tells you about on the underside of the seat cushion.

No, that would have just been extremely peculiar.

Around his waist, this Derby degenerate donned a plastic, inflated, yellow duck, the kind your kid moves up to wearing after advancing past the orange floaties worn on each arm.

"Happy Derby, everyone," he said, covering more ground left-to-right on the concourse than Smarty Jones did a day previous in the big race. Some onlookers smiled. Others raised eyebrows. Others looked around to find the "candid" camera that surely had to be hidden somewhere nearby.

It's times like this when a person KNOWS this crackpot is coming his or her way.

Sure enough, he negotiated his fall to the floor precisely at Gate 21. His presence, and the fact that boarding time was still about 30 minutes away, prompted me to move to another gate and wait. Sitting across the concourse, a terrible thought crossed my mind.

In times like these, one KNOWS this joker is going to be sitting next to you on the plane.

Do I really need to give out the seat assignments? Plonk 11-D. Duckman 11-A.

Thank goodness for prop jets which have the single seat on one side and an aisle in-between. Approximately one beverage cart's worth of distance separated me and the most annoying flight in the history of mankind.

Lucky for me, a passenger in the preceding row first struck the Duckman's fancy. They joked about Mother Nature's evil trick she played on Derby fans the previous day, dumping rain by the bucket and turning the infield into Lake Louisville. Then, a voice interrupted from above.

"Good morning, ladies and gentleman, this is your captain. Welcome aboard flight 3037, leaving for Philadelphia - the home of 2004 Kentucky Derby winner Smarty Jones."

The full plane of fans gave a round of applause. Some were locals, while many merely were using Philly as a connecting gateway to their own homes.

"Who the *&$% bets on a horse like Smarty Jones," I hear as an arm extends across the all-too-short aisle. Not wanting to strike a chord with him, I ignore his question. He then slurs, "Happy Derby, brother."

My eyes rolled quickly to the back of my head, which started to spin with thoughts of just how bad the next two hours would be. I lifted my newspaper to face level, attempting to bury my attention and show the Duckman no love.

Suddenly, the left side of my newsprint crinkled down as a bald head and sunglasses peered over.

"What the *&$% happened to Tapit," were the next words he managed to spew. Shaking my head, my only response was, "Dude, too much Guiness."

The Duckman assured me that he had not drank any Guiness, that the beer in the infield was "too *&$%-ing expensive", but they still had a "Happy Derby, brother". Obviously he had not been tuned in to the storylines of Tapit and his breakfast program of Guiness, oats and eggs.

Certainly, I should have been wise enough to figure that out beforehand.

"Me and Quincy had a great day," he said, petting his plastic cohort as if he was grooming a racehorse himself. "If you get sick of me, just tell Quincy," he added. "She'll whack the *&$% out of me and keep me straight. She got me through Derby."

Just then, the flight attendant walked the aisle, making her customary pre-takeoff check of the cabin.

"Sir, you're going to have to deflate the duck and place it under the seat," she requested. Surprisingly, he obliged on the first request, letting the air out of the smarter half of this Derby duo. Quincy (I can't believed I just typed that) remained around his waist, providing a yellow splash of color to his candy-striped bathing suit. The flight attendant, with the patience of a saint, smiled and said that would be fine.

Her positive outlook was not shared across the aisle. Soon after, my newspaper once again came to face level and the stories of Smarty Jones and his loveable connections consumed my attention. After all the stories of the on-track Derby news were read, I flipped the page and found a recap of the infield scene. Again, my attention turned to the Duckman.

Curiously quiet, I dropped the newspaper a bit to check the goings on across the aisle. To my delight, I found a muscle-less neck hunched dead forward. The sunglasses looked down on the deflated, plastic duck around his waist. There was not a sound, not a peep, from the Duckman.

The good Lord above graciously had dealt me my second winner in two days. As the plane trekked home to my native Pennsylvania, a calm, quiet smile peeked out from seat 11-D. Silence and an occasional buzz saw snore took up residence in 11-A.

The Duckman had passed out.

As I think back on the events of Kentucky Derby 130, I'm not sure for what I'm most grateful. Was it picking my first Derby winner in 11 years? Was it having the local horse from my home state cement his name in history? Or was it the narrow escape from the most annoying flight in the history of mankind.

Any way you slice it - happy Derby, brother. Lucky for me, I get to drive to the Preakness and Belmont.