Welcome back to The Pagodium — IndyCar’s pressroom equivalent of the Thunder Dome. For there are no rules here. There is nothing off limits … except, of course, for the mundane. That is off limits, and will be dealt with swiftly. The Pagodium hog-ties the mundane and beats it senseless with a sack full of Ferris Wheel gears … then feeds it ether speedballs and sends it on its way.

This platform is certainly not for everyone. Only a chosen few. Tony Kanaan rode The Pagodium deftly and without fear. And Jack Arute rode it atop a galloping, tweaked-out white horse. Both excelled tremendously.

Which brings us to the 3rd installment. To Brian Barnhart. Who I’m not unfamiliar with, actually.   

Remember when that hardcore police chief in “Fletch” threatened to shoot Chevy Chase dead and then stab himself in the arm? Sure you do. We all do. Because we’re Americans, you see.

“Self defense,” he cooly explained to Fletch. “That’s how we used to do it in the old days.”

Well, that’s precisely how my 6 or 7 meetings with Barnhart have culminated. With me in some kind of secret IndyCar holding cell … him threatening to shoot me in the eyesocket if I didn’t relent … me quickly agreeing to quit being so snarky and obnoxious (read: awesome) … and the two of us eventually going to Cold Stone to patch things up over Mud Pie Mojos and cheap Korean whiskey.

Today, we’ll try again.

Chief Barnhart … the Pagodium is yours.

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Where does this honor rank with you, standing at the Pagodium? Far and away the greatest? Or merely in the top three?

It is probably in the top three or four……hundred. Let’s face it, this isn’t something too many people would be proud to be doing. And on your end, I fall into the same school of thought as Coach Bob Knight when it comes to “journalism”. Those of us who can, do…those of you who can’t, write about it. We learned to read and write in the second grade, but most of us moved on to bigger and better things with the rest of our lives and careers.

Slow down there, Mongo. It’s not like you need a phD in finance or the like in order to scream threatening obscenities into Milka Duno’s headset all race. Let’s keep this in perspective, shall we? Let’s keep our heads on. Now, it’s well known that you caught a 315-pound marlin with nothing but a Gatling gun, an extension cord, and the euphoria that comes with 48 No-Doz pills. Was that the biggest fish you ever caught?

The 315-pound marlin was the biggest fish without a hook. I once caught a 800-pound Great White shark on bailing wire and a peanut butter ball while fishing for catfish in the brackish water of Florida’s inter-coastal waterway. Now that was REAL fishing. Not the kind of bullshit you saw in “Jaws”. None of that strapping into the seat and attaching the rod/reel to hooks and straps to the chair like Quint did. What a wuss. It ain’t fishing if you don’t hold the rod and reel in your bare hands. It took an hour to get the big fish to the top and when he did, you could look right into his eyes. Have you ever looked into a shark’s eyes? A shark’s eyes are lifeless eyes, like a doll’s eyes.

SWEET F–KING FILMORE!!!!

Question: What has 38 eyes and sounds like Edgar Allen Poe on acid?

Answer: One of Brian Barnhart’s fishing metaphors!!!!

[ducks long-range sniper bullet]

Seriously though, I’m just going to ask it: from your standpoint, wouldn’t it be easier to just put an electric shock-collar on EJ Viso during races? I think so.

I looked into the shock collar for EJ and was told that it violated his civil rights. My argument was that once you strap into an IndyCar, you waive your civil rights. Anyone willing to drive 225 mph and who accepts the risks of smashing into walls can’t be too concerned about their “rights” as individuals.

You know what? An America that forbids the shock-collaring of crazed Venezuelan little-people isn’t really an America at all. It’s a f–king disgrace, I tell you. And it’s why everyone hates lawyers. And that segues poorly into my next question: Who has the bigger calves — you or Ray Lewis?

My calves are bigger than Ray Lewis’, but he is a better dancer than me. My calves put his to shame, but I can’t do that warrior type pre-game macho shit. I just do my own thing and try not to intimidate people with a routine that looks like something out of the “Crocodile Dundee” trilogy.

You’re lucky. I have the calves of a housecat. They’re uncomfortable to look at, actually. Like physically uncomfortable. Let’s change subjects. Dinner for four — at O’Charley’s on Shadeland — the Pagoda’s treat. You get to pick one historical race car driver, one “Die Hard” character, and one dead-or-alive B-lister (i.e., Bob Ross, Steve Irwin, Pam Dawber, Richard Dawson, etc.) to dine with. Who are your three choices and why?

Super Tex, A J Foyt. A real man’s man. First 4-time winner of the Indianapolis 500 and probably the greatest race car driver of all time. Not cut from the same cloth as most of the current Momma’s boys.

John McLain. Same reasons as above. Really picked up the slack when Cappy Roberts retired and got a place in Romona……..Pomona. Loved it when he was beating the crap out of that long, blond-haired sissy and said, “you should have heard your brother squeal when I broke his freakin’ neck”.

Pee Wee Herman. Never got the credit he deserved for being great actor. Always misunderstood. Asked me to go the movies with him one Friday night, but he never showed up at the theatre. I saw in the paper the next day he had been arrested.

True story — I once shook hands with AJ Foyt. And you know what? It was like shaking hands with an industrial trash compactor. (Provided that industrial trash compactors are made of thick horsehide & mountain thunder, of course. I’m just assuming that they are.) Along those same lines, whenever I’ve seen you at the IndyCar offices, you’re always carrying a black flag on your person — in a custom-made rawhide holster with a caricature of shotgun-toting bull testicles embroidered on the side. (Which I’m on board with, by the way.) And I guess my question is, do you ever just black-flag random people on the streets for being too stupid and/or slow? Have you ever WANTED to? When?

Absolutely. All the time. The reason I use the black flag, though, is because the American justice system has ruled that I can’t use a high-powered rifle. At races, it would be so much better if I could shoot the tires out from under them so they could’t go back onto the track. And it would help with my practice for hunting season too.

Good God Almighty! I worry that you’re only 10% joking, you terrifying bastard. Moving on, I heard that when you’re talking to the drivers right before they try to qualify at Indy, you’re actually only spewing random “Animal House” lines and pointing out hot Southport tail in the straightaway grandstrands. What did you and Tony Kanaan talk about last year before his qualifying run?

Scarface and I are always looking for someone who might be the roommate for Fawn Leibowitz, the sophomore who died in a tragic kiln explosion.

Well sure. That’s because you two get it. You’re cut from the same badass cloth. Let’s pick up the pace here. Now, I don’t mean to pry, but did ESPN buy you a nice dinner every week last season? You know … before f–king you? GOTCHA!!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!! I’M JUST KIDDING!!!!!! That’s inappropriate, frankly. And entirely unprofessional. It was a joke. You really don’t have to ans —

— ESPN wouldn’t buy if we were getting a sack of sliders from the Aluminum Room on Crawfordsville Road.

[awed silence]

Oh. I see. Can you excuse me for a second?

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Bless you, fine sir!!! Bless you! That had it ALL!!! Pent up anger … vengeance … sliders … verbal assualts on ESPN!!! And it took nuggets the size of church bells to say. Glory glory!!!!

[composes self ... but not before huffing an entire celebratory can of Rustolium]

When Jack Arute stood upon this hallowed ground you’re standing upon now, he essentially called you a hyper-feminine, brie-loving tea-drinker. Hypothetically, if you were given a briefcase full of money and the Pagoda asked you to crush Arute’s skull with a modesty panel from a post-World-War-II wooden desk … how much money would need to be in the briefcase to actually make this happen?

I’m confused, are you paying me to do this, or am I paying you? If you are paying me, none, it’s a freebie done with pride and pleasure. The other way around, it is just like the formula for buying an engagement ring: I’d pay two months salary…..or is that two years worth?

Best Pagodium ever??? Best. Pagodium. Ever. No doubt. It shan’t ever be topped — not unless Willy T. Ribbs or George Wendt step on in here. And even then, I doubt it. Let’s press on. If you were forced by law to get a tattoo … what would you get?

It would match my rawhide holster for my black flag.

Makes sense, I suppose. That thing simply oozes class & authoritative splendor … just as shotgun-toting bull testicles tend to do. Last question — the Detroit Race last year. I publicly argued that you f–ked up and probably needed a good beatdown. Two days after that, I came home to find that my house had been meticulously deconstructed — brick by brick — and spread throughout my front yard in the vague shape of a noose. There was also a severed goat head wedged firmly into my basketball hoop. Coincidence?

It HAD to be a coincidence. I am not completely, POSITIVELY, 100% sure where you used to live.

Of course you don’t. How silly of me. And speaking of “coincidences,” I won’t ever again call your judgment into question. Ever. Promise. 

See you at Cold Stone.