Ever bump into one of your distant friends during the day and tell your wife about it that night? Of course you have. We all have. It’s unforgettable. For what happens next is one of the more fascinating phenomenons in nature. Oh sure, it’s exceedingly predictable & maddening … but fascinating nonetheless.

I’m speaking, of course, of the wild onslaught of follow-up questions. Because guess what, Marine. They’re coming. They are most certainly coming. Rapidly. Efficiently. Persistently. Armor-piercingly, and in freakish numbers. Like the never-ending rounds from Blain’s 8,000-caliber, Predator-hunting mega-gun.

All she does is hold down the proverbial trigger … and just like THAT, shit gets mowed down into nothingness. Gone. The victim of prolonged, high-caliber absurdity — the weapon of choice throughout much of Wifedom. Absurd in the sense that she assumes I stood there in Arby’s auditing this guy’s life, choosing to leave no detail unexplored … and that I’d somehow remember it all. This fazes her not. QUESTIONS LOCKED AND LOADED!!!! FIRE AT WILL!!!!!

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Mrs. Hobbson: How’s he doing?

Me: Fine.

Mrs. Hobbson: How’s his job going?

Me: I didn’t ask.

Mrs. Hobbson: Is he still at Merrill Lynch?

Me: Maybe.

Mrs. Hobbson: How’s his wife?

Me: I have no idea.

Mrs. Hobbson: Is she back to teaching again?

Me: It never came up.

Mrs. Hobbson: Have they decided on a preschool yet for the twins?

Me: You know, we really only talked about curly fries. And the Colts — briefly.

Mrs. Hobbson: Do they still live over there off Spring Mill?

Me: [rubs temples aggressively]

Mrs. Hobbson: Well wasn’t their house on the market?

Me: [repeatedly stabs own eyesocket with a carrot peeler]

Mrs. Hobbson: Did they end up remodeling their basement? I know they were planning to. Did they get built-ins down there?

Me: [curls into fetal position]

Mrs. Hobbson: …

… and on and on and on, deep into the night. Question after ridiculously-pointed-question … questions I never fathomed asking my friend. Questions I couldn’t possibly answer. Questions I don’t answer, which falls upon deaf ears. And ultimately — with her ammunition spent, and me lying motionless on the floor – she’ll wrap it up with something along the lines of, “Why wouldn’t you ask him that stuff?? Guys are weird.”

Well, you know what? That may very well be. But then again, maybe WE JUST WANT TO GRAB SOME ‘BIG MONTANAS’ AND GET THE F–K OUT OF THERE, PREFERABLY WITHOUT THE ADDED BURDEN OF PROBING EACHOTHER’S SOULS!!!!! Is that so weird? No. It’s not. I mean, if he had something important to tell me, he would have. Say, if he were moving his family to the Tibetan lowlands … or if his wife had swine flu … or if he’d become a certified Ninja … or if he was facing a felony indictment for counterfeiting. That’s all worthy of discussion. So too would be the fact that his brother bagged Catt Sadler. You get the idea.

But anything even slightly more mundane than that is off limits. It’s unacceptable, and runs afoul of international law — this according to the Males Social Guidelines Treaty of 1852. We don’t WANT to know the little stuff. We haven’t the time or patience for that, and nothing good can come of it.

No, we keep it short. We keep it superficial. We keep it as non-awkward as humanly possible. And we move on. That is our way. And that is how our people have it done it for eons.

And if you think we’re changing now — if you think we’re going to suddenly start asking in-depth questions of eachother that require actual thought — well WHO’S weird now? Exactly.

Thus bringing us seamlessly to Saturday’s Bombardier Learjet 550. (“Seamlessly” means “unrelated to,” right?) Five Pagodas for that which was entirely awesome … one Pagoda for that which was uncomfortably pathetic and/or Jack Arute-ish. My call.

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Shaq’s call to arms — 391 Pagodas
Is there a more profound phrase than “awe-inspiring?” A phrase that depicts untold awesomeness & power … while mixing in a dash of whatever it is that made me want to go slug somebody in the chest with a shovel for no apparent reason? No??? Okay. “Awe-inspiring” it is, although this seems to diminish its impact.

All I know is that when got going, children screamed and villagers fled. I, however, stood and saluted. And then shotgunned a pint of lighter fluid.

Bless you, Diesel. Please come back.

The visual splednor of Hi-Def night racing — 5 pretty Pagodas
May I present the Hierarchy of Mesmorizing HD Television If Watching While Impaired:

1. Planet Earth
2. Olympic Opening Ceremonies
3. The Matrix
4. IndyCar’s Texas 550
5. Any Discovery Channel show pertaining to the formation of the universe

Not a whole lot of room for improvement there … not much more to do. Unless, of course, VERSUS wants to show ultra-slow-motion footage of Jon Beekhuis biting clean through a sea-lion after a furious chase through Arctic waters. Which shouldn’t be ruled out, frankly.

The gastrointestinal ramifications of eating an 8-pound tray of nachos — negative-16 Pagodas
Each negative Pagoda represents one pound of weight loss through an unfortunate series of bathroom incidents later that night. Goddamn TexMex and your volatile backlash!!! A POX UPON YOU!!!

Maybe we should talk about something else. Something bitchier, perhaps? Very well then …

Marco Andretti, Super Diva — 1 Pagoda
We shall simply call her “Marsha” from here on out. So it shall be. Her incessant cattiness both irritates & bores me … just like the Gymboree Music CD.

The phantom yellow — n/a
I’d say this has been covered extensively in the blogosphere. Those fine folks have tackled the subject far better than I ever could. My areas of expertise are different than theirs, and serve different purposes. Perhaps if someone had stolen the flag, hitch-hiked down to Orlando, and viciously bludgeoned Kobe Bryant’s skull with it — maybe then I’d feel comfortable offering my opinions on the matter. But that didn’t happen, unfortunately. No, Kobe Bryant lives to annoy another day. And America erodes just that much more. GO TO HELL, KOBE!!!!!!!!!! YOU SMUG BASTARD!!! YOU’RE THE REASON EVERYONE HATES LAKERS FANS!!!

I’m sorry. I think I seized there for a moment. Point being, I’ll just leave this to the professionals. Maybe.

Scott Dixon’s Jenga-centric IndyCar commercial – 5 Pagodas
When you mix Jenga and sorcery, know what you get? You get your bags packed for Funville and you ship out — that’s what you do. And that’s exactly what I did. It’s a fabulous place, Funville. Filled with all kinds of wonderment & magic – much like those Cambodian brothels I’ve never been to.

Helio wins – 1 asterick-marked Pagoda
Now this hardly seems fair. Ryan Briscoe makes a mockery of the field and ends up with a lap average of 643 mph … and loses?  All because some Delphi Safety Team minion spotted some plankton-droppings between Turns 1 & 2? Really? Well then it begs the question, Would this have happened if Danica were leading? No. Certainly not. There could’ve been bushels of human babies littered throughout the track and no yellow flag would’ve emerged. But Briscoe? In a boring runaway?

That’s different.

How predictable. And maddening.