When Jesus or whoever invented Father’s Day, a vision was born. A movement. A call to arms, really, as pure & just back then as it is now. Sure — it’s only for one day. But it’s our day. Our time. Our right as decent & non-deadbeat dads to do that which we secretly yearn to do: become slothful, inert pieces of couch gristle, where our every whim is attended to, and where it’s very, very quiet. Deep down, that’s all we really want.

To the fathers go the spoils (for a day), and the spoils are good.

So it was written, and so it shall forever be.

And so it was once more — on Sunday — a most delightful day, thanks to my most accomodating wife. It was a day filled with snifters of bourbon and greasy foodstuffs a few dozen naps and the sweet, sweet calm of zero husbandly or parental duties. It was a form of PROFOUND laziness better described as “decadent squalor,” probably. (**hits walkie-talkie button** FETCH ME SOME TOTINO’S PIZZA ROLLS AND A BEDPAN, POST HASTE!!) I’m not saying it wasn’t self-centered and obnoxious and gross, because it certainly was. I’m just saying that it was wonderful, and probably how Dwight Eisenhower spent the better part of his golden years.

And just when it couldn’t feasibly get any better, it did — with NBC’s wise decision to air 17 hours of live US Open coverage. Combine that with the always enjoyable Iowa race — along with a Cubs/Indians game and the aforementioned state of peaceful sluggardness — and you’ve got precisely what Jesus or whoever originally envisioned: a True Gift to fathers, and that which we’ve always wanted. Privately, at least.

On to Newton, Iowa we go — bedsores and hangover be damned. 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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Tomas Sheckter moves up 38 places in 0.0047 seconds – 5 Pagodas
MonaVie … the lifeblood of badasses. For only $485 per bottle, YOU TOO can harness the power of the boysenberry to defy the laws of physics and rocket through time & space!!!! ORDER NOW!!!! OR PERISH IN A HAIL OF MORMON BLOWDARTS, YOU DROOPY SOULED HEATHENS!!!!!!!!!!

EJ Viso wrecks — 1 predictable Pagoda
It all goes back to this, really. The unfortunate bellwether; the predictor of the downfall to come. The lesson here? If you fancy yourself a freakish & quasi-insane arsonist and your off-season routine is heavy on the WHAM! workout — and light on elicit drug use & choking out homeless people for sport — you have failed. And you have failed miserably. You have taken everything that was right within your soul and made it wrong. Very, very wrong. And now you suck.

You reap what you sow, you little Venezuelan jockeyrocket. Live and learn.

Helio & Dixon collide at Mach 2, chaos does not ensue – 2 Pagodas
For whatever reasons, I always thought if you touched wheels with another driver at 180 mph, some spectacularly bad shit went down … not unlike if the Ghostbusters ever crossed proton beams. Not so, apparently.

And to be honest, I’m greatly relieved … and yet slightly bummed. Because frankly, nothing adds that extra bit of oomph to a race like the potential for “every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light,” or whatever it was that Egon said. (I repeat: the POTENTIAL. Not it actually happening, you twisted goon.) And now that threat is gone, I see. And the zany antics of the Firestone Firehawk mascot must be called upon to fill yet another void. Again.

[groans]

[flips to US Open]

David Duval’s swing – 5 buttery Pagodas
You capture my heart, my emotionless little pear-shaped droid. Your swing, I mean. It’s exactly as I remember it, and everything that mine isn’t: smooth & elegantly effortless, and flatter than a Sioux City horizon … but twice as long. (My swing, in contrast, looks like a Tourette’s-stricken yak frantically trying to gnaw its way out of a bear trap. All kinds of disjointed & sad.)

Thank you for that reminder of all that once was. Welcome back, Your Pudginess.

[flips back]

Tony Kanaan’s car explodes – 1 Pagoda
The bright sides, I’m afraid, are becoming harder and harder to find. That doesn’t mean they’re not there, though, because I’m sure they are. We just have to dig deep. Let us look:

• the back-right tire rim remained non-disintegrated (THAT’S SAVIN’ MONEY RIGHT THERE!!!)
• he was not violently taser-raped by the SAFER barrier, which is certainly a plus
• the retaining fence didn’t collapse on him and puncture a lung
• his spleen didn’t catch fire
• he’s still ahead of Stanton Barrett in the points chase

And that’s about it.

Shawn Johnson, the most powerful of Hobbits — 4 Pagodas
If she was two feet taller, black, and slightly less ripped in the upper body … she’d look EXACTLY like 1986-Bo Jackson. That’s high praise there, and something to be cherished. For Bo Jackson is the King of Kings, and the One who snapped his bat … on a checked f–king swing!!! [bows head humbly ... hums Battle Hymn of the Republic] But we digress.

The point is, we had to subtract a Pagoda because she didn’t slam a pommel horse over Marty Reid’s flakey little head.

Dario wins his blah blah blah blah – n/a
Whatever. It’s not important, frankly. And here’s why:

This was the kind of race that, on the whole, makes IndyCar IndyCar. What makes it entertaining. To me. To the unfamiliar (aka, 98% of this country). That said, many of the die-hards have been quick to point out the flaws of the race and boisterously call for some kind of aerodynamic and/or mechanical fix-all that will “save” the sport … only to resume their strict diet of general harrumphing & online petitions for Brian Barnhart’s removal.

And therein lies my biggest concern with this little cozy corner of Sportsdom. Because from what I can gather, a wildly disproportionate amount of our time & resources are spent trying to improve the product as a whole. Which begs the question, are we that self-conscious? Do we feel that inadequate? Or do only the squeakiest of wheels dominate the messageboards? Perhaps there’s little else to discuss in the barren days between races? I don’t know. But what I do know is this: as an impartial mediator and someone who loves nothing more than obnoxiously berating my employer, the Iowa race was the highest of top-shelf entertainment … on a day when top-shelf entertainment was bountiful, no less.

So I must ask, what does it take? When do we stop complaining — and start appreciating? Because this incessant griping & second-guessing from the most vocal of fans has grown bothersome and it’s ruining my nap.