{IZOD IndyCar Series Christmas Party Monday night} Terry Angstadt: Alright, folks. We’ve got a wonderful Christmas surprise for you. Let’s give a big IndyCar welcome to Santa!!! [a sleigh pulled by 8 tiny backhoes explodes through the wall]

{4:13 AM, Vitor’s physical therapy session inside Foyt’s pole barn} Foyt: … 497 … 498 … 499 … annnnnnnd 500. At ease, Cynthia. Set ‘er down. Vitor: [drops Cub Cadet 7500 backhoe] Foyt: See there!?! And that doctor queer said you couldn’t squat-lift that thing once!! Hot damn, look at you NOW, queenie!!! You’re almost [...]

Hey, whatdoyaknow … AJ Foyt’s plane suffered engine failure at 25,000 feet this past weekend. He handled the near-catastrophe well, of course, with a quiet calm that bordered on disinterest. Which is certainly much easier to do when you’re — you know — immune to death & incapable of feeling bodily pain. Because when you’re AJ Foyt, near-catastrophic engine malfunctions at high altitudes [...]

{busy construction site at the corner of 30th & Kessler} Foyt: Ahhhhhhhh … smell that, Frenchy? That there’s the smell of brawn and confidence. I reckon it’s high time we got you some of each. Vitor: It smells like dust. And old bread. And I don’t like it.

“I’m not going to tolerate it anymore. When I see him, I will have a talk with him.” — an angry AJ Foyt, voicing his displeasure with Helio Castroneves According to my Merriam-Webster Dictionary of Foytian Phraseology®, this doesn’t bode well for Helio. This doesn’t bode well at all. Have a look:

{speed training on Foyt’s Hockley, Texas ranch} Foyt: Time to quicken you up, Victoria. Hope you don’t mind snappin’ an arm bone or two. Vitor: I don’t like where this is going.

{11:48 pm, aboard a fanboat deep in the Everglades} Foyt: Your training begins now. Hop in, princess. Vitor: Beg your pardon?