Three Generations of Dweebs

This trio reminds me of the three generations of dweebs who disturbed my sauna with three KGB agents in 1989 They were pan-generational creeps sharing some bad DNA.  All fit, all health conscious, all self-important and gold-plated assholes to a man.

The three KGB agents of whom I spoke were . . .how shall I say  this? . . .busting out of Boys Huskies and squeezing into Portlies - Thus!

They were fun, funny and fearless gentlemen.  We got along.

Good genes make for . . .good genes. . .?  Well, who am I to judge?  Allow me.

I have a very disciplined and healthy regard for the human condition so long as the character/personality thermostats of the individuals encountered  happen to be set just to my liking and considered judgment.

I delight in the company of my fellow man, so long as he conforms to the rigorous, but indefinable virtues which make us brothers, regardless of race, religion, culture, income, level of education, sexual preferences or political point of view.

I once took a steam and a dip in the old McCormick Inn hotel pool with a trio of delightful pre-Fall of the Wall KGB agents.  It was 1989 and my father-in-law owned, edited and published the Will County Farmers Weekly Review and a wonderful portmanteau came into my vocabulary - Due Bill. Quite simply, my wife, kids and I could stay at either the McCormick Inn or the Essex Hotel on Michigan Ave.and pay only the taxes and parking.  Shipwrecked 1907 Heidseick purchased with a Red White and Blue wallet. We booked a suite at McCormick Inn while on some winter school break.  The Bolshoi was jigging up a storm at the Aire Crown Theatre in McCormick Place; hence the KGB guys. My daughter Nora had just turned 4 and I took her for an indoor swim.  We were dog paddling along when a Tsunami drenched us - actually it was three endomorphic Russkies in speedos.  Now, I am no chiseled and sculpted Steve Stunning myself, but I'd hang around shirtless with these three any day.  They were far from harmless lard-asses.

Nora chirped, "What's that in their trunks Dad? Candy bars?"

Wedged snugly in the 'crack' in the back of each was a weapon.  A knife.  This was affirmed by each of the three - " Yezz iz knife bud dunt waree Dahdah. Iz Ogay."  Each of three Godless Commies commenced to spalsh Nora and she them.

My wife came down and toweled her off for the trip up to our suite.  I introduced the lovely redhead to the beet-eating coppers and they were charm in troika.  Mary had the foresight to bring a mini cooler full of Augsburger beer and dragged Nora from her new Slav-nik buddies upstairs to dress.  We four round -mounds of renown repaired to the sauna with a cooler full of high-end Hubers.

We talked Perestroika, Pedagogy and Puskin.  They had all fought in the Afghan War. They all three loved Ronald Reagan and could not understand why I did not vote for him.  They all agreed that things would change -"VahRee Fest, Frund Patschu."  They did.  But, that was at the end of 80's and dawn of this current age of NPR-addicted loud-mouths. This is The Age of People who obsess over other people and how they live their lives, think, eat and pray.

Russians smoke ( cigarettes) up a storm and the three agents ( 'proDeKding DainZers') had the sauna steam a nice Shanghai Yellow with cooked Virginny tobaccy! Ween'Stones

Into our happy sauna arrived a shit heel, a douche bag, in a non_Portanteau, a dweeb, his Prep-ily long-haired son and the Thomas Gainsboprough stand-in grandson,  aged about twelve. Pater was a Saltine-chested WASP dandy ( most guys do not wear neck-kerchiefs from Abercombie & Fitch in a sauna - most guys in here at the time) who sniffed assessed and Grandee'd in pissy little voice " Are you PEOPLE smoking in here?  What is WRONG with you!  Haven't you heard C. Evert Koop?  Second Hand Smoke!  Get it?!???!!!!!   Oakes, ( fils) go for the manager!  Sit here with me Cameron.( petit-fils").

Cameron opined, in the pissy voix de la famille, on the looming proximity of three cancer diagnoses. Too much 'me-time' for young Master Cameron at Warfield, it seemed.

I mentioned that the three gentlemen were security for the Bolshoi and Cotton Mather* held up his talons, " I supposed you are feeding the beer."

I went South Side-Lite( no obscenities)  for a second, " Hey, calm down, Pal."

The three KGB gentlemen eye-brow signalled me, " We're outta here."

Before we parted the biggest of three big guys whispered in my ear -"ESS-howls." I replied, yes they are all that and then some.  He continued, " We hev meny such et howum. Sem Wurld!"

The KGBig Boys invited the Hickeys to the Bolshoi that night. It was glorious! In fact they sat us next to Mr. T.  Mr. T was a delight as well and wowed a four year old girl already wowed by the Bolshoi and her KGB pool playmates.

They were three gentlemen.  Mr. T is a gentleman.

Most folks are great, but assholes can really suck the oxygen out of our planet.

* Cultural observation: Rich WASP's seem to live on the cheap more than any blue-collar slob i ever met - why else were these Puritans camping at the McCormick.