Swedes

About a month ago, when I didn't post one weekend because I couldn't bear the responsibilities and revelations bound up in creation, the 38th running of the New York City Marathon was held. We here at the Hotel Idiotica did our part by hosting a substantial portion of the the Swedish delegation. If the Swedish Chef was as integral to your childhood as he was to mine, then I don't need to tell you why this was very exciting.

But I was all ready to tell you how the Swedes weren't really all that impressive, that most of them weren't all that attractive, that the only genetic superiority i could detect was that perhaps they aged a bit more gracefully, that most of their kids were brunettes and that there were even a couple of pudgy little red-haired kids, and that while there were a few aggressively beautiful blondes mellifluously speaking perfect English, on the whole they hadn't lived up to their reputation as the Antonio Sabato, Jr., of nations.

And then as the whole contingent streamed out the door on their way to the airport, the tour director gave me a "Sweden" baseball cap, so, yeah, as far as I can remember the Swedes were breathtaking specimens of physical, mental, and emotional sublimity, the body of God made manifest. Mork, mork, mork!