Goldie hated game night with all the love she could muster. Ever since SNL ran their endless skits with the fake Chicago accents, “da bears” became a password at the bar she owned.

“Hey, Goldie! You brewing that beer, woman? Three brewskis for my friends and me.”

“Yeah, yeah, Roger, I’m coming. I’m coming.”

She called them “the three bears” for a lot of reasons. They weren’t related, but there was a certain resemblance in them that put her to mind of the storybook tale.

“Papa Bear” was Roger. He was big and gruff and had a full head of unruly red curls. After the first couple of swats on her backside from Roger, Goldie tended to serve his beer across the table to him.

“Mama Bear” was Sandi – with an “i” if you please. Even wearing her Bears jersey – or maybe because she was wearing her Bears jersey – Sandi was all woman. All woman and a LOT of all woman. She wore her hair in a bob “so as not to detract from the bodacious twins, ya know,” she’d tell everyone. And the “twins” were indeed luscious. Even as straight as Goldie was, she appreciated them.

“Baby Bear” was no kid, but could easily be mistaken for one. Ted worked with Roger and Sandi at the brewery. He was small enough he could shinny up the stacks of kegs without a backward glance. He’d practically grown up in the warehouse, seeing as his paps was the foreman all those years ago.

The three bears stood out among a crowd of football fanciers. Their table was the loudest, bawdiest, most fun table in the bar. On game nights they regaled all who would listen (and those who tried not to) with tales of meeting Ditka on the L.

Goldie shook her head. Not likely that ever happened. Ditka probably had a driver. But you never know with those three. Anything could happen.

Like the night they came in with a tale of someone breaking into their homes. Nothing was taken, but their beds had been mussed up and whoever it was left a pizza box with half a pie oozing oil onto the tables. Yep – each of them had been broken into by the same person(s) apparently. Chicago’s finest had yet to find the culprit. Likely never would. But the tale of woe was always good for a round from nearby tables.

A roar broke Goldie’s reverie as the home team scored. The bell tolled and she noted Roger was buying the house a round.

Tips should be good tonight. Better than good . . . they should be jussssst right.
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Trifextrans united this weekend in a triplicate of a different sort – rewriting the tale of The Three Bears. My mind works in weird ways. Thus the above tale. Hey! I had fun with it.
🙂

And even better – no word limit! Whoot!!!! It’s your turn . . . what tale can YOU weave?