Half Moon Over the Brooklyn Bridge

I had been riding Manhattan-bound over the Brooklyn bridge when I wasovertaken on the incline by another cyclist. As he passed me, I noticedto my astonishment and horror that the waist of his jeans was so lowthat it revealed a sizable percentage of his buttocks. I'm not talkingabout the sort of incidental plumber's crack that's so commonplace inour society that we hardly notice it. No, I'm talking more crack thanChris Rock smoked in "New Jack City." I was being mooned. Maybe not afull moon, but certainly at least a waxing gibbous. What's more, it waspretty cold out that morning, so the entire objectionable region wasredder than Kentucky on election day.

While I generally observea policy of not taking candid photos of other cyclists out on the road,I do make an exception when I feel that I have been wronged. Andnothing's more wrong than exposing yourself to a fellow commuter like amating baboon. At that moment, all bets (and, apparently,undergarments) were off.