The "Fixie Flasher" strikes again.
Bike Snob NYC tells the sordid tale of a New Year’s Eve morning bike commute gone horribly, horribly wrong…
I had been riding Manhattan-bound over the Brooklyn bridge when I was
overtaken on the incline by another cyclist. As he passed me, I noticed
to my astonishment and horror that the waist of his jeans was so low
that it revealed a sizable percentage of his buttocks. I’m not talking
about the sort of incidental plumber’s crack that’s so commonplace in
our society that we hardly notice it. No, I’m talking more crack than
Chris Rock smoked in "New Jack City." I was being mooned. Maybe not a
full moon, but certainly at least a waxing gibbous. What’s more, it was
pretty cold out that morning, so the entire objectionable region was
redder than Kentucky on election day.
While I generally observe
a 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. And
nothing’s more wrong than exposing yourself to a fellow commuter like a
mating baboon. At that moment, all bets (and, apparently,
undergarments) were off.
Is it just me or does the cyclist in the photo above look awfully familiar to anyone else?