Phobias are crazy. I don't think I have any, except climbing down stadium bleachers

Mr.Naked Santa Claus Biker Man

Please forgive me if I am twisting up your sweet image of Santa when I tell the story of a strange exhibitionist who lived in my old neighborhood. Many mornings, I would wait for Claudia at a corner so that we could walk to middle school together.

But don't think that we were traumatized or shocked at what we saw, because we were way beyond our years (Were we?). What might have made other little girls feel sick and violated only gave us more twisted material to laugh our asses off to.

Mr. Naked-Santa-Claus-Biker-Man was a weirdo who we got to see naked on a couple occassions as we passed by this ugly lot with tall yellow grass. There was an old rock house that was probably built in the 1930s -- it stuck out like a sore thumb with all the newer houses around it. Mr. Naked would come out to do a morning stretch, show his hairy armpits, scratch his butt, and show the world his big, white, giant fat belly.

We never reported him because we had better things to do. (Actually, we didn't, but we thought we did.) Although, we were grateful for fact that his overhanging belly covered his little pride and joy.