Monica Bielanko
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In Which Serge Gets Cheeky

Serge is obsessed. With history. He calls himself a history buff. I call him a history geek. But he's my geek. Therefore, I have sat through countless hours of documentaries on The Civil War and twenty-six part series on how the West was settled. Chrissakes, I even allowed him to follow the Goddamned Mormon trail on our cross-country drive from NYC to SLC. Not only that, but I stopped at several Mormon "hot spots" along the way with nary a complaint issuing from these infamously vulgar lips. For your sake, I am still greatly saddened that my camera had run outta juice when Serge was invited by a young Sister missionary in Nebraska to pull a Mormon handcart.

So it was with a resigned heart that I agreed to spend Memorial day at a Mountain Man Rendezvous. For those of you unfamiliar with the Mountain Men, they're the grizzly dudes (think: Lewis and Clark) who explored the West and killed animals for fur. Serge loves this shit. Your average Mountain Man seemingly enjoyed the slow agony of starvation, dehydration, burning heat, or freezing cold and the surprise attack of animal or Indian. In the summer, groups of Mountain Men would gather at rendezvous where they sold their furs, bought supplies and drank until their livers were afloat on moonshine.

Today, much like those freaky, Confederate Flag wavin' fellas who get off on reenacting The Civil War, groups of folks across the country get together for rendezvous to commemorate the Mountain Man. They can get ass-drunk with the bona fide excuse that they're recreating history. "Hey! We're ass-drunk on the actual spot thousands of Mountain Men before us got ass-drunk!"

All righty then.

So we're headed to the mountains of Northern Utah for the rendezvous when Max decided, mid-canyon, that he needed to release his innards. Right now! Serge pulled over, leashed our young son up and began walking along a dirt embankment waiting for The Poop Machine to kick into gear. I noticed the spot was excellent for photo taking and began shooting the mountains and such. About twenty photos in, I glanced over my shoulder to check on Serge and Max... And what to my wondering eyes did appear? My husband strolling along the road, cute, little ass cheeks peering back at me from between a giant split in his shorts!

I probably should have called out immediately, as the road was fairly populated with traffic. But I couldn't spit out any words for all the laughing. There he was, sauntering along, completely oblivious to the fact that his bare ass was hanging out. Did he not feel the breeze? Were the shorts ripped when he put them on? Was his ass on display for the good men and women at the Chevron at which we stopped for gas & goodies? Did they just rip as he exited the vehicle? If so, why didn't he hear the fabric tearing apart? It had to have been a fairly loud RIIIP for such a giant tear. These thoughts, coupled with the manner in which my husband so jauntily strolled along the road taking in the scenery, all the while, ass cheeks peeping from ripped shorts... Oh my but I haven't laughed like that in ages!

Finally, as my husband neared where I was doubled over and noticed his wife was nearly apopleptic, Serge asked me what was wrong.
"Baby!" I gasped. And then dissolved into tears before I could spit out another word. After nearly a minute ticked by and I could tell he was getting impatient because he wasn't in on the joke I managed to choke out, "Your ass!"

He's no fool, this one. Those two words prompted him to put his hand to his backside. He nearly rocketed into space when he shook hands with his own bare ass instead of the material he was expecting to feel.

"What the? How the?"
We sat in the car, speculating as to how long his ass had been on display for the general population...
"Well, we can't go to the rendezvous now." He muttered.
"Hey! I'll bet they have mountain man gear for sale there. You can be the very proud owner of authentic mountain man pants. Or we could by a shirt to tie around your waist."
"You think?"
"Yeah, it'll be fine!"
Once again, we set off for the rendezvous, me still questioning my husband as to how in the world he didn't feel the cool canyon breeze caressing his cheeks as he walked Max down the road.

Although I had laughed so hard I was too weak to snap a photo of my husband's ass, I did manage to get a few at the rendezvous. Notice the shirt tied around Serge's waist. This is unusual, because, as you're now aware, he isn't an underwear man, nor is he a Tie-A-Shirt-Around-His-Waist sort of fellow.