Jesus Wept.

It was Rosh Hashanah.  I’m a shiksa, but even so, doesn’t this wobbly, petite-of-shlong gentleman know we don’t wanna see that Sh@t on a Holy Day??  Also, Santa Monica isn’t a nude beach.  It’s not even a topless beach.  Being naked is illegal, Busta Rhymes!  And this guy’s not exactly the kind of naked man I’d be lookin’ for if I was looking for a felonious naked man on the beach.  Clare (9) dashed up from the surf, mouth gaping, to ask, “Is he serious, mommy?  His penis is so tiny!”


Apparently this was of no concern to the portly object of our stares.  He strode like the cock of the walk.  Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral packing a Colt .45 with a 12-inch barrel (actually 3 inches..and that’s after pruning the penis plumage).


Moms and kids alike recoiled from this denuded aberration.  If they met his eyes would he chase after them, tongue lolling, appendage raring to molest and desecrate unwilling victim-flesh?  What could be in his madman maniac mind?  And where the hell were all the lifeguards, hassling the Hoff?


Then a thought came to me.  I need a photo of this bastard for my blog.  I must’ve confessed my ambition as Clare cried, “No Mommy, no!  Not even for the sake of the blogggg!”


But like Geraldo Rivera and Jerry Springer before me I was determined to exploit this nascent nudist’s necromancy (ok.  I know that makes no sense.  But the alliteration is so nice).  So I grabbed my iphone and ran TOWARD the cherubic-bunned degenerate to capture my photo at great risk to my ocular tendons.


Afterward I inexplicably burst into a cover of Jackson Browne’s Doctor My Eyes.  When the last note faded from my lips a seventy-year-old German woman wearing a wet-suit and carrying a boogie board asked me philosophically, “Do you think the seagulls will mistake it for a cocktail schnitzel?”