Yeah, some dudes on Highway 36 saw my tatas last Saturday. It wasn’t an accident; it was 2011’s New Year’s resolution and — as has been tradition the past few years — I slammed the rezzie out on New Year’s Eve. With eight hours to spare and a paltry two rounds of practice in the bathroom mirror, my girlfriends, my girls and I headed off down the road to find somebody who wouldn’t have a heart attack, call the cops or go home weeping after being flashed from a moving vehicle. The goal wasn’t to cause others trauma; it was to push myself to do something daring and utterly un-Fritz.

Showing my boobs was much harder than it needed to be and yes, some of that was because I don’t like the limelight. (Go ahead, try to take my photo.) The rest of the trouble had to do with the unforeseen hurdles we hadn’t planned around. The scheme was simple: get in the slow lane on Hwy. 36, and when we neared an exit, roll the windows down, honk, and show ’em the funbags.

When we got near the first exit Hanna shouted, “Okay, roll down the windows!” and Tina put her hand over the horn and… there wasn’t a car for a half mile around. Maybe everyone was at home, putting clothes on instead of taking them off. You know, like normal people.


We collectively decided to forego the pretty escape plan involving an exit; I’d just have to flash the first car that came by. But it was a little grandma. “You’ll kill her!” screamed Hanna. Then a dude drove by. “Do it!” Tina yelled, before realizing in the passenger seat was a little kid. This went on for exactly twelve cars. By this time, we were miles and miles away from home. “You might have to flash someone in Kansas,” said Hanna. “Screw that,” said Tina. “I’m still dressed like a hobo and we have a party to go to. How about those guys?”

There, in the fast lane next to us, was the Holy Grail of Who to Flash: a car full of dudes in their twenties with caps turned backwards. Seconds later, they’d passed us and pulled in front of our car. I wasn’t about to climb onto the hood, no matter what Hanna said. And we had to get them back in the fast lane, since I was sitting behind the driver.

Tina raced ahead, pulled in front of them and dropped her speed down to 50 mph, forcing them to pass us again. I rolled down the tinted window as Tina honked wildly. They turned. And I suspect what they saw was a pair of tits belonging to a girl who looked like she was simultaneously smelling a dirty diaper filled with Indian food while taking her shirt off. Apparently when you flash, you’re supposed to smile as if to say, “Hey, isn’t this the best thing ever?” not wince and gnash yer teeth like you’ve got an angry cat in your pants.

Whatever. It’s over. And I vow never to flash again, unless I’m at Mardi Gras or at my eighth Fleet Foxes concert. (That’s an old spit-in-the-hand promise I made a few years back.)

The 2012 resolution is going to have to be streaking. Mooning was roundly rejected as being a step back. Whether I’ll get away with my preference (streaking at 3 a.m. in secluded woods with no one to see but the other nekkid, free-runnin’ cougars) or relent to the general consensus that witnesses must be present remains to be seen. (The sheer work involved: loofahs, gym time, waxing, stretching, planning a route, body painting?) One thing you can be sure of with the 2012 resolution: I’ll put it off before I take it off, so keep yer eyes peeled next New Year’s Eve.

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