Cheeky Humor

The Butt Flashers of Rolling J Ranch

By Seymour Keister

Some of you familiar with my earlier work may know me by my pen name: A. Hohl.

I’ve used yet another pseudonym here because bottom humour sometimes goes over like a fart in church.

So begins this tale of tushes at band camp.

Except that this didn’t happen at band camp. Oh no, band camp’s for dorks. This all happened at church camp. Cross my heart and clench my patootie.

Rolling J Ranch — a camp where if you fell in the lake, you immediately had to shower and wash that sh*t off. Seriously, you did. That lake was a rusty dusty toilet bowl of manure and God knows what else.

Rolling J Ranch — a camp where all the barnyard animals were crotchety and you got detention for referring to the local donkey by its proper name. That damn jackass cost me an entire afternoon and supper.

Rolling J Ranch — a camp that, being way out in the godforsaken, deliverance jerkwater with nothing but the light of the moon and stars and planets — sadly — not Uranus — required us to use flashlights after dark to find our way from tent to outhouse, mess hall to chapel.

Rolling J Ranch — a camp where nobody knew what the ‘J’ stood… wait a minute… holy hindquarters, the ‘J’ was for ‘Jesus’. Well, call me a caboose’s heinie.

So there we were, freshly showered and wandering the dark with flashlights. We were 12 years old, my buddies and I. The prime guy age for heads down, butts up humor when every single word referring to butts, or farts, was funny.

Even the word ‘derriere’ which we couldn’t spell. And maybe not the word ‘fanny’. That word just sounds girly.

Which brings us to the other part of this story: girls.

What is a group of pre-teen boys supposed to do while wandering around a church camp with flashlights? We turned the spotlights on girls.

Not on their faces — or in any other way they could catch us out. That wouldn’t be right. That, and the fact we had the up-front courage of pre-teen boys.

We played it cool. We aimed our flashlight beams at every female tookus we could find, lighting up those sweet cheeks.

There may or may not have been a rear-end rating system. Sometimes what happens at the Rolling J stays at the Rolling J.

We were having the time of our short-lived lives at that camp.

Until we got cocky with our booty beaming.

We overheard the death knell words from a group of girls off in the dark distance.

“There go the butt flashers.”

Our jig was up.

Our backsides planted in a church pew, front row, we endured a well-deserved dressing down in front of the entire camp. ‘Dressing down’ is figurative speech. No one wanted to see our prepubescent posteriors; including us.

And so we spent the rest of camp chaperoned by a counsellor, Mr. Sitzfleisch. He was a hard-ass.

Thanks to Sarah Paris and MuddyUm I even discovered a new word, ‘Sitzfleisch’. Cheers Sarah