Father Scary Serb.

This is the funniest sequence from "Friends" ever, and I promise, it is relevant to a story I have about Serbs:

Chandler: What're we gonna do? What're we gonna do?

Joey: Uh, uh, we'll flip for it. Ducks or clowns.

Chandler: Oh, we're gonna flip for the baby?

(They had forgotten Ross' baby on a city bus, and were screwed, because at the station's lost and found, there were two babies that had been forgotten on a city bus).

Joey: You got a better idea?

Chandler: All right, call it in the air.

Joey: Heads.

Chandler: Heads it is.

Joey: Yes! Whew!

(Joey celebrating, Chandler giving the Chandler look...)

Chandler: We have to assign heads to something!

Joey: Right. Ok, ok, uh, ducks is heads, because ducks, have heads.

Chandler: What kind of scary-ass clowns came to your birthday?

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If you're from Banja Luka, it wasn't one named Ronald McDonald, because Republika Srpska doesn't have a single McDonald's.

They have a cheap imitation of the Golden Arches, instead. But it hasn't served billions just yet. They call it -- buckle your seat belts for the roller coaster ride of creativity -- "Mac No. 1." And that cheap imitation's cheap imitation of Ronald McDonald makes a scary-ass clown look about as scary as a pink, furry teddy bear.

Jesus Orthodox Christ, is this guy freaky looking.

I call him Father Scary Serb.

His face alone is why I will never forget about the Bosnian Serb McDonald's. It's why I tell everyone I meet who has been/is going to Banja Luka about Mac No. 1. Here is what I love: At some point along the way, there was some business exec in Republika Srpska who looked over what some graphic designer had sent to his desk, pondered his decision, said to himself, "Looks good," and signed off on the cartoon face of the guy married to the witch from Hansel and Gretel.

It absolutely blows my mind.

Where does someone even think up such a character?

My question was answered the other night in Belgrade, after I had gone to see Dub Syndicate play at SKC.

Zoka and I walked into a bar called Triangle at about 3 a.m., and lo and behold, there he was, sitting at a corner table with four Serbian guys around my age.

Three years after Borat bought his wife, when she was 15, her virjeen hung like this guy's sleeve.

Father Scary Serb. In the flesh.

My fascination with old Serbian men was nothing new at this point. Call it a case of homo erotic, reverse xenophobic pedophilia, but I love them.

They just chill. Every day, all day -- chilling. Samo. Usually, it's in herds. Occasionally, solo. Whenever they're walking -- unless it's the man talking, in which case he is very vocal and demonstrative with his hands -- they hold their hands together, behind the back (except for when it is too cold). Lots of nodding in agreement. Lots of "Da, da." Lots of chess playing when not walking.

I always hope that they will talk to me, so that I can bust out with a few Serbian sentences, trick them into thinking I'm a local, and then bring out the left hook of "Ne znam srpski" and "Ja sam amerikanac," to throw them for a loop.

Dreaming of the day when my crush will talk to me.

Usually, they don't. But it doesn't mean I don't observe from afar. When I have a translator, I am laughing the whole time, because old Serbian dudes are hilarious. For example:

"Ivan!" a 70-something-year-old said to an even older friend at the bus stop in Nova Varoš one day back in December. Ivan -- the alias I have given to the man who may already be decomposing as his heart continues to beat -- was old. Really old. As in, "Yo, Ivan, what was it like to fight in the First and Second Balkan Wars? You really stuck it to those Turks and Bulgars, didn't you? Didn't you!"

Anyway, the man speaking wasn't exactly a spring chicken, either, but here is what he had to say to Old Man Ivan:

"You're still alive?! You'd be better off underneath the ground!"

Ivan let out a hearty bellow, and went back to being senile. Then he got on the bus.

Not Ivan, but still the man.

They just always seem to be arguing. Yelling, bitching, moaning, about something. But that's the best part -- they're not. They're just chatting. Chatting like Old Serbian men chat -- with gusto.

Wishing I was in their clique.

Now take another look at Father Scary Serb.

Now THAT, my friends, is a real Balkan Beard.

See what I'm talking about now?

I don't know why he decided to call me out, but he did. And my heart skipped a beat.

"Who, me?"

That's what my face said. I was giddy. This guy was the old Serbian dude who chills, after all. I mean, how long has he been growing that beard? And the hair? And why was he out this late at night? And why was he sitting with a table full of guys my age? The answer: Because this guy was the old Serbian dude who chills.

I approached his table. He was slurring his speech, while I was very articulate. And yet neither of us were speaking very good Serbian. He soon tired of me and lost interest, and I left.

Fifteen minutes passed. And then he came to my table.

Zoka wanted him to leave; I wanted him to pull up a chair. The eye contact we had was like a non-verbal argument.

When he asked her where I was from, why I didn't speak Serbian, etc., she explained to him that I was from America, that I spoke engleski.

Father Scary Serb relayed the message to the entire bar. By screaming it.

Zoka continued with the eye argument: "Don't encourage him. Don't ask him to sit down. Get him out of here."

I stood up and had him pose with me for a photo session.

"Tell him to shut his mouth! Tell him to close his mouth! His mouth is open!" Father Scary Serb kept yelling in Zoka's direction. Apparently he doesn't smile in pictures where he is from.

But I guess that's the difference between a land of Ronald McDonald's and a land where old Serbian men chill at bars until 4 in the morning.