Tats are cool. I don’t always understand why someone would pay so much to decorate their body, but hey, I spend a small fortune on make up. So, I can sort of empathize. I just worry about those tattoos’ longevity. I mean, oh, sure: they look great, sexy, beautiful now … but what about when the person is a doddering old fart? And their skin is no longer tight and supple, but baggy and saggy. That evil grinning skull on your arm? It will stretch into some kind of sad, melted mess and the grin will become a frowny face. You don’t really want that, do you?
Nevertheless, I once entered a tattoo parlor and — get this!! — I wasn’t even DRUNK! Or chemically impaired. Nope, I was stone cold sober and ready to githerdone. I wanted a sweet little butterfly on my … somewhere, it’s not important. But I wasn’t 100% certain that I wanted a butterfly, so I opened up the book of examples and began to peruse the photos. Dragons! Ninjas! The entire Patriots’ 2008 starting lineup! George Washington Crossing the Delaware. The choices were overwhelming. I kept pointing and changing my mind, “No, how much would this cost?” This went on and on for over an hour, until a customer came in and pulled off their shirt to have an actual target tattooed on their back. I saw the needle machine, heard it whirring like a dentist’s drill from Hell, watched in horror as the needle came closer and closer to actual skin, and then I lost my lunch in the closest garbage can. That did it. The owner threw me out on my un-tattoed butt. So, now you know where I almost got a really super cool, ultra-impressive, totally beautiful tattoo. Almost.