My first rerun of the summer.

On a related note:

What’s happenin, Rog?

* cricket

People everywhere under 40 right now are going:

Um…What the fuck?

No different than usual, really.


Whatever.

Since traffic seems to be down both here and on the highway…

(This specifically excludes traffic leaving my Hershey Highway. I had a big steak.)

I figured it was time to give some of my readers who arrived after 2007 a taste of some earlier shit.

The following post was written in November of 2007, and titled:

A Bunch of Little Pricks

Which, incidentally, is what my wife calls her kindergarten class.

However, I’ve remastered it a bit..so if you’ve read it before…it’s a bit different today.

I’ll have a new post up tomorrow afternoon.

(that’s what Bob Dole said)

In the meantime….enjoy.

********************

A Bunch of Little Pricks (my tattoo adventure)

My wife has a few tattoos.

She never tells me when she’s getting them…or where they are. She usually gets them during “girls weekends”…

…where I can only imagine Enrique Iglesias as the tattoo guy:


I’ll kill that tattooing bastard if I ever see him.

Damn you, Spanish language!! Why must you be so haunting?!?!?

I’m bitter.

Back to her tattoos:

They’re all small…

(hey crack whore…there’s nothing like a giant dragon down your arm to get me going)

…and fairly innocuous (a rose, a ladybug, “USC was here”).

Her second tattoo (the ladybug) was done just above her bum.

I first saw this tattoo about two months after she got it.

Two. Months.

I cry sometimes.

Anyway, I decided in a fit of whimsy…

(oh, look…I’m gay!)

…that I’d get a tattoo as well.

I couldn’t be the only one in the relationship without one.

I decided to forego the matching ladybug tattoo and instead went with “Insert Apple Here” with an arrow pointing to my sphincter…

Woops.

I mean I went with a Boston Bruins logo.

Phew. Dodged a bullet there.


Regardless, my tattoo was supposed to be about the size of a shot glass on the back of my left shoulder.

This idea of getting the tattoo probably wasn’t a good one for a number of reasons:

1) I hate needles

2)
I hate pain

3)
I hate needles that cause pain

4)
I hate the pain caused by needles

I’m manly.

So, being the brilliant little man that I am, I scheduled my tattoo.

As is my luck, my tattoo was scheduled for the hottest fucking day in August in ten years.

It was also done on the top level (third floor) of my heroin deal..um…the tattoo parlor.

Said tattoo parlor had no fucking air conditioning.

Awesome.

You know…sometimes I don’t know why I even bother to wake up.


So there I was, bent over like Paris Hilton on a first date in a 120-degree oven when the pain comes like a billion mosquitos diving in for the kill.

*buzzzzzzzzz*

Ow.

*buuzzzzzz..buzzzzzzz*

I started sweating…

..great…now I’m hyperventilating…

I’m starting to think that maybe…maybe I’ll tell him to stop now.

I’ll just have a tattoo of a few black dots.

That should be good enough…

Me to my friends: “Hey, I got a tattoo.”

Friends: “NICE. Of what?”

Me: “A few little dots. It looks like freckles.”

(scene of unimaginable violence as my friends beat me to death)

Now I’m getting woozy…

You know…the friend beatdown might be worth it.

I ask him, “How far are you?”

The buzzing stops for a second.

He says, “I’ve got the outline almost done.”

*blink*

The OUTLINE?!?

You’ve only done THE FUCKING OUTLINE?!?

I feel like I’ve been in here for 17 hours being interrogated by Jack Bauer and he’s only on the OUTLINE?!


(by the way, I only found out what a Prince Albert was the other day…if you don’t know…you don’t WANT to know…)

Based on what I felt like…

I was positive that I’d be stepping out of that chair and seeing an entire replica of The Last Supper scrawled out on my back.


..ugh…

I look at my wife…

Honey…can you get me a soda?”

She shakes her head, looks at me and says:

You’re such a fucking pussy.”

Gee.

Thanks, hon.

Such compassion.

GO GET MY SODA!

This went on for what seemed like infinity.

The tattoo guy had to stop three times because I almost passed out.

When it was over, I had this fancy new sporty Bruins logo sitting on my shoulder.

It looked cool.

It looked hip.

It hurt like Hell.

It won’t happen again.

..unless I get a cortisone shot first.

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