Tattoos.
What’s up with all the freakin tattoos, people!
Everyone I know is sporting a tat. America has become a gigantic skin canvas. We are uglier than one of Tommy Lee’s forearms.
Is it a FACEBOOK thing? Is it a redbull and vodka thing? Is it sponsored by Marvel Comics. Is regular skin boring you?
It’s like America is a drunken sailor on liberty, all going into a back alley tat parlor and getting ink done.
It’s as if we all have been hypnotized and kidnapped to a freak circus.
“Come on in and see the goat faced girl,” the tattooed carney hollers evilly to a mesmorized crowd of wanna be’s and flatulent zombies.
America has joined the NBA where any exposed piece of skin is a place to express yourself with the forever ink. If it’s good enough for Allen Iverson, it’s gotta be dope enough for me, right?
Why not rent out your neck as a billboard: DR. ZOGGS SEX WAX $5.99
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate tattoos. Not really. I mean one here, one there, something meaninful and artistic, I get it.
It’s the over the top, thick and nasty ink that looks like it exploded under your skin that turns my stomach. It’s the tattoos that don’t seem to have any specialized meaning that make me wince. I find this kind of body art ugly, unclean.
Sadly, a Tattoo says forever, sort of like “I do” in a wedding chapel. Sometimes they’re just words that over time don’t mean anything anymore.
The best laid plans, right folks.
Hey ladies, how you like that Born to Ride tattoo now? Sure it was firm and perky when you were 20. But now you’re 45 and it’s stretched out like a worn hammock. Born to Ride might have had cache when you were still getting carded for wine, but now it’s just an ugly ass ink stain printed on a saggy boob that even old men eyeball at the neighborhood pool.
Hey Girlfriend; Betcha wish you could take a mulligan on that tattoo that says Jake forever, now that Jake is serving 12 to life in Chino.
What I can’t figure out is why? Why are tattoos more prevalent than Glen Beck tears.
Body Art makes me wonder WHY, all the time.
Like WHY would you inject dark green ink into the side of your neck with the numerals 3 1 0. I saw this on a girl at Tao Beach in Vegas. I think it’s her locker combination and she put it there so as not to forget. I wonder if she has to look in a mirror to remember it.
Why would you ever put a tattoo on your face? Mike Tyson is crazy. he is the poster child for this web site, but the Face? How stupid are you America! A tear drop? A tiny little skull next to your cheek? You can’t see it, but we can and it makes us think you fell out of your crib on your head.
WHY do you girls think a tramp stamp is sexy or elegant? It’s neither. It is like an orange traffic cone that says caution; this woman is going to be a problem.
A winged angel. A swirling rose. A flowing blue whatever.
Who cares. It’s Ugly. It’s a dark, depressing color of ink that stretches from one flabby hip bone to the next. This menagerie of ink resides on that stretch of skin where your jiggly back fat and excess ass flesh come together. It’s like a tidal pool of epidermis where marsh stagnation and ocean filth meet in the Mississippi Delta.
Hey BP, we need an ugly boom over here!
Ladies; that tramp stamp is not attractive. You know what it is? It’s not body art, it’s a yard stick that reminds all men how big your back side is.
“Damn that’s a big ass on that girl.”
Baby got back, and a Harely symbol 2 feet wide to prove it.
You think it screams sex appeal? It screams ever expanding wide load. Just how wide is that fairy princess stretched tight on your jiggling back fat going to grow? A couple more boxes of Jiffy Pop and its going to look like Aunt Mabel’s goiter?
Tramp stamps on the back of a big ass is like a yield sign on the back of the bus. It screams caution. Wide Load. Avoid at all costs.
And Fellas? What up with the tribal tattoo around your bicep?
Sure, when you’re 22 years old and gravity is still your friend, a tribal tattoo is cool. If you have a bicep to show off, it shows it off nicely. Even though you are from Akron, this interlocking chain link fence around your upper arm invokes images of you being a tribal chieftain from Fiji.
That’s great when you’re 22, but when you are 42 and you are celebrating the consumption of your 10,000th Budweiser in your double wide, that tribal tattoo might not feel so special. When your belly is sagging over your crotch and your comb over is so shaggy that spiders call your skull their home, a tribal tattoo just looks stupid. When your aunt is your sister and the department of Children’s services knows you by your middle name, BUBBA, then a warrior tat on your upper arm fat is a life long joke that reminds you what you were and what you are.
There’s something to be said for “less is more.” there’s something to be said for being discreet.
If you gotta go ink, then go with ssomething personal on your hip or inner thigh or someplace private that only you or a special someone will see.
Why is America so over the top. Americans get tattoos as if they are Saturday morning car commercials.
TODAY AND TODAY ONLY. A GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE. THIS IS A ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY. DON’T MISS IT!! BUY INK NOW!
I’ll take the picture of Chairman Mao please.Where do I want it? Oh how about across my entire back. Yeah it’s not really a back, it’s a canvas, for you to paint on. I don’t know you more than 5 minutes Mr. tattoo artist, but you have a license from your city that says I may not get hepatitis from your instruments, so that makes you the skin-art Picasso. Please, draw on my back, something so big, so gaudy, so obtrusive, that people will stop and stare at me and wonder “What the F*** is wrong with that idiot.” I wonder what crime he committed and what prison he did time in to get that monstrosity.
And finally….
How bout the domestic tranquility tattoo. There’s a story about a man who didn’t know his wife was getting tattoos till one day, he happened to see her naked. And there it was. A skull and cross bones so hideous, the tattoo artist who put it there should have been arrested for TWI
(TATTOOING WHILE IMPAIRED)
So the story goes; the woman didn’t tell her husband. She says it’s her body and she doesn’t have to tell him what she does with her body.
What the woman seems to forget is that his money paid for her tattoo. The man wonders if this is the best way to spend their money.
Food for the kids? or a Jolly Roger on his wife’s ass? Pay the electric bill? Or a cutlass clutching pirate snarling on the woman’s derriere?
So the story goes; the husband use to like his wife’s ass. Now it seems like that ass is the enemy. He is the Royal Navy and his wife’s ass is Barbosa’s Pirates, looking to cause trouble on an increasingly stormy sea of matrimony.
Sadly, Tattoos are like the plague. You can never just stop at one. It’s like Lays Potato chips. You have to have another.
So it is with the pirate wife, who pissed away the car payment for another skull of death on the front side of her pelvis.
Nice.
Coming at you she’s OZZ-FEST. Walking away she’s Pirates of the Carribbean.
A trip around the sun, and a thousand dollars later, the once pristine skin of the wife has become a filthy billboard of epidermis.
Joining the pirate and the skull are stars and swirls. To the wife it’s freedom of expression. To the husband it’s visual vomit. It is a point of contention each time the symbolic imagery on her skin meets the fiery furnace of his eyes.
Nothing says forever like a tattoo.
Not even I do.
So America, think about what your doing because ink is forever, even if marriage is not.
Life’s Crazy™