You know who I feel bad for? Like really, truly feel bad for? The first guy that got a barbed wire tattoo around his arm. It was probably a special forces guy who got it after ‘Nam, with the barbs representing each life he took with ice cold unforgiving vengeance. First, being in ‘Nam was badass enough. It’s not like that war was easy, you know? It was humid, there were bugs everywhere, and it never stopped raining. Oh, and people shot at you. All the time. It would literally rain bullets on some days, which made the actual rain a welcome respite from the lead sleet.
And when that guy got stateside, he didn’t join a protest group or throw his medals onto the White House lawn. Instead, he got a tattoo and punched every a-hole who held a “Baby killer!” sign. Right in the face. Oh, and at time, tattoos were pretty badass. The only guys who had the ink were soldiers (totally badass), punk rockers (admittedly not badass, but non-conformists all the same, which is badass in its own right), and tribesmen from the Sarengetti, who would routinely chase down and kill lions with sticks. So it’s not like every Tom, Dick and Harry had a tattoo. There wasn’t a parlor on every corner with douches named “Gauge” working the counter – you know, the guys with sleeves of Koi fish blowing fire onto Hans Gruber or some other crappy design.
So when this guy got his ink, it meant something.
But things have changed.
Now every asshat and their mother an armband tattoo, and they all suck. So this first guy who got one, you know, after he got done killing all those people, is now being lumped in with every 22 year old who is wearing a sleeveless shirt and driving an Eclipse with equally sucky ground effects. So now, people like me walk by and go “Wow, what an unoriginal tattoo,” and all that guy can do is sob a little on the inside, because every cock-ass from So-Cal to Maine has to somehow prove their cock-assery.
It's either this or testicles. Take your pick.
If I was a tattoo artist, I would invoke a ballcrush-on-site policy for every guy that asked for an armband. You want an armband tattoo? Fine, but I’m crushing your balls with my foot. Because as a man, you can have either your balls or a silly-ass tattoo. You can’t have both. That’s like having a sense of humor and thinking Dane Cook is funny. But I digress. I am now convinced that tattoos are now just as accurate to determine the dicks in the world, just like animal abuse is used to predict serial killers.
And just the like the markings on tree rings, tattoos can be useful to tell us just exactly what kind of a-hole we are dealing with.
Armband tattoo: unoriginal dick.
Neck tattoo: thinks he’s badass but really isn’t dick.
Ankle tattoo: probabaly a chick dick.
Sleeve tattoo: will never get a real job that isn’t at an American Outfitters dick.
Face tattoo: will say he loves Daisy De La Hoya just to be on television while probably contracting herpes dick.
Tribal tattoo: you’re a Minnesotaian, not a Mayan dick.
And the list goes on.
So the next time that one friend that you have, you know the one, the one who wears under armor as an actual shirt. When he tries to get an armband tattoo, do yourself, and the rest of society a favor, and kick him squarely in the balls.
It’s the right thing to do.
Tags: Tattoos
That isn’t a cigarette on the ground, and you definitely don’t want to smoke it
June 15th, 2009 by The Angry Rant
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As people, we occasionally we bear witness to some magnificent event that happens but once in a lifetime. Hally’s Comet, the Aurora Borealis, or Pam Anderson’s first sex tape. Sometimes these things are glorious, mystifying, or just too effed up to that they make you say “Wait, did that just happen?”
What I experienced last week was all three. Here is my story…
Every day before lunch, I take a little stroll around a three block area near my office. During these walks, I’m treated to a veritable rogues gallery of citizens: Young professionals enjoying a bite to eat outside, students catching a smoke between class, a handsome young stranger (Oops, that’s just my reflection! I’m so silly.)
My walk nears its end as I make my way onto the public square – a convergence of four streets that serve as a conduit to the rest of the city. This is where the action happens. A lot of traffic, both of the rubber and leather variety. (By leather, I mean shoes, not an S&M enthusiast parade.)
In other words, there are a lot of people here. And when you have a lot of people in one area, in the middle of the day, that can only mean one thing: Unemployed jukes with nothing better to do with their time than hang out. And when I say “unemployed,” I don’t mean 30-year-old account executives who were laid off. I mean people who are barely qualified to walk and chew gum at the same time. You dig?
So there are a lot of jukes hanging ’round at noon on a weekday, and as I turn the corner of the home stretch of my daily jaunt, my eyes lock onto one at about 20 yards. For some reason, this juke intrigues me. I’m a people watcher by nature, so I just watched this guy. Maybe it was his bandanna that held his ratty hair back just so, maybe it was the torn denim jacket that appears to have several blood stains (none of them his), or maybe it was the black sweat pants that were tucked into his combat boots – as if to tell the world “Hey, I still use a tape deck – what of it?” Whatever the case may be, this guy reeked of something. This must be what Spiderman feels like when he senses trouble afoot, or when he gets a boner. (Come on, you’re telling me that Peter Parker’s Spidey-senses don’t go off when he is about to get a piece? HA! I said “go off!” That wasn’t even on purpose.)
Anyhow, I knew this guy wasn’t going to let me down. At 15 yards, he slows his pace as he spots something on the sidewalk. Yes, yes. 10 yards, he bends at the waist and picks something up. Okay…what is it? The cap to a magic marker, a rubber band? 5 yards, he stands upright, the treasure in his hand. You fool, what is it? 3 yards, he opens his hand to reveal…a cigarette. WHAT? A previously lit, used and stepped on Lucy. THAT’S GROSS! I don’t mean that it was lit for five seconds and tossed because the smoker couldn’t take it on the bus, I mean that this thing was damn near smoked all the way. All that remained was the filter. And he spotted it from 40 feet, like a nervous eagle who had the shakes.
And it’s not so bad that he picked it up (Wait, yes it is), it’s that he then examined it, smelled it, and put it in his wallet. In front of a dozen other people who were waiting for the bus or just walking by. In the middle of the day. Obviously, he was holding onto it so he can smoke it later, unless this cat just so happened to be some kind of archivist who specializes in half-smoked cigarettes, old lip gloss and used condoms.
But really, well done, sir. Well done.
It’s gross enough that he picked up a used cigarette, but it was lodged in a sidewalk crack. A crack, mind you, that was probably filled with urine at some point. And feces. And probably vomit. And DEFINITELY semen. These sidewalks are such filth traps that even the rats avoid them. THE RATS!
Which brings me to my point: Where did society fail this man? This isn’t as simple as “he wasn’t loved enough as a child,” either. This can only be the end result of some aggressive, abusive, mind-effing as a child. We’re talking Menendez brothers meets Joan Crawford meets the guy who jizzed on Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs. Something went very, very wrong with this guy at some point in his life.
And as Thoreau said: The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. Maybe this man was a little too quiet. A little too desperate. Maybe no one heard his cries for help or his pangs of hunger. Like so many of us, he was left in the cold to freeze, alone and naked like a penguin egg without its mother to protect it. And when life finally called to grant him a reprieve from the torment he had suffered, perhaps he chose not to answer it. For a life unearned is a life not worth having. I think that’s something we can all appreciate.
But maybe this guy was just gross, and hey, free cigarette.
Tags: Cigarettes · Jukey Jukersons · So Ga-rosssss2 Comments