The ink of it


Yes, I will eat your children.
Thanks for feeding my nightmares

This is gonna rustle a few feathers.  A few people’s calf muscles will contract as they lift their heals in reaction to my audacity, my Victorian mindset stuck in this liberal world.

I can hear the mob protesting outside, chanting for my head: “We’ve landed on the moon, for goodness sake.  We’ve got same sex marriages and religious freedom.  It’s time you get with the program.”

But I’m the type of guy who speaks his mind, or rather put pen to paper, for that significantly reduces the chances of being beaten to death.  (And I like breathing, without aid.)  So here goes, it’s controversial, probably mind numbing to most: I just don’t like tattoo’s.

I don’t get why anyone would want one, never mind the excessive amount I’ve seen on celebs and people all around.  Why would you want to look like you lost a fight with a printer cartrige?  Do you really need the wings of an Angel on your back or the semi-accurate rendition of a deceased relative on your arm?

I know tattooing has been with humanity forever but so has homicide.  It doesn’t make it acceptable.  And I don’t see you running around with a spear and skirt made out of leaves.

Like everything in life, I tolerate a few exclusions to the rule.  Tattoo’s has become common identification for several groups of society.  These include bikers, cage fighters, gang members, drunken idiots in Vegas and ex-cons.

I have even become enlightened to accept a small fairy or butterfly on the ankle or a Superman logo, cross and whatever else you deem reasonable on your back or forearm.  Man, I will even be impressed with the names and birthdates of your kids on an inner bicep.  Everything in moderation.  But why on earth would you want to cover 80% of your body in ink, if you are a normal, rational thinking person?

I mean nothing says classy and sophisticated like a beautiful woman prancing down a red carpet with a magnificent revealing dress, NOT covering the dark blotch of a Native Indian, splashed across their back.  There is a reason why it’s commonly referred to as a tramp stamp people.

You may have had the body of the Rock or Pink when you thought the design of the dragon eating Grandpa Smurf, flanking your entire left torso would be awesome, and living in a gym gave you the excuse to walk around shirtless forever.  But here news for you.

Age and gravity.

Age is inevitable, like death and taxes.  Age will turn the cells that keeps your skin nice and tight into a blubbering mess eventually, resulting in stretching and wrinkling.  No amount of Nivea for men eye cream will prevent this.  And if age is inevitable, gravity is a bitch.  The science that keeps us all from catapulting of this spinning blue ball is the same one that will force all that lose skin to migrate south.


What makes you think, seeing this, I want this on my ass.

The fearsome dragon will turn into a slithering earthworm crawling around your waist, looking for a blue cupcake.  Or the beautiful nightingale soaring above your left breast with the rose in its beak will make people wonder what happened to the dove and olive branch, (which it never was) and now resembles an ostrich chasing your nipple.  And all the great designs of famous people and cartoon characters will detiorate into various examples of Halloween masks.

There once was a young man applying for a position as a grade 5 teacher and like most educators I know, he was an upstanding, salt of the earth kind of person.  A good looking, fit, young man, who seemed to love kids.  He didn’t get the job.  Did I mention he had a tattoo of some weird alien shit on his left forearm which no amount of clothes could cover, a skull on his left calf and a tiger on his right arm.  No silly, that’s not the reason why he didn’t get the job, he liked Mexican food…

Whether or not you think tattoo or taboo, at the end of the day, it’s your body and you have the right to decide how you want to desecrate it.  You have the right to paint every single inch of your skin in an array of flowers, animals, fantasy creatures, religious symbols, Chinese lettering and anything else your twisted imagination can come up with. And if you decide that you want to stuff up your body, just make sure the artist is not just great, but some frigging child prodigy or something!  Like Da Vinci or Salvador Dali.

Remember one thing: If you choose to ink, I can choose to think.  Don’t judge me for not appreciating your method of expression and I’ll try my best not to judge you.  I will keep my mouth shut, try my best not to look disgusted, because let’s face it, I like my nose where it is and I don’t like the sight of blood.  Especially if it’s my own.

But one thing that’s not two: You will never date Princess. Just saying.

Kids and boobies part 1

Kids say the darnest things, but sometimes they exhume wisdom beyond our expectation.

We know someone who recently embarked on a career as a tattoo artist and piercing specialist.  (Two jobs my dad didn’t tell me about in high school!  Along with the suntan guy on a Sport Illustrated photo shoot.)  When I hear tattoo artist I see Kat von something and she scares the hell out of me.

“No kids, you will not be allowed to get a tattoo while under my roof.”  (Glad I got that out of the way…)

In any case, this tattoo lady post pictures of recent piercings she’s done on various social media.  WTF?  I am old, I know.  I am conservative, I know.  I am a father, I know.  But why would you want to have your pierced body parts circulated on the web?  Maybe it’s just me…

I am trying to focus on the story…

Her latest photo was a piercing she did for a well endowed lady, some kind of belly ring but not in the conventional place, this one was smack in the middle of her cleavage.  I had to blink twice to ensure my eyes were not playing tricks on me, but there it was; a metal rod with two stubs right between her twins.  (That must look really awesome in a low-cut evening dress, so sophisticated…)

My wife showed me the picture on her phone during a family dinner last week.  First we shook our heads in disbelief and then we laughed.  My son was very keen to see what his parents was cracking up about. My wife decided to show him.  He is 12.  (I think she might regret that decision now)

He commented, unexpectedly: “Why is her top so low?  It barely covers her…”

I grinned wildly and wanted to react like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood:  “Because her breasts are so big my child.”  I refrained and administered immense self-control.

My wife blushing, interrupted him by changing the subject: “Son, you were meant to look at the piercing.”

He look at the picture again, looked up at his mom and nonchalantly said:

“Mom, don’t worry, no man will even notice the piercing.”

Sometimes I am really proud of my son.  And I am still laughing.