Tattoo’s…


…are such a trendy thing these days. Doesn’t matter whether you’re old or young, fat or skinny, rich or poor (although you can get a pretty bitchin’ tat if you’re loaded), male or female, the ink is flowing freely.

I’ve seen them on ankles, on elbows, on calves, on thighs, on arms, on fingers, on faces, on backs and on just about every body part there is.

Hubby has always been fond of the lower back tattoo. The Tramp Stamp as it’s more familiarly called. I’ve seen big ones, small ones, colorful ones and really, really stupid ones. Some have messages, some have pictures.

All in all I think the fact that you can’t see what the tattoo artist is doing while they are doing it is not so good. Sometimes what you ask for is not necessarily what you’ll end up with. Say you ask for a beautiful angel. Do you really want to walk around with a picture of Angeli Jolli hovering above your ass?

I have discovered though that after ingesting multiple glasses of alcohol, red wine in particular, one should not pick this moment to get a tattoo.

I decided to try one on, but not a permanent one. I’m a chicken shit and my experience with needles has always left me a little gun shy. I went for the henna tat, one that would eventually leave my body without any costly removal fees and pain.

“I’d like something different. I’m Canadian so maybe do something that would represent my country, make it something everyone loves,” I offer in the way of suggestion.

“Mmm…” That was his big response.

Whatever!

An hour later he stands back and admires his work. I can’t help but notice the shit-faced grin he’s sporting.

Another half-hour passes before I’m allowed to get up so the ink will be dry. He knots my t-shirt up around the middle of my back so it won’t brush on the tattoo.

I get up and walk over to the mirror to inspect his work.

“Very funny asshole!”

“Hey, you said Canadian and well loved. It don’t get any more like that than that!”

There staring back at me in the mirror was a tattoo of  the most perfect piece of bacon, Canadian bacon.

Great!

Since I couldn’t put my t-shirt down for at least another hour, I was forced to walk around with my normal back fat hanging out (ie: my muffin top previously hidden by my t-shirt) and now this semi-permanent bacon fat.

Again, I must reiterate.

NEVER GET A TATTOO AFTER DRINKING!

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