tattoos

I was speaking with a girl the other day about the idea of getting a tattoo. Naturally, her answer was the same as any other teeny bopper girl, the sort of answer that takes minimal thought and provocation. “Ooh, as long as it’s something meaningful, like a tribal thing or something.” First of all, tribal tattoos mean about as much to my German heritage as getting a cheese sandwich tattooed on my forehead. Why does a tattoo have to mean something anyway? I wish I was back in the day when your tattoo only meant you were certain of getting hepatitis from the dirty needle.

“What’ll it be Jack?” the tattoo artist would ask me.

“A cheese sandwich, right on my forehead.”

“A skull it is!” he would reply ripping into my flesh, carving away like a drunken sailor. After all, he would be just that. After he’s scribbled out what looks like the half rotted face of Barbera Streisand, he will spit shine her clean and send me on my way. And I would look down at my arm everyday and remember, I am not of tribal descent, and my tattoo doesn’t mean a thing. I mean, my name isn’t even Jack!