Parker: Tattoo machines and me!

Aren't your twenties all about making bad decisions?

When I was in my early twenties a number of friends bought tattoo machines. Which was terrifying. I was drinking heavily, lots of lost days and nights, and I had a recurring nightmare in which I’d drunkenly get a shitting dog tattooed on my chest.

Woke me up pulse racing a hundred times. What I remember of my dreams is usually very surreal, so the realistic ones do a good job rattling me. They always feature me running from the cops for some unspecified offense, or it’s finals day and I’m in a panic because I forgot to study.

The latter is especially fucked. It’s been over a decade since I was trapped in academia, the ol’ mind-brain needs to give me a break. On the cops one too, I’m a white upwardly mobile guy with a spotless criminal record. I’d need to kill someone to get in real trouble. Very worst case scenario, I’d be looking at three days in Kauai County Jail. Place is hardly Oz.

Been free of the tattoo nightmare for years and years.

Until last night.

The missus was talking to her brother on the phone, and he mentioned his buddy just bought a machine.

Oh, no.

Sure enough, the little bozos are scribbling all over each other.

I mean, isn’t that what your twenties are about? Making bad decisions? We live a fairly long time, ideally, so long as you don’t have any kids there aren’t a lot of dumb mistakes you can’t come back from.

I met my wife fifteen years ago, when her youngest brother was seven. Watched him grow from a spoiled little monster into a pretty cool adult. The wife says I’ve been a huge influence on him, which probably isn’t great. Not that I accept any responsibility. He’s a grown man now, he can make his own decisions.

Even if those decisions are stupid. I mean, isn’t that what your twenties are about? Making bad decisions? We live a fairly long time, ideally, so long as you don’t have any kids there aren’t a lot of dumb mistakes you can’t come back from.

Even tattoos, I guess.

Removal technology has come a long way, plenty of guys I know are getting shit scrubbed from their faces. Which is great. Tattoos are cool, I’ve got a few of my own, but I’ve never seen one on someone’s face that didn’t seem indicative of some sort of mental disorder. Like that poor kid, Antwon Dixon. Man, did the skate industry eat him alive or what?

I asked my brother in law to send me a picture, needed to witness what his idiocy hath wrought. I was not disappointed.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s a chick holding ice cream cones under her tits.”

“With an upside down crucifix over her box?”

“No, that’ supposed to be her pubes, shaved into one.”

“Same thing. What’s with the flying pig?”

“It’s funny. I’ve got a mole smoking a joint on my other leg.”

“Those are terrible.”

“I know, but they’re on my thighs, no one can see them. Except for girls, sometimes.”

“If the tattoos are jokes, does that make your dick the punchline?”