Skip to main content

Tattoo My Heart


                        Hmmm...you mean, like this?

by The Urban Blabbermouth
~
I am walking on a downtown street and for some reason, all I am seeing is tourists covered in tattoos.


I pass a tourist with tats (short for tattoo) all over his body.
  In the old days, if you saw a man covered in tats, he was a Hells Angel biker, a mean scary bastard to be avoided.  Now, a guy covered with tats turns out to be a gay Starbucks Barista.  He is so nice, smiles and greets you with, “How can I help you today?”  So harmless.  

Then there are the ladies with the "tramp stamps".  A whole generation of women with tats on the base of their spine just so you can see it, along with their thongs.  Yeah, pretty trashy.  The best tramp stamp ever is still, "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me."
 

Some tourists' tats are roses, snakes, or naked ladies.  It’s obvious that they are a Born again Hippie Flower Child, a Veterinarian, or an aspiring Lothario.  Some tats are a strange cosmic pattern design with no discernible reason for it.  Implication, “I am a deep mysterious person.”   

Tattoos are a mystery to me.   Every one  seems to have one and I don’t understand why.   I took a bold step and asked a young lady passing by why she had tats all over her body.  She said, “Because I like it.”  Well, I like rib-eye steaks but I don’t go around wearing raw meat like Lady Gaga. 

I spy Black people with tattoos too.  I can just barely see their tats and that's only because I am looking for them.  Let's face it, tats are made with dark inks and dark inks just don't show up well on dark people.  Kinda tells you that tats is a white people thing.  If white people wanted black people to have tats, they would have invented light inks. 

Clearly, tattoos are some kind of personal statement.  If I put your name on my body that will tell you, "I like you very much."  Maybe it’s more like a sign that says you own me or own my heart.  So now, in typical people fashion, we fight and we break up.  Your ownership of me ends and I am stuck with your name on my body.  My next girlfriend will hate you forever since your name will live forever on my body. 

I would not get a tattoo. The short for tattoos -- tats -- puts me in mind of tatas, another word for boobs.  You gotta be a boob for putting tats on yourself.  Must be a pun about tats on tatas in this somewhere.  

I see tattoos as a commercial device. We tattoo domesticated animals so we can identify them.  We tattoo thoroughbred race horses so that we can always trace their all important lineage.  We tattoo cattle so that the ranchers can tell who owns them.  Hate to say it but I think people are sheep for following a fashionable trend to get tats. 

Let's say that one day in a wild crazed moment I weaken my resolve and get a tattoo.  I would get something symbolic like the dollar sign, a “$”.  Then, some strange cosmic karma design will kick in and I will be blessed with copious amount of “$” and become the world's richest man.   Now I will own you and I will tattoo my name on your body.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Subway Journey Home

by The Urban Blabbermouth. Comments are welcome! ~ There is a ritual to theNew York City subway system. Once there, you lose your humanity.  You are transformed into a savage, brutal and selfish automaton.  Savage in that you push and shove other riders out of your way to get into the subway car.  Brutal in that you never excuse yourself for any atrocities that you commit to get in the subway car.  Selfish in that you never give up your seat to anyone, no matter how crippled or old or pregnant they are.  Automaton in that you never look at any one else as a human being.

Now there are certain strategies that you can employ to be a successful subway rider.  You can stand by the door and obstruct the way just to be selfish and ornery.  That strategy is designed to increase your standing with your fellow passengers by impressing them with how vicious you can be pushing back at people trying to push into the car.  Whenever I see this strategy employed, I immediately piggy back on it.  I move …

Gone Shopping

by The Urban Blabbermouth
~
Dracula escorted his newly created undead aide into the store.

"...and you need to sleep in the daytime," he explained.

"But what are we doing here in Sleepy's Mattress store?" asked his aide. "I thought we slept in coffins."

"We are modern now," replied Dracula. "We use a mattress like anyone else. I tell you, after two hundred years of sleeping on rock and dirt, this is a joy. So much more comfortable and you don't have to haul it around from place to place."

"Amazing," said the aide.

"For a newbie like you, maybe you want to go traditional. Sleepy's has a Posturedic that will fit inside a coffin."

"What do you use?" asked the aide.

"I have a sleep-number bed. I love it. Mrs. Dracula can toss and turn and I don't feel it on my side."

"Now that you mention the ladies, I think I will skip the coffin. A moo…

I Swear!

by Vol-E

I've lived in the south for over 30 years. Having grown up as a New Yorker, there were some changes to get used to once I crossed the Mason-Dixon line.

Language was a big one. My parents were well-behaved in public, but behind the closed doors of our home, they taught me all kinds of interesting vocabulary words, as they took their everyday frustrations out on one another. "Jerk" and "bastard" were two of the earliest ones, but by the time I was about eight, I knew pretty much every one of George Carlin's pet no-nos.

It was only in college that I met people who were outspokenly offended by swear words. The ones that raised eyebrows initially were related to religion. I began to think twice about using "hell" and "damn," and was politely informed one day that "God's last name is not 'dammit.'" So I gradually began censoring myself a bit, which was probably a good thing, once I joined the work force. Macy…