Did that make sense? Whatthefuckever. I'm two glasses of wine down and that soapbox isn't even worth standing on right now and it isn't my point.
My point is that, holy fuck, I have seen some stupid tattoos and they have been on some stupid men. My absolute favorite, though? My best friend since birth, Gwen, briefly dated a Satanist who had portraits of serial killers tattooed on his arm. "Seriously?!" I can practically hear you saying incredulously to me. Yes, damn, relax and I will tell you the story.
Gwen had just gotten out of a relationship and was in the midst of exploring her options, and met this young piercing apprentice. Though not unfortunate looking, the gentleman clearly had some white trash in him. I met this guy when I was out with Gwen at a bar--she called him to come out and he rolled up in all his trucker hat'd glory.
He straddled the barstool next to me and I glimpsed the black and white faces sprawled across his arm. Almost immediately, I recognized Charles Manson's warped grimace scowling at me from the crook of his elbow.
"Oh, you have *got* to be kidding me," I said loudly to Gwen. "What the shit is this?" I said to the Satanist.
"This one," he said, pointing to a dark, goatee'd fellow, "is Anton LaVey. I'm a follower of the Church of Satan."
"Frankly," I muttered to Gwen, "I would be impressed if this fool could *spell* 'Satan'."
But The Satanist was dead-as-fuck serious and proceeded to lecture me on what he felt the true Satanist believed and obviously, got it completely wrong. Now, I am no Satanist, but I know my way around them and their belief system. Yes, I've fooled around with other subscribers of this belief. Yes, I was friendly and partied on occasion with the lovely Szandora LaVey, Anton's now ex-daughter-in-law. Yes, I've rolled around in the sheets of the seedy underbelly of perhaps undesirable and lost souls, but I've never pretended to be a leader on the subject. Until, of course, some fuckbag popped up and tried to date my way-too-good-for-him best friend and still got his shit wrong. And you know what? He drank like a pussy. Sorry, but so inexcusable.
So, I schooled him. I ripped holes in his theories. I called him a coward for trying to believe in something that directed one's moral compass to exclusive hedonism. I essentially forced him into a corner where he found himself incapable of defending his own beliefs and then, I kicked him when he was down.
"And? Your tattoos are fucking shitty. If I were you and I was still trying to "save money" by living in Mommy's basement, I'd take what I was saving and get them removed so you don't end up with some fucking Kathy Bates psycho straight outta "Misery" because Lord knows that shit you have scribbled on your arm is just for show. If you believed any of the principles that those men held on to, you would not be in a bar stuttering to me to defend something that you know nothing about, just so that I'll give my friend--the girl you want to fuck--the go ahead to let your dumb, loser ass spill your fucking less-than-worthy DNA all over her. You would be holed up in some cabin in the woods, duct taping C4 to PVC pipes and threatening to bring your judgment down upon the establishment. Sack up, buttercup, or ship the fuck out."
He, of course, tried to laugh all of this off. Maybe I was harsh, but I don't regret a goddamn second of it. Gwen never saw him again.
So like I said, I love that tattoos are acceptable now. I just don't love that people think that means that bad tattoos are acceptable. Additionally, getting tattoos does not make you unique or clever or smart or even worth my time, unless you have something sitting in your skull to back it up. Ink doesn't change the fact that you're still a loser, loser.
--Smashy
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