True story…in my youth I was in pretty good shape. And, I figured that what I needed was black sleeves to signify how bad ass I was. So my 2 biker buddies (both heavily painted) set me up to begin the process with an artist/inker that they knew. The evening of my transformation began with me getting my liquid courage with a bottle of Cuervo Gold. Oh, and I have a childhood fear of needles because of the lying ass pediatrician Dr. Wolf… “not gonna hurt” my ass. ?
So, My friends are getting me tuned-up and ready for the procedure. We arrive and I’m definitely feshnicket, which was my way back when. Artist asks me if I’m ready to begin. I yell “hells ya!”. He then begins to prep and clean my right arm. He then turns the
on…& I immediately pass out. This tattoo guy being an honest broker, knew not to tattoo an unresponsive patient. To this day I’ve not reviewed a single tattoo…wasn’t meant to be and my fear of needles always hindered further entertainment of the prospect. I think tattoos are awesome…just not in me.
BTW, the entire 2nd paragraph of this tale had to be relayed to me the next day as I apparently remembered nothing after pre-gaming for the event. Of course, my “friends” still bust my golf balls bout to this very day. ? I wonder how many others have similar tales?
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