Sitting here in “The Friendliest Airport in the World” in Phoenix, Arizona with eleven hours to kill and a free broadband connection, It occurs to me that I have time enough to torture my readers, since I have nothing better to do at the moment than to eat potato chips and wish I could afford a beer.
As you may have noticed, I recently acquired a spanking new tattoo. Click the “Tattoos” category, in case you missed it.
To amuse myself while spending about fourteen hours in the torture chair, I took about a hundred photos and several short video clips. I’ll show you two of my favourite vids.
This one shows Chip beginning the outlining:
I like the pouty little lips he is doing on Nemo. Moody little Nemo; he has a dark side too.
By the way, Chip is not spitting on my arm. That is alcohol that he is squirting out of a little horror bottle. In fact, it is alcohol brewed in a special still in a very hot corner of Hell by Satan himself. Chip rubs it in nicely to achieve the proper effect. It feels a little like a thousand demon rattlesnakes earnestly desiring to gnaw on your soul. Ah, but first they have to get through your skin.
Hmmm . . . I’m thinking some of you might be musing, “What’s the big deal? So the idiot is now videoing himself being punctured.” Well, you are right in one respect. I am an idiot. However, I challenge you to hold the camera as steadily as I while squirming under the needle. Idiots can do amazing stuff. Just watch American TV.
It this short clip, Chip is cutting loose in wild abandon doing the shading. He’s beyond control. Just listen to the pathetic tone in my voice as I tell him how much I trust him.
There was little point in interfering; he was Locomotive Breath. You wouldn’t want to get in his way. Chip was a man on a mission. You don’t want to mess with a former Drill Sergeant.
Getting a tattoo is fun in a kinky sort of way. For one this size I don’t recommend trying it in one sitting. The pain gets steadily worse as the trauma to your precious skin mounts mercilessly. For the last couple of hours I was still putting on the brave face, but inside I was homogenised. Frankly, uncontrollable flatulence was the primary menace.
It must have been the Mexican lunch.Tags: tattoo