I Am A Marked Man
Well, I can now add "robbing a bank" to the list of things I am never going to do, "Knock off a liquor store" and shoplifting might also be on that list, but I think those are pretty much covered by that bank thing, but I'll add them just to be safe. This might come as quite a shock, and you may ask yourself in stunned wonder "Why?!?"
It's simple. Up until roughly noon today, I was a rather nondescript dude. If I were to, say, shoplift some Twinkies from my local Kwik-E-Mart, a witness would give the following description to the police: "He's about 6 feet tall, kinda chunky, fabulous hair, and a winning smile. Like maybe Gerard Butler meets Brad Pitt with a little Robert Downey Jr. sprinkled in." See? It could be just about any great looking dude in the metro Phoenix area.
All that has changed. Now, the witness would have to add: "And he had the coolest tattoo on his right shoulder - a tribal triathlon thing, with swimming, biking, and running represented." The officer would put out an APB: "Be on the lookout for a handsome fat kid with a great smile. He is considered charming and very dangerous. And he is armed with a really gnarly tat on his right shoulder. Proceed with caution. Over and out."
Granted this unique marking would readily identify me in a police lineup, so why not cover it up, you ask, when you abscond with the the Twinkies? But what's the point of getting an awesome piece of art if you're just going to cover it up? I mean, look at Mike Tyson. The only way to cover up his body art is by putting a bag over his head. And are you brave enough to try to do that? Unless your name is Evander Holyfield or Robin Givens, you don't want to go poking that angry bear with any sharp sticks. See, Tyson was smart to put that tattoo on his face, daring the whole world to cover it up.
Alas, my life of crime is over before it really had a chance to begin. Everyone I know has told me that I was the last person on earth they'd expect to get a tattoo. I am also probably the last one they'd ever expect to rob a bank, so perhaps my life on the other side of the law was doomed from the start. John Dillinger I am not.
The first thing everybody asked me after I showed it to them was "Did it hurt?" Let's see....Sixty minutes of being repeatedly punctured by a set of seven needles, which penetrated deep enough to deposit ink into the deeper layers of my skin and draw blood. Did it hurt? Of course it hurt!!!! This is exactly the sort of thing I was referring to in my last blog when I said that there really is such a thing as a stupid question.