A dolphin on my arse please
I spent a summer in Pennsylvania many years ago. My friend and I ended up living in a small town, 60 miles north of Philadelphia called Hatfield.
I was designing pre-cast concrete prison cells, the ideal summer break from college.
It was a real typical blue collar American town. No nonsense bars full of burly men in filthy overalls and skanky looking chicks who found no charm in our lithe, milk white Irish frames.
We made no friends, in fact, we made many local enemies through our wholely innocent, yet seemingly homosexual antics.
Is slathering half a bottle of tanning oil over your good friends lean, sinewy body at the local pool a crime?
Anyhow, I digress.
One Saturday morning after a night of bourbon and angel dust, we both decided to procure some skin art at the local ink shop.
Stumbled all the way there, we did. Once inside we spent hours scanning the books, looking for that "wow" factor tatoo.
After much nervous deliberation, I decided upon a cartoon of a dolphin on my right buttock.
As I waited my turn, the respite gave chance for paranoia to get a cancerous little foothold.
I began to view the "Artist", a stone cold lookalike of Paul Snr from American Chopper, with heady mixture of fear and suspicion. He looked like a murderous bastard, I tell you.

Up comes my turn...

"growl...what do want buddy?...grumble... snarl"

"Em....a tatoo of a...eh...Dolphin on my *cough* left buttock"

"SNARLLLL!! GROWWL! GET OUT MY SHOP BUDDY, IT DON'T DO MEN BELOW THE WASTE YOU LITTLE FAG!!!"

Cue me, doing a pathetic comedy style run, pants around my ankles, out of the shop and down the highway, tasting the hot, sour tears as they spilled from my eyes.
(Smell eep!, Fri 1 Dec 2006, 16:51, Reply)