Did you every wake up with a headache and some new body art (like a Rubio for President tat)? Me neither . . . honest. I was just wondering about you. This isn’t about me, is it?
As I look around at the epidermis of my friends and neighbors, I’m seeing an investment opportunity that in 10 to 20 years will fund my retirement and allow Winnie and me to buy that new motor home we’ve been dreaming of. I’m going to develop a tattoo removal system that is painless, effective, and very expensive. The way I see it, there will be a lot of future parents and folks going through that mid-life change—you know, the one that makes “life in the slow lane” seem like a good thing—who will pay a lot to erase some body art.
“It seemed so awesome at the time,” they’ll say. “I didn’t know I was going to get older, have kids, get divorced, have a career, and stuff.” I guess we all think we’ll be the first to avoid aging and a responsible lifestyle.
The other day, the little woman and I were having ribs over at Applebee’s when in comes a young couple, both dressed in nothing but black leather. Coincidentally, they both had hair dyed a shade of black that just doesn’t occur in nature. They each had so many piercings; I had to peek after they took a swig of beer just to see if their faces leaked!
Their skin was ghost-white—a nice contrast to all that black—except for lots of very colorful body art. You’ve got to know that the young man with “Phoebe” engraved within a heart on his face, is going to someday marry a Susan or a Mary . . . KACHING! . . . a down payment on our new Winnebago!
And Phoebe, with the snake tattoo running from her right shoulder, up her neck, above her upper lip and onto her left cheek, will someday be a soccer mom and president of the PTA . . . KACHING! KACHING!
I’m guessing that Josh, who bags my groceries down at Dan’s Market, will someday be Reverend Joshua McDonald, and regret the “See You in Hell” tattoo with flames emblazoned on the back of his right hand . . . KACHING Reverend, and God bless you.
Lori, the lovely, young blonde who serves me my weekly double hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and nuts (I’m sorry, but I’m weak.) over at Carmen’s Ice Cream, will someday tire of explaining the bright, green image of a seven pointed leaf adorning the area just below the front of her neck to her 2nd grade students at Smalltown Elementary. “Little Johnny, it’s like I told Jennie last week; it’s an oregano leaf . . . I don’t know why your daddy laughed when you told him that” . . . Money, Money, Money, Money!
Ernie, the ex-Marine who sells me my Bud Light down at the Big Apple convenience store, will be in to see me. His girlfriend, Marissa, will tell him that she won’t marry him until he has that naked girl removed from his arm . . . show me the money, Ernie!
I think I’m onto something big. I might even start looking at yachts or a little winter place in Barbados and maybe a BMW convertible for Winnie. All I need is a name for my new enterprise—Tats-Be-Gone? No Regrets? Mistake Eraser?