Keep America (and my clevage) Beautiful or Why I Need a Coverup Tattoo for Mother’s Day

A long long time ago (about 18 yrs ago) in a galaxy far far away ( Bremerton, WA) i had a brilliant idea. I decided that i would surprise my then husband Scott and immortalize my relationship with him by getting  a rose tattoo with an “S” in the leaves.  Now i know what you’re thinking here:  ah, they got divorced…classic tattoo regret.  But you are wrong.  HA!

I don’t regret getting a tattoo to honor that love.  He has been my bestest friend since we were 10 yrs old, and were it not for his proclivity to prefer sexual partners that have penises, we would still be married today.   But my stubborn refusal to grow a penis and his obstinate need to be himself made that a mildly insurmountable marriage obstacle.  The good news is that we still adore each other, and he and my husband adore each other (not like that you freaks) and so its happy endings all around …except for this effing tattoo.

What’s the problem you ask?  Simply this: its ugly…. and by ugly i mean bat shit ugly.  Felony ugly.  “Welcome to Jim’s Crackhouse and Tattoo Parlor” ugly. It is a bugbear.  A canker…a…well you get the idea.

It was supposed to be a lovely old-school sailor jerry style rose (i said sailor jerry – i now have The Duke’s undivided attention) with an “S” subltly formed in the leaves on my left breast…sounds sexy right…kinda pinup-y right?  Except its not. Its VERY not.

NOTHING about this tattoo is what it was supposed to be.  It is weird and ghetto. (and not in a ghetto fabulous sort of way; in a ghetto ghetto sort of way.)  The lines are crappy, the colors are horrid and the placement is completely bizarre. I have disliked it since the day I got it, and as time goes on I have grown to loathe it.

so without further ado…here it is, in 2 stunning panoramic views.  One to give perspective and one close up so that you can truly appreciate its splendiferous horridness.

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Really?  WTFC!!!

Tiny little rose with enormous stalk? Sideways? Cuz when I think roses, I think green…lots and lots of green.  monotone unyielding green …and maybe a tiny flower, ya, that’s it. And why in the name of all that’s holy does it have a foot.  It looked like its wearing a wee victorian slipper!

This lopsided gangrenous slipper footed abomination taunts me.  It is an anathema, and it is tainting an otherwise awesome rack.  Let’s face it people, I DO have an awesome rack. It is bodacious and unapologetic.  This tattoo is like bad graffiti on the taj mahal.  Its like roasting weenies in the Sistine Chapel.  Its profane.  Scott deserves better. I deserve better.  America deserves better!

I can feel you wringing your hands in frustration…tears of woe streaming from somber eyes.  “How can this be?”  “why does God let things like this happen?” ” I feel so helpless…what can I do?”  I understand.  It is a sad reality that even today bad tattoos happen to good people.  But You can help!  You can make a difference for one pathetic and misguided tattoo.  With your small contribution of just the price of a cup of coffee (if that coffee is a Starbucks grande loaded Frappuccino with extra shots, hazelnut and whip) you can make America a more beautiful place.

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Your contribution can mean new life for a piece of tragic ink, and make my cleavage a safer place for all of us .  Your can transform this:

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Into this:

rose and lock tattoo

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It’s beautiful, its lush (its vintage!).  Its everything it is (and was) supposed to be.  It will be a glorious adornment for my amazing rack; Like a sexy, custom paintjob on a classic custom car!

Tattoos make a great gift for mom! Nothing says I love you quite like several hours of excruciating pain under a buzzing needle while ink is being forced into your skin! What could be more all American then giving mom a tattoo for mothers day!

Its the American thing to do.  Beautiful cleavage should be beautiful! Beautiful cleavage should be displayed proudly!  Tattoos and cleavage are as American as tuna and hot dogs!  ..And you want to be a good American, right?  Well don’t you? (Unless you are Nathan, in which case you should think of it as a ‘Hands Across the Water’ brotherhood between nations kind of thing…)

Its in your hands now, people.  Don’t let America down.

Only you have the power to prevent the continuation of ugly tattoos.

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Stupidity, Social Darwinism and the RMQ

This message is a public service announcement:

Warning labels for stupid people are pointless.  If they are stupid enough to need truly imbecilic warnings for the appropriate use or description of every day items, then they are clearly too stupid to read said warning label.

Stop trying to save the stupid people!  Stop it!  RIGHT NOW!

Now before I go ass over tea kettles into my diatribe, let me make this exception (so I don’t get hate mail about my general heinousness and political insensitivity.)  Not included in the category of stupid are, small children, developmentally disabled, pets and animals – anyone or anything not capable of caring for themselves.  I’m talking about your average garden variety idiots here.  You may now continue with the previously scheduled rant.

So what prompted this visceral response in me? ( I tend to be a stimulus /response kind of writer- a blogging amoeba, if you will.)  Something seemingly innocuous as renewing my massage therapy liability insurance.  I hade to take a telecourse and sign a waiver to renew my coverage to do hot stone massage.  Why?  because apparently there is an issue with undertrained, hack therapists burning their clients to a crisp with lava hot basalt stones.  The clients don’t seem to like this cant imagine why.

At one point in the video they show a massage therapist wearing industrial grade hazmat gloves to protect his hands as he rubs down his client with his lovely rocks o’hellfire.  I can literally feel my brow furrowing as I yell WTFC!* at my computer monitor.  Common sense would dictate that if the stone is too hot for your delicate little paws then perhaps is a scosh to warm for you clients bare back.  Well Effing Duh!  And yet…here I sit because some jackhole (or many jackholes) have been sued for severely burning their clients.  This brought up the thought – how the hell did these people manage to become licensed massage therapists?  This got me to further pondering (as I often do) stupidity, social Darwinism and what I like to call the RMQ (Relative Moron Quotient).  As I did this, I began looking around my house for other examples of warnings or instructions specifically designed for those rockin ‘ out life at the high end of that scale.  For Example:

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Ingredients: Carrots – Well Thank You Mister Wizard!

Oh thank God!  I was so worried that I had somehow picked up a bag of oddly shaped tiny orange dildos in the organic produce section of my local grocery store.  Crisis averted. *Whew!*

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This is an enormous packet of desiccant.  It is probably 2 in x 2in.  I can almost understand the warning in a bottle of vitamins, but this one came inside the packaging for a steam iron.  Is anyone really going to open the box and be like “Oh look!  A Treat! How considerate! Why I think I’ll have myself a steam and a snack right now!  Is appliance desiccant consumption really that big of an issue?  Apparently so.

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Ok…I understand that  a plastic bag is a suffocation risk…but this warning isn’t for the child…it’s for the idiot adult that needs to be told in bold underline that this, under any circumstances, is not a toy….oh and by the way – don’t use it in playpens or carriages either. O.o

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Ok Really?  Are you effing serious?  I don’t even know where to begin.

Who in the hell is this for?

But I’ve been taking them twice a day faithfully, and nothing is happening! External use only? Ohhhhh.. that explains why my eyelashes haven’t become lovely and lush…and the intestinal blockage.

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I have long held the belief that we as human beings should be allowed an allotment of 12 really stupid things a day. Upon performance of the 13th stupid thing, a golden celestial hammer smashes you flat and ensures that you are no longer allowed to piss in the collective gene pool.  My take on Social Darwinism.  You will also be removed if your survival ensures the reduction of the global IQ.  This is determined by Tina’s handy dandy Relative Moron Quotient scale.  It goes something like this:

You forgot your keys.  You need to read the instructions to build Ikea furniture.  You tend to read the precautions before operating heavy machinery. – You are pretty normal. You are probably a 1 or 2 on the RMQ.

You broke your keys trying to pry something open.  You need to read the instructions to heat a can of chili.  You assume you know all the precautions needed for operating heavy machinery. – Use caution…You are nearing the danger zone.  You are probably a five on the RMQ.

You are incapable of figuring out how to use keys.  You need instructions to use a toothbrush.  Your motto is “Precautions are for pussies! I got this!” You are a 10 on the RMQ and you must be eradicated immediately…no I mean it.  Be gone with you.  You are using up precious global resources like oxygen and space…and frankly, I need more storage space.

If you feel my sentiments are offensive or inappropriate, please file your complaint here:

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This is Louie the wiener dog, and he approves of this message.

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*WTFC – What the fuck Chuck.