Today, Pranksters, rather than sit around on my ass, watching cats do wacky things, I had an appointment downtown to get my tattoo “worked on.” Some may say “finished,” but those motherfuckers would be wrong. My tattoo may never be finished.
In several blood-stained hours, my tattoo went from this:
Someone pass me the Vicodin. Then entertain me with your tattoo stories while massaging my feet.