Ah, tattoos. It reminds me of the time when I was a tattoo artist in a little shop off the coast of Santa Fe. It was a tough life, what with the ink and what not and the sailors and their brawniness and cursing and such. My sidekick at the time, Mr Mu, used to run a speak easy under the floor boards of the tattoo parlour selling hard liquor and lamingtons to those with a taste for the exotic.
One day a nasty looking chap with a face like a catcher's mitt came to our establishment and asked for a pint of rum, six lamingtons and a tattoo of his sweetheart on his Johnson. I obliged him all 3 but he was not satisfied with the lamingtons as he felt that the coconut we had used was not white enough. He raised a terrible fuss, punching the walls, spitting and generally making quite a ruckus. I eventually subdued him with a half nelson and a packet of iced vovos but I had had enough.
I quit the business and went into the balloon animal business where I made my vast fortune.
Mediocre to good times.
