Why My Tattoo is Better Than Your Tattoo

By Carl "Keepin' it Real" Rosco

Hello, poser. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, pincushion. You strut around town with your zany haircuts, your 6 pounds of metal shoved through every patch of flesh available, and your permanent paint job. You look stupid, and I'm sure I'm not the first to tell you that. It's true. You know why? It's because you didn't come by it honestly. You, with your "cool" frat brand, you mock my friend Steve, who's bitch wife found him passed out on the stove, and turned on the burner. Steve's horribly malformed now, sure, but it's an honest malformation, and I can respect that. I can't look at that droopy pink spiral scar for more than a minute without fighting a gag reflex, and his unblinking left eye makes me more than a little uncomfortable, but, dammit, he's my pal.

Next on my list is the pack of phoney-baloneys with their bodies all pierced up. First off, go look at some old people. Notice anything? They're saggy. Not so pretty is it? Well, add those studs and rings and goddamn dumbells and you're accelerating the b'jesus out of the saggification process. You nose decorators will be sniffin' your own collarbone by the time you're forty, and don't even get me started on you nipple freaks. Besides, how do you think it makes that poor fella with the spike through his head feel? Not so good, mister.

Now we come to the meat of the meal: The tattoo folks. You guilt a wad of squeegee cash out of good, hard working folk, or whine until Daddy hands over his Gold Card. You get some hairy degenerate to rip off a precious cultural symbol (like Calvin, or the Tasmanian Devil) and you get him to literally tattoo this plagiarism to your skin. How phony is that? Why not pay him to poke out an eye, so you can get one of those high fashion eye patches, or give you a tracheotomy so you can sound like some sort of Mr. Roboto, or something? I came by my tattoo the old fashioned way. In grade 3, I farted into the napsack of little Alexis Wentworth and the little spaz princess stabbed me in the wrist with a classic Bic Cristal Ball Pen. Broke the skin. I'm marked to this day because of a simple fart gag. But pain is cool, and let me tell you, kids, you can't buy cool. You can strut into one of your fashionable disfigurement clinics, drop the cash and get branded, pierced or tattooed, but you'll never achieve an authentic, hard-lived-life cool like me, Steve, and that guy with the spike through his head. So stop buying and start living.

Roll your mouse over the wrist to see a REAL tattoo. It's the dark blob beside the freckle.