I have a few strange hobbies. Some are stupid, some are fun, and some are downright suicidal. I am
an avid motocrosser, a hobby some people would consider a little bit on the insane side. Flying a 280lb dirt bike thirty feet into the air over jagged rocks isn't most people's idea of a good time; then again, I'm not most people. I also enjoy the occasional game of paintball. Again, some people wouldn't consider shooting their buddies in the face with a high-powered paintball gun fun. Like I just said, they ain't me. And then there is my favorite pastime -- my
coup de grâce, if you will. I absolutely love to get tattooed.
I have spent the better part of the last seven years of my life getting my entire body tattooed. I currently have about 170+ hours of work on my body and there is no end in sight. But all this body modification comes with a price. Yes, it hurts. Yes, I know it's permanent. And yes, I know I'm ruining my skin. Save that shit for someone who cares. The price tag of my art is stress. Getting tattooed is a very stressful thing to do to your fragile body -- especially the really sensitive areas.
Throughout my seven plus years of dermographic art, I've seen a few people piss themselves and I've seen a few people vomit on themselves. I've seen a girl puke all over her husband who was graciously holding her hand. And yes, you guessed it -- I have even indeed seen someone who shat their pants while getting tattooed.
The guy who tattoos me isn't just an artist, he's also a very good friend of mine. This means I'm in the shop not only when I'm getting tattooed. I'm go in to shoot the shit and see what's going on with him and everybody else who works there.
Tattooed people, for lack of a better word, are an eclectic group. We find humor in other people's pain. We find fault with blood. We laugh when someone passes out and smashes their head on the tile floor. But we don't discriminate. It doesn't matter to us if you're not tattooed -- we're still cool with you. But when you walk in the shop like your shit don't stink and start talking trash, you're in for some rough time in that chair. There are a few rules in life that should never be tested. Rule number one: never make fat jokes to any woman who is larger then you. Rule number two: never talk shit to a tattoo artist who is about to work on you. Rule number one I can see possibly overlooking, but rule number two should be pretty standard procedure. The minute you open your mouth and utter a disparaging word to that artist, your day will go from bad to fucken horrible.
The guy walked in the shop and everybody knew from his manly swagger that he was a total and undeniable prick. You could just see it. He didn't even have to open his mouth.
My buddy was the first to peg him as an asshole. "That guy is a fucken jerkoff. My douchebag radar was going off before he came in the door."
The guy strolled up to the flash on the wall. Flash is all those drawings on the wall in tattoos shops. Some of the old school Sailor Joe stuff is cool, but most of it total shit and should be avoided at all costs. The douchebag proceeded to point and guffaw at some the drawings.
"Who would get a Celtic cross on their arm? That's ugly. Why you get USMC tattooed on you? That's gay. Who would ever get praying hands on them?"
He muttered to his buddy until he came to the flash that he wanted. He pointed to (I'm not making this up!) a Tasmanian devil holding a bong. The guy proclaimed, "I want this." Flash like that isn't even drawn to actually be tattooed on someone. It's more of a joke, kind of like the aloha monkey you see in some tattoos shops.
The guy walked in the back where my friend and I were sitting and announced his presence. "Do you work here? I want to get tattooed."
"No," my friend answered, "I just have all these tattoos and all this equipment because it gets me laid." There was a moment of silence until Rock Head the Asshole realized it was a joke and laughed.
My buddy got up and walked out to where the flash was. Rock Head pointed to the lil' Taz and proclaimed that he wanted a fucken tattoo. Not one to turn down some easy money, my buddy gave him a hearty thumbs up and got everything ready to throw some ink on this guy's chest.
For all of you out there in PoopReport Land, you should know that getting your chest tattooed isn't a walk in the park. In fact, it hurts like a motherfucker. If you've never been tattooed, don't go for the chest on the first try. You'll realize why in a few minutes.
My buddy set everything up, sat Rock Head down, and got ready to do what he does best: tattoo big meathead jerkoffs. The entire time my buddy was setting up, Rock Head was talking shit to him, saying how he needed to go to the gym, how he needed to cut back on the carbs, and how lazy he must be. Rule number two broken. My buddy looked up at me. He didn't have to say a word. Rock Head was about to crucified with a 15 mag needle.
He threw the stencil on Rock Head, made sure everything was straight and kosher, and got ready to start tattooing.
"You ever been tattooed before, man?"
"No. I'm sure I can handle it. Just fucken start already."
My buddy had given him his last chance to prove that he was at least human and indulge in the fact that he was about to feel a bit of pain. But Rock Head wasn't having it. He stayed true to his prickatude.
My buddy started nice and easy with a small black line, and then the floodgates opened. He started beating on this guy's chest with all the pressure he could muster out of his 300-pound body. He stretched this guy's skin as far as it would go. He dug that needle in until I swear he was hitting bone.
Rock Head began to sweat a bit. And then his hands and face turned a pale white.
"You alright, man? You look a little pale."
"Yeah, I'm cool. Keep going."
He was barely five minutes in and Rock Head was already given the standing eight count. After about ten minutes and maybe a quarter of the outline later, Rock Head was in bad shape. He was sweating profusely and nearly ready to fall out of the chair. My buddy stopped for a second to wipe up some blood, and that was all she wrote for Rock Head. With a mighty thud he capsized out of the chair and splattered onto the tile floor like Mike Tyson had just knocked him out.
Said I: "We got a man down! MAN DOWN! Get the smelling salts."
And then we all smelled it and saw it. Rock Head had pissed AND shit himself, right there in the tattoo shop. The stench was horrific. I guess all those creatine and protein shakes make for some putrid shits -- it smelled like hot garbage there in the back of the shop.
The owner walked in with the smelling salts and the smell hit him immediately. "Oh man, that dude shit his fucken pants, holy fuck, he shit his goddam pants. Get him the fuck out of here right now!"
We all sat there in disbelief that this had just happened. Rock Head's friend tried to flip him over, but Rock Head was down for the count. Not even a dose from the smelling salts would bring him back to reality.
Except for Rock Head's friend, we all exited the back of the shop and went up front, where the air was still somewhat untainted. I stood there in awe of what had just happened. We all did. The shop apprentice, who had been outside smoking while this mess went down, came in and smelled the wretched defecation as soon as he walked in the door.
"Yo, who farted? Wait, that ain't a fart. Someone clog the toilet up? I'm not unclogging that shit again -- fuck that! I'll quit!!"
We filled him in on the situation, and he just kind of chuckled.
Within five minutes or so, just as we were about to call EMS, Rock Head and his cohort come limping out of the back room. Rock Head was in some pretty bad shape. He hobbled out with no shirt on, a piece of paper gown stuck to his chest, and his pants full of shit and piss. He just stared at us.
"I think I'll have to come back to get this finished up, man. What do I owe you for the outline?"
My buddy stood there for a second until he decided to let this prick slide out the door with the little, if any, dignity he had left.
"Don't worry about it, man. We'll square up next time you come in."
Rock Head and his buddy walked out the door, leaving behind them a trail of shitty water on the carpet and the tile of the back room. The apprentice grabbed the mop and bucket, grumbled to himself that he's not paid to mop up shit, and rolled in the back to survey and clean up the damage.
We all stood there, taking in this most surreal of episodes. No one really knew what to say. If someone pisses themselves, it's not really a big deal. Tattoos hurt, and some people can't take the pain. But no one at the shop had ever witness someone shit themselves.
The guy did save some face, coming back into the shop two weeks later to get his lame-ass tattoo finished. His tone and demeanor had changed considerably from when he first came in the shop that fateful day two weeks earlier. He withstood a barrage of shit and piss jokes for the hour it took to finish his shitty tattoo. He paid for the work without so much as a word and left the shop, never to be seen again. His legacy, however, will outlive his shitty tattoo. Even though he never came in the shop again, nary a day goes by without someone telling the story about when Rock Head the Asshole shit his pants.
-- Pill Pooper
