Come On Down To Red Spaghetti Tattoo, Won't You?

In an ever widening search for self-worth of any kind, I've dabbled with the idea of perhaps getting a tattoo or 34. Moderation is for the birds, either I look like John Mulaney or Pete Davidson-- no where do I see an in-between. Frightened and worried, like the beta I truly turned out to be, I've spent hours researching a quality tattoo joint that happens to be willing to embroider my body with worthless content I'm sure to soon after regret. 

An issue I've seemed to consistently succumb victim, is the temporary closure of near all tattoo parlors due to them existing as dorks scared of lung damage or some shit. Do these privileged rave fiends think the troops get a day off because of COVID? Hell no! They just have to deal with it and if they die being paid in Cameros and underwhelming college tuition, then so be it. If you can't fight off a respiratory disease in which violently attacks all aspects of your immune system? Huh, funny to ya boy-- I guess we were just made different.  

Feeling down, having to pick myself up by my bootstraps day in and day out I fell into a grave place between depression and garage thumbtack tattoos. Until...I found Red Spaghetti Tattoo, owned and operated by a burly fella who goes by Kurt. What the small trailer lacks in varnish and cleanliness, it's compensated for with cola aided non-slip flooring and freedom. Tattoo artists are forbidden from the perjury of gloves, masks and sanitizing agent-- allowing their talents to shine without obstacle. 

As I approached the door a sign hung, shaped as a rifle it stated "No Pussy's Allowed"-- I knew I was in the right place. Kurt stood at an old Outback Steakhouse receptionist stand, still donning the effervescent aroma of Bloomin' Onion and moderate cost perfume, likely purchased at a small Kiosk outside Anne's Pretzels in the mall. Kurt was the lone soul in this establishment and I immediately felt the intimate familial setting they so graciously championed online. 

I slid him the post-it on which I had fashioned the phrase "confidence is key" within a Lion. Kurt scoffed, swiftly discarded of the art and directed me to sit down. He still hadn't uttered a syllable and if I told you I wasn't nervous I'd be lying but I'm a sucker for a meaty man and I was committed to this illustration for better or worse. 

The process had begun, my arm was quickly poked and prodded with a variety of blotched needles unbothered by rubbing alcohol nor health and safety protocols. The rest of the process is unimportant as of course I took it like a man, alternating between reading the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition and a stained Maxim. These ladies, voluptuous and curvy, held my mind at standstill but I couldn't stop thinking of Kurt's salt & pepper Fu-Manchu. Don't be crazy, I'm a straight male at the end of the day, I visit Hooters no less than 4 times a week. Fantasizing over Kurt and I on his tandem bike riding down the Allegheny, feeding each other grapes, I quickly became aroused. No no no, it had to be my subconscious musing upon the titty's I had earlier perused. 

"Hey hwhat the fuhck is that sheit!" Kurt exclaimed in his Oklahoman twang. My mind raced, the tattoo was near completion but I wasn't-- "It's from the titty's sir!". Kurt nodded his head smirking, undoubtedly relieved. "God I love manipulating men, such simple creatures" I asserted under my breath. The tattoo finished, I finished, it was holy matrimony. I paid the $62 and subtly jotted my digits upon a floating Domino's napkin, leaving it sitting upon the Outback kiosk. 

Kurt has yet to reach out but with this sprawling endorsement for his establishment, I'm hoping the tides will shift. Let me again remind you, I A-M NOT G-A-Y, I purely desire to stroke his beard whilst he fondles my earlobes-- if things escalate from there we see where the tide takes us. That's just good homeland friendship, nothing else, don't make a mountain out of a molehill.

As for the tattoo? Sure, there's a couple misspelled words and the artwork leans like a handwritten paragraph on printer paper but I felt as if I was in AMERICA whilst being mangled with those corpulent claws and sweaty palms.