If there’s one thing that grinds my gears more than most, it’s self-righteous, ratty bogan douchebag fucks extolling the virtues of their numerous ridiculous tattoos in public and on social media. If I had a dollar for every time I’d seen or heard a tattoo-clad fuck bag justifying their inked up existence, I’d have enough dollars to play a 5 cent poker machine at my local RSL for several years with an adequate supply of shandies…

Tattoos used to be the sole property of merchant sailors, dockworkers and the Russian mafia. A tattoo was a sign that you lived outside the rules of regular society and were not to be trifled with. Some of these ‘tatts’ were applied whilst the owner was incarcerated, using a hot needle and the ink out of an inkwell or a deliberately broken ballpoint pen. They were grotty, crass-looking, but also a sign of toughness. There are few things more ghetto than a prison tatt…

In the last decade or so, the stigma associated with being heavily tattooed has been lifted. This has caused trend-setting, Vice Magazine reading urban fucks to jump on board, covering their bodies with a relentless homage to the prevailing fashions of that year. My current favourite is the redeployment of an old tattoo staple, the anchor, into a cutesy pie declaration of the tattooed parties’ own individuality. It’s safe and it’s fashion forward. Double bonus!

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have a problem with tattoos (or people getting them) at all. In fact, if I could think of something that I’d like enough to be able to live with for the rest of my life, I’d be first in line at the tattoo parlour on a Monday morning with a smile on my face and a dog rusk clenched between my teeth for comfort (not sure if they open on weekends?). I just can’t think of anything that I’d be able to look at in the mirror every morning without wanting to violently hang myself from a tall building with piano wire.

The main gripe that I have with some people that have tattoos is their furious insistence on explaining that they don’t care what other people think of them for having tattoos, because, “It’s my body and I’ll do what I want.”  Call me crazy, but surely if you don’t care what other people think of you, you wouldn’t spend a large majority of your waking hours defending your initial choice?

You know the line…  “I don’t care what you think, I’m living for today, I don’t give a fuck about tomorrow. Nobody cares what you look like when you’re old anyway! These tattoos represent who I am and what I stand for, and if you don’t like them, get out of my way. I don’t have time for people who don’t believe in me.”

These are the same people that complain that they can’t get a job because of their tattoos and complain about people discriminating against them for ‘owning and believing in who they are.’ It’s enough to make you want to shoot one of them in the face. I’ll happily continue to take jobs from fuckheads that don’t have the mental aptitude to realise that tattoos don’t fit in corporate Australia. Wankers. Also (and completely unrelated), why the FUCK would you want to have a tattoo in Japanese or Chinese script when you’re Anglo-Saxon and don’t speak either language? Fucking retarded.

On the other hand, maybe if I become a self-righteous inked-up fuck, maybe  I’ll be able to connect more completely with who I am as a person, because nothing says “I’m real” like getting a whole bunch of artificial ink permanently injected into your skin… Forget personality, substance or character (or anything else that might establish you as an individual), you’re not ‘real’ unless you’ve got a Japanese Koi strangling your arm…

Fuck it, next Monday I’m getting The Lords’ Prayer tattooed on my dick in binary code.

/end communication