Even though I fit many of the right demographics, I’ve never gotten a tatoo.
I’m a born and raised farm-boy redneck. I’ve been a biker all of my adult life. I spent 21 years in the US Navy, with the requisite trouble-making, port-calls and “spending like a drunken sailor” (mainly because that’s what I was) and retired as a Chief.
It’s almost mandatory that my body be decorated with ink…yet I’ve always resisted the urge; I consider it my own personal rebellion against stereotypes.
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Observe how well formed it is: shaped exactly like the hot .223 shell casing that made it.
No. It wasn’t on purpose.
Yes. It hurts like hell.
I still think it’s cool.
In other news: I am not capable of springing out of the prone position nearly as quickly as I used to be able to…even with hot brass burning into my flesh.
Repeat after me: “Long sleeves are my friend. Long sleeves are my friend. Long sleeves are my friend…”