Doug Loves Sarah, Week 13 of 52

The Tattoos

The wife and I sport tattoos. Nothing matching, mind you. None of that "Doug Loves Sarah" or our wedding anniversary hogwash. No, we have tattoos that are one hundred percent acceptable if, to quote Mrs. Wynette, "D I V O R C E" (makes you wonder, don't it, if some dunderhead thought she was saying "The IV Are Horsily") was to crop up. No, the only issue we would have with that blight upon our social calendar would be how to make the wench leave my books alone. I figure giving her full custody of the kids should send her on her way.

We have divorce-ready tattoos, as I was saying. Me, a sensible little spiral on my upper right arm. Good for saying I got tattooed but honestly a little too small to brag whole-heartedly about. Her, a great big pair of wings on her back with some of that "Japanese writing" that is so popular with the young ones nowadays.

Guess whose tattoo has the greater potential for outing its owner as once being a scene kid?

I mock her tattoo only because it completely emasculates mine. I have about an hour's worth work on my arm. She has eleven hours on her back. What can I say? "Oh, boy, those hurt!". Like I know. By time I was in pain, I was an hour from the gate. She had time to pass out, be slapped back awake, and thrust back into deep, soulful agony. Now that she did, but she had time.

I could rectify this like a man, by buying a big car that would represent my penis. But I do not drive. I could actually whip out my penis and shake it at her, but she might laugh, which would be bad, or decide she no longer wants to touch it now that she has had a clear look at it in the sight of sunlight, which would be worse. I could probably ask her to scrunch up her back, to make hers look smaller, but what's the point? I mean, deep down, I would know the rest of it was there.

No, I figure I have one option open to me clearly and truly.

I will pretend that it does not matter.

Take that, you hag! hah!