Anyone who knows me knows that I am literally covered from head to toe in some pretty hardcore tats. Here's a list of them, and the inside story behind each piece of my pain canvas.
1. Peace Frog
I was dating this Russian chick, and we were in the middle of a messy break up. So I just threw a duffle bag of some shit into my Hyundai Sonata and made a beave line for Myrtle Beach. Pounded a couple Zimas and there I am crying like a baby in the chair. The peace frog tat was a way of saying "self, remember to chill."
2. Clown Beege
You know that dream where you're getting a beege from a clown? I had that dream so many times, I was finally just like, "what up? Let's put this on my fanny." The barbed wire squeezing his heart was my idea.
3. Stealth Bomber
I got this back when the Stealth Bomber first came out. This tat was just an easy way to cover up my clown beege tattoo.
4. Bluetooth Headset Face Tat
I don't use a bluetooth, but I like to talk to myself out loud at Barnes and Noble. This creates the illusion that someone is listening to me besides me.
5. Corn on the Cob
Corn on the cob is deliciouser than hell. So I decided to cover my entire right arm with corn on the cobs.
I did the left arm in popcorn to remind myself about the persistent threat of global warming.
7. Grover Cleveland's Non-consecutive Terms As President Represented By a Discontinuous Link of Chains Around My Calf
Only president to serve non-consecutive terms. Just a reminder to myself that anything is possible. This one looks good when I get all sweaty playing beach volleyball.
8. Space Shuttle Discovery
When I go shirtless, the visual twist is that the space shuttle is actually "taking off" downward into my waistband.
9. Fresh Can of Tennis Balls
I represented the smell of a fresh can of tennis balls with a tessellation of swans and swan droppings on the small of my back. I got sunburned real bad back there one time.
10. Face Tat of My Own Face Staring At You
Looks like you're outnumbered, bro.
I think a funny joke would be to build a time machine out of peanut brittle, and then go back in time and visit George Washington Carver. And when he's like "whoa!" just be like "oh, in the future this is what all our time-traveling cars look like." For added effect, you could be wearing a peanut brittle tuxedo.
This morning, while looking at my driver's license, I realized that there is virtually no chance I will ever be any taller than i am right now. I've heard that astronauts who spend a shit load of time in the space station will get taller because there is no gravity smashing down their joints or whatever. But due to some of my "lifestyle choices," I will probably never be an astronaut. And therefore, I will never be taller than I am right now. One might even note that the relentless force of gravity is slowly making me a tiny amount shorter with each waking second. One might also note (adding insult to injury) that I will almost certainly never be good friends with Manute Bol of the Washington Bullets.
5' 11 and 3/4"
My Playgirl spread will be tastefully presented and abundant, like a banquet table set before the nobles of a faraway fiefdom.
My Playgirl spread will lie upon the page with the subtle grace and elegance of a Japanese watercolor, my vast C and B flowing across the landscape like a willowy brushstroke.
IMPORTANT: My Playgirl spread is not for pregnant women, or anyone with a history of heart conditions.
What's that sound? It's my Playgirl spread shuffling gently in the heather, the morning dew fresh upon its pages, catching the light just so. Well hello Mrs. Callahan, doesn't the honeysuckle smell lovely this morning? Why yes, I'd love to try some of your fresh peach cobbler.
My Playgirl spread is open to several interpretations.
My Playgirl spread has worked tirelessly to give back to the community from which it was raised. I bet you wonder where the money for that fancy new swingset came from. The answer is My Playgirl Spread Foundation, the chairman of its board of directors being none other than my Playgirl spread.
My Playgirl spread scored a perfect 1600 on its SATs.
My Playgirl spread takes impossible twists and turns into infinity, like the collected works of M.C. Escher.
My Playgirl spread has been successfully used in hostage negotiations, and as a means of expelling third world dictators from their fortified military compounds.
My Playgirl spread is a window into dimensions as yet unspoken of in peer-reviewed scientific journals, but commonly understood to exist nonetheless.
Wednesday, May 7, 3:28 pm
$600 tax rebate check arrives in mail. I unwrap it and smell it. Rub it along my gums a little. It tastes like freedom. Robust, filthy freedom.
Thursday, May 8, 2:28 am
I have a dream where I am visited by an golden owl. He is so very bright, yet it doesn't hurt my eyes to gaze upon him. He is holding some kind of ancient scroll, written in a language I don't fully comprehend. His face is made of diamonds, and I sense he is wise. Wise like a samurai. Also, his talons are quite sharp as they dig into my genitals.
Thursday, May 8, 11:07 am
I awake hungry and humbled by the dream. What was the owl trying to tell me? I think it had something to do with personal responsibility, or possibly patriotism. I vow that I will use my newly acquired riches for good rather than evil.
Thursday, May 8, 11:09 am
Over a bowl of Honeycomb cereal, I decide I'll use my tax rebate to get a facelift. It probably sounds selfish, but the thing is, I want to get more involved in my community, but I'm currently too ashamed of my face to do so.
Friday, May 9, 11:15 pm
If I have any money left over I'm gonna get a neck tat. Probably of a realistic zipper, halfway opened to reveal my neck organs underneath.
Saturday, May 10 12:08
I call a few dudes, and it turns out facelifts is like mad pricey. I get pretty pissed at first, but then cool myself down with some Nachos Bel Grande. I resolve to sort the issue out in my head. . .
Problem: Facelift is more than 6 hundo.
Solution: Go to Mexico and find a facelift for cheap.
Problem: Getting to Mexico costs money.
Solution: Hitchhike. Pay for food by robbing graves.
Problem solved; tax rebate un-depleted.
Tramping to Mexico is more challenging than I thought. Luckily, I meet up with a hobo named Cookie who can whistle through his eye socket. I sink a hundo into a get-rich-scheme he's developed. He's a little soft on the details, but I'm pretty sure it involves scamming old people. I've also had to spend some of the rebate check on my gambling addiction, which I only recently realized that I have.
June 4, 10:15 am
¡Bienvenidos a Mexico! Getting across the border was a bit tricky (on account of my being a chimera -- more on that in a sec), but I feel as though I am approaching the realization of my dreams. Sadly, Cookie passed away in Piedras Negras. I had to spend the bulk of my rebate check on his ad hoc cremation. Good news is I still got about a hundge to pump into the fledgling Mexican facelift industry.
June 12, 2:30 pm
After a week of bartering and administering street justice, I found the deal I've been looking for. A guy's gonna do my permanent facial expression just like Jack Nicholson as the Joker. I guess since there's a new Joker movie coming out, this procedure is on sale. He also threw in a free laser rejuvination of my female set of reproductive organs. If I don't have more self-confidence now, I never will.
July 4, 8:34 pm
My tax rebate depleted, and my journey complete, I return stateside to begin a new life of community service. I have a one act play I'm performing at the senior center for the fourth of July. It's called "Mirrors of Steve." It is an autobiographical exploration of self identity through the lens of my own selfhood. I play the lead.
July 4, 11:54 pm
I guess old people don't get unscripted experimental theatre cause I bombed pretty bad. I think I even made a few of the older women cry. Removing my stage makeup, I admire my new waxy features, blotting at the moist corners of my eyes.
I'm not going to sugar coat this. Yes, last night a specially-trained team of police investigators did raid my house, and yes, in my basement they did find what the local newspaper has referred to as "a sickening accumulation of soiled mouse pads and skorts." What no one has bothered to ask is what I was planning to do with all those skorts and mouse pads.
I believe it was Confucius who said "choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life." Well, following my termination from the International House of Pancakes six months ago, I decided to heed these words and follow my bliss.
Some dudes are into sports cars, others, exquisite cheeses. My deal is skorts and mouse pads. Yes, I said it, and it felt good. I'm tired of making apologies for who I am. Skorts are kind of dressy, kind of sporty, and I appreciate that. Also, mouse pads are both whimsical and functional. I have a computer from 1991, and my mouse pad enables me to smoothly point and click on e-commerce offerings that I would enjoy purchasing. My mouse pad is also emblazoned with the image of a basket full of kittens and yarn, which, needless to say, lightens my heart in this troubled world.
So back to the basement. For years I have spoken to only my closest friends of my dream to open a museum dedicated exclusively to skorts and mouse pads. Well, the good news is that I've decided to follow that dream. The bad news is that, after a lengthy cost-analysis study, I'm estimating my start-up costs to be right around $4.5 million. Which is where you come in. As a principal investor in the first ever Mouse Pad and Skort Museum, you will help to weave an exciting new thread into the tapestry of our American cultural heritage.
Did you know that John Hancock was wearing a skort when he signed the Declaration of Independence? Or that mouse pads were used as an early form of currency among Native American tribes? Late president John Quincy Adams had this to say about the hemp mouse pad he kept in the oval office:
"A truer pad is ne'er to be found. And whence my mouse drag upon its hearty grain, my vigor is emboldened evermore."
So to the know-it-alls at the Herald: Why don't you dig a little deeper into the facts before your rag slanders another American patriot? And to interested museum investors, I am able to accept your check or money orders immediately. I think together we can really change a lot of people's preconceptions about skorts and mouse pads.
To: French Canadians
From: Matt Hutchinson
Re: My Scorpion Lollipop
Many of you have been wondering (out loud) how extreme I am. Rather than address the issue myself, I'd like to let this scorpion-frozen-in-a-lollipop answer on my behalf. Wait a minute, that's right -- he can't speak because he's trapped in a sugary translucent crypt which I am now slowly destroying with my mouth hole.
For those of you who can't do the math, I'll give you a hand. 1. Scorpions are tougher than shit. 2. Trapping a scorpion in a lollipop is extremely masculine. 3. Freeing the scorpion with one's face borders on madness.
Most of you (my loved ones included) are probably wondering if I am prepared for the fight-to-the-death that will ensue once the scorpion is awakened from his fructose slumber. More specifically, am I prepared to feel the sweet lethal kiss of his barbed stinger, or the vice-like twist of his pincers on my freshly shorn calves? The answer to that question is yes. And the answer to your follow-up question ("why do you shave your legs?") is quite simple: aerodynamic advantage in the scorpion battlefield. Less drag, more efficient scorpion-liquidation.
On a final note, yes that is my Linkin Park ring tone, and yes, I have to take this call.
"All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and ever when I move"
-Alfred Lord Tennyson
Not cool, bro. Reasons why not:
A. Lasers are for science, not for grab-assin'
B. Even though it's a weak laser, it can still do damage (read the pamphlet).
C. It fee-ohs buhney on my ween-oh.
D. Everybody thought it was cute how that kitten chased after the laser dot with his sharp baby claws. Everybody but me.
E. For reasons no doctor can explain, my crotch has the power to split light, like a prism. If hit by a strong light source in the wrong way, it could have exploded into rainbow shards.
F. You took away everything that I worked for. Everything.
G. Francis Scott Key was killed by a laser-guided missile. This incident only serves to open up a lot of unhealed wounds.