Earlier this week, I went to talk to the tattoo guy about adding to my collection. I showed him what I wanted, we talked about size and colour and then he asked me when I wanted it done. ASAP, I answered. So, he told me to come in the next day and heÈd do it before I had to go to work.

I wasnÈt sure about that, because the girl at the counter told me that that was his day off. I donÈt expect anyone to work on their day off, even if it is a kickass tattoo for me. He assured me that all would be well, wrote me out a reminder note so I would remember, and off I went.

I guess you know where this is going. He didnÈt show up. I sat there in the waiting room for almost an hour and he didnÈt show up. Sigh. So I made an appointment for the following day.

When I arrived there the next day, he was so sheepish it embarrassed me. He said to me that I would have some great material when he tells me "The Story" about why he didnÈt show up the previous day.

Now my curiosity was stoked. I looked at him, and started to ask questions when he put up a hand and said," Halt. All will be revealed in time."

WeÈre sitting in his room, heÈs tattooing away and he tells me the following story:

"I live in an industrial loft. ItÈs pretty nice, and people that live there, because itÈs so expensive, are pretty conscious of the other people living around them. No real complaints there.

"Because I live at the end of the row, any plumbing problems that happen, happen to me first. And so, when everyoneÈs plumbing backed up, it backed up right into my bathtub.

"So, then I had to clean up a tubful of shit. Not my shit, mind you, other peopleÈs shit. And that how I spent my day."

I had nothing. I couldnÈt even compare to that. So we changed the subject and when my awesome tattoo was finished I gave him a $20 tip cause he handled other peopleÈs shit. And I felt bad for him.

THE END