Great moments in work history - Crackers in bed.

I seem to be working on my whole damn resume here.

This one goes back to my days of living in the flaccid penis of America - Florida.  I was there for a short stint, and in this time, I worked in a tattoo parlour.  Florida seemed to have an abundance of morons...and drunks on bicycles.

I think I want to call this particular customer "Chuckie".  The reason will be abundantly clear soon.

Dear Chuckie -

  Sometimes, people regret tattoos some time after the fact.  You get a tattoo of the name of your significant other.  You break up.  You're young and stupid, and you get something that reflects that.  I see it all the time.

Sometimes, though, even I have to ask, "What the fuck, dude?"

You work with a bunch of black guys.  Okay.  They keep calling you a "cracker".  Considering the fact that you look like Jim Henson's visualization of Charles Manson, and that poor, dumb girl you're fondling looks like she might be your sister, I'm not surprised.  However, this isn't exactly something that I think one would want to advertise.

And yet, you have made a conscious - and inexplicably sober - decision to get a tattoo of the word "Cracker".  On your neck.  Good job, pal.  Now I'll be able to identify you when I see you on America's Most Wanted.

Signed,
the apprentice.