TBT: Getting Tattooed By A 300lb Woman In Atlantic City

   

          At the beginning of this past summer, I was lucky enough to be asked to stay 100% sober and drive my brothers and their girlfriends to Atlantic City for a Florida Georgia Line concert.  Being the lone bachelor in the Farrar brother trio, I sat this one out.  After dropping the couples off near Boardwalk Hall, I parked at a nearby shopping plaza and admired the sundressed blondes and wannabe belles that came out of the South Jersey woodworks for the show.

It took me all of ten minutes to realize that my night would absolutely suck unless I found a way to make a story out of it.  Naturally, I enlisted in the help of my four friends and our groupchat for advice on how to make the most of an unpromising situation.  There was no shortage of clever ideas, and we narrowed it down to a top five:

1.  Find love on the boardwalk

2.  Pay two homeless-person-drawn-carriage pushers double their rates to race 1/4 mile

3.  Order pizza and drink 40's with the "34 year-old Vietnam War veteran" under the boardwalk

4.  Pan handle with said veteran and gamble the earnings at Caesar's

5.  Get a tattoo at "Pain and Pleasure"

I was under the drinking age, too young to gamble, and love is surprisingly harder to find on the AC boardwalk than you think, so that left me with three options.  Unfortunately, I had already paid two homeless men to drag race down the boardwalk back in 2011, and I didn't think I'd have success bumming while wearing a $130 vest, so I began my trek five blocks offshore to Pain and Pleasure.  

By this time, it's 10:30pm and I'm the only person in Atlantic City stupid enough to walk alone outdoors with a combover.  I walked into the shop, only to come face-to-face with a man (I'll ballpark it at 9X my size) leaving his session.  After an awkward "sup" nod, I walked up to the front counter, told the 300lb receptionist what was on my mind, then sat on a furry purple waiting room chair like a white Flavor Flav.  After fifteen minutes of waiting, and less than thirty seconds total of consulting, I was shirtless on a leather dental chair with 300lbs of South Jersey woman straddling me, holding a green razor to my size and shaving my rib cage.  A defibrillator would've been nice, but the gun started buzzing and the rest became a blur.

The entire ordeal was done in a matter of thirty-five minutes, costing a whopping $50 plus a $6 tip.  If you know anything about tattoo etiquette, that tip sucks, but I don't plan on ever being within 100ft of that shop anyway.  I thanked the staff and hiked a mile or so back to the plaza parking lot, giving the same homeless person money twice.  Why?  Because I felt the need to empty my pockets before someone convinced me to do something even dumber, plus the guy ran a block ahead of me after the first time I gave him money - gotta respect the hustle.  With another hour to kill, I found refuge inside a nearby Rite Aid and fell asleep on a blood pressure reading chair while charging my phone.  After being woken up by a toothless employee, I went back to my car and waited out the rest of the night until my brothers came knocking on the windows.

Maybe my night wasn't as good as the floor level seats to FGL, and no, I didn't find love on the Atlantic City boardwalk.  I do, however, have a hell of a story to tell and a permanent reminder as to what boredom mixed with asinine ideas from your friends can leave you with.

I won't disclose exactly what I got tattooed, but I will say that it needed to be touched up.  Twice.