Dear idiot who came into the tattoo shop piss-face drunk on a Tuesday at 6 p.m., blabbering about some ridiculous tattoo you were thinking about getting. When I asked from behind the computer desk if you needed help with anything, all you said was “Yes, I want to know what game you're playing. Solitare? Minesweep? Can I see?” When I said I wasn't playing a game, you accused me of being “a rude receptionist.” Then you declared you were “about to spend $5 million in this shop, but your technology receptionist turned me off.” I'm not a fucking receptionist, moron. I'm a piercer. And I'm sure you're rolling in stacks, considering you trailed in wearing a ripped-up T-shirt, smelling of Natural Ice and talking about how Budweiser is so pricey these days. I hope you ate shit on the way out.
