I Hate Future Me, That Smug Bastard.

The other day I had my eighteenth birthday party and invited several future Me's. I sat around and got sideways with my twenty-five and thirty-five year old self. We told stories of the parties we went to and all the wild things we had done. Or at least me and the twenty something year old me did. The thirty year old me mostly just talked about his job and his wife and his stupid kids. He barely ever did anything fun. Jeez, when did I get to be such a stick in the mud? Forty year old me didn't even swing by, he had some big project at work. Fifty-five  year old me was there but, g'ah. What a douche. He was totally wearing dork-ass preppie clothes. He was like, successful, and had money and crap. He didn't want to hang out and drink with us, and he didn't know any cool bands. He was just so damn smug. He was like "one day you'll grow up". He even played golf. Golf. Can you believe that?! Frickin' sell out.

   So after every body else left, twenty-five year old me and I were still hanging out and he was bitching about how hard he had to work and how he never has time to play video games or drink or start that band that we always intended to start. Manic Polyester was going to be huge! He was also wishing that he would've gotten a tattoo or piercing before he got out of college, but it was probably good because the advertising firm he worked for had a dress policy. And then we shotgunned a beer and he had to go home because he had an early morning (noon) meeting with a client and he still had to finish the corporate image package.

   Then I was all alone with my thoughts and my Natty Lite. Man, where did I go wrong? I wasn't extreme at all. I was a square. And I was happy about it. Apparently I liked my little slice of suburbia and Americana apple pie. Manic Polyester never materialized and I was in a committed monogamous relationship. There were no groupies in my future. What a waste. I had to do something. I had to save myself from a life of Rockwellian normalcy. And bring that old smug bastard me down a couple of notches.

   What had twenty year old me said about tattoo's and piercings? That was it. I could get some extreme ink and get some holes poked in myself. That'll teach retired me to be so smug and successful and whatnot. I hate that guy. When I woke up the next morning I took all of my birthday cash and went down to Neuronic Heart Tattoo Shop and got a sweet tattoo on my neck. And then I started to gauge my ears out. I already felt more like a rock star. I am gonna be awesome for life. There is no way I will ever get tired of being X-treme!

   The next couple of years were epic. College was incredible. I loved it. All six, (or was it seven?) years of it. By the time college was out I had as many tattoos as credits. And my earlobes could hold a pack of smokes. Unfortunately Manic Polyester never materialized, turns out I didn't have a musical bone in my body. And practice is hard. But I dated some pretty fun chicks who were all were into tats and piercings like I was, but nothing serious or long-term. When college was finally over I had a degree in fine art appreciation and renaissance poetry and I needed a job.

   I went to the marketing firm future me had worked at but they had some lame dress code and fed me some crap about not hiring people with facial tattoos. Like, I'd want to work there anyway. I got a job at Neuronic Heart doing tattoos and piercings. The pay isn't great, and there isn't any room for promotion, but at least I'm not some corporate shill. I hang out at the local bar and listen to indie music and drink lots and lots of beer. Life is perfect.
   I just had my twenty-fifth birthday! It was kick ass! All of Me's showed up. And we all still liked to party. And there was none of this talk about not having enough time to do fun stuff anymore. Forty year old me was a little sketchy, he's living with kind of a rough looking woman and her kids, but they all like to party too!

   But the biggest change was Old Me. Haha. I totally knocked that guy off of his high horse. He wasn't playing golf anymore, I'll tell you that. Or giving out any sage advice. He was alone and kinda seemed sad, and all my tattoos looked pretty silly on him quite frankly. But I still liked him better than that other fancy pants old guy. I showed him a picture of him from my last party to show him what I saved him from becoming. He just stared at me and shook his head. Whatever. I'm non-conformist for life, and if future me doesn't like it, well he can just suck it.

Kool Car Klub.

I think the key to making money, is to be creative. I started a tattoo/marketing firm so I could be creative and get paid for it. It didn't last very long, I had to shut it down. I had more complaints than I had paying customers. It seems you just can't please some people. This is one of our complaints.

ARE YOU MOTHER LOVIN' RETARDED?! What is wrong with you? I asked for you to come up with some logos for our lowrider car club. We're looking for new members and we wanted to look professional. I thought that because you were creative and hip you would be able help us out. You aren't creative, you're a flippin' moron!

   We all thought it was kind of urban when you changed the C to a K in the first word of Cool Car Club. We even thought that it was subversive when you changed the C in Club to a K. But then what kind of sillyhead goes ahead and changes the C in Car to a K. First of all, it's gosh danged stupid. It doesn't even make sense.

   You see, the acronym for our club is now KKK. We have a predominately minority membership. It doesn't go over very well with our members when they go back home to their neighborhoods wearing a KKK shirt. If you weren't such an airhead you would have checked with us before printing up stationery and t-shirts. You had better give us our money back, or the next time I see you I'm going to slap you with a lawsuit.

When Getting A Tattoo, One Shouldn't Be Vague.

Dude, you are the worst tattoo studio ever! This is the worst tattoo ever! I can't believe you did this to me. How do you even stay open? I am going to kick your butt. I want my money back, and I want you to fix it. Oh man, can you fix it? Is there something you can do? Dude, you got to stinking do something, man!
     What the heck man?! I can't believe you tattooed this on my chest. What a pile of crap. Dude, I lifeguard in the summer at the Y. Dang, dude! My life is over. I'm gonna have to flippin kill myself, and then I'm gonna have to kill you.
     I said I wanted a tattoo that said I was a sexy beast. Something that was dangerous. Something that told the ladies that I was an animal. Like a bear, lion, wolf or even a killer whale, but sexy. Not a tattoo of all of them, along with those... those darn words. Ah dude, I'm never gonna get a date again. Why, dude? Why?

    

Don't Get Your Advertising At This Place.

Complaints? OK, let me see. Well, first off, I take ultimate responsibility for this entire debacle. I should have known that leaving my marketing and advertising to a guy with a piercing through his forehead, and a tattoo of Darth Vader dueling a Care Bear on his face, was a mistake. But the price was right and I thought that at least you would be creative, and could tap into that cool downtown vibe. That being said; are you brain damaged?! The marketing ideas you brought to me are possibly the worst ideas that have ever been put to paper. Your company should be called Moronic Heart, not Neuronic Heart, (what the hell does that even mean?!) I just was looking for some ideas to get the word out about my new Tapa's Bar to the local populace and you came up with the following gems.

My kindergartner could have come up with this, but at least not it's not offensive. Sadly the best of the lot.

Are you comparing my business to a prostitute from Good Morning Vietnam?
I know this might be a difficult distinction for you but restaurant not whorehouse.

Ah, keeping with the card suit theme, clever. EXCEPT it's not! Not only do we not screw our customers,
we also don't hit them. Preemptively; spading my customers isn't funny either.

No, no, no. We never kill people. Never. Ever. Ever.

I'm no marketing genius, but I am pretty sure that listing rat poison in the tagline of your restaurant is a bad strategy. Even if we don't have rat poison in our food. And never have.

I have a family owned business. My wife and daughters work here. We are not Hooter's,
I am not going to sexually exploit our waitresses, (or our waiters, for that matter.)

In closing, give me my money back, you freaking MORON. On a related note; If I ever see you in my restaurant, I will break one of my rules and barely kill you... possibly, with a club. And I will heart it. 

How Can You Tell If They're A Nerd? Check The Tattoos.

Tattoos courtesy Neuronic Heart Tattoos And Marketing.

Tattoos courtesy Neuronic Heart Tattoos And Marketing.