Tat’s all, folks!

This post may piss you off because someone you love has tattoos. Maybe you have one or more yourself. If so, no offense but I don’t get tattoos. Literally or figuratively.

According to a 2023 study conducted by the Pew Research Center, thirty-two percent of adult Americans have one tattoo. Twenty-two percent have more than one. 

Thirty-eight percent of women are tattooed; twenty-seven percent of men are. An astonishing fifty-six percent of women ages eighteen through twenty-nine and fifty-three percent of women thirty to forty-nine are tattooed. Overall, forty-one percent of adults under thirty are inked, as are forty-six percent of people ages thirty to forty-nine.

Thirty-two percent of tattooed folks say they got them to make a statement about something they believe in. The same percentage got theirs to make them more physically attractive. Twenty-nine percent of the inked say their tattoos make them feel more rebellious and — this speaks volumes about our educational system — five percent think their tattoos make them look ans feel more intelligent.

When I was growing up in Auxvasse, Mo., the only tattoos I saw were on the carnival workers who showed up every July to install the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. But nowadays, almost every actor, singer, athlete and 7-Eleven clerk has tattoos. Even politicians like Pennsylvania Senator John Fetterman, have them. 

Many members of the gym I belong to walk through the front door wearing suits or medical uniforms. Moments later they emerge from locker rooms in outfits revealing body art that, a generation ago, would have enabled them to earn livings as sideshow attractions.

Some claim their tattoos remind them of special persons or events. Soccer great David Beckham and actress Angelina Jolie, for instance, have the names and birth dates of their children engraved on their backs. Seems to me it would be easier, cheaper and less painful to write them down on a calendar. If you can't remember your children's birthdays, perhaps you shouldn't be having so many in the first place.

Tattoos might conceivably make sense for people my age who want to deflect attention from their crows' feet, receding hairlines and flab. "Gee, that tattoo is so fascinating I almost forgot you're old, bald and fat.” But I can't understand why anyone with an otherwise presentable body would want one.

It's disturbing to contemplate what all these tattoos are going to look like in fifty years, once the firm young flesh to which they were applied becomes wrinkled, translucent and saggy. Can your imagine your grandma with tattoos? Me neither. But millions of kids from future generations won't have to imagine. They'll see granny's Popeye-like tattooed forearms every Thanksgiving as she serves up the turkey. It's enough to make Norman Rockwell weep.

Many of my friends' adult children, and at least one member of my extended family (and probably more) have tattoos. These are good kids. Highly educated kids. Accomplished kids who make the world a better place. I just happen to believe they'll have buyer's remorse someday.

Since they were little, I've told my sons that they can murder someone and I'll still love them but that, if either gets a tattoo, he's out of the will. So far, so good. No tattoos. At least none that I can see.

My grand-dog, Topanga, had one, but it was inscribed on her belly for identification purposes at the Humane Society she was adopted from.

Some people who spend their money on tattoos would be better off spending it on necessities like food, shelter, education and Powerball tickets.

I once hired an agency to provide a series of home health aides for my mother, who had been in the hospital. The agency representative warned we might be shocked by the first attendant's appearance. "Charity is only 30 but she doesn't have any teeth," she told us.

"You're sending a meth head to help my mother?" I asked.

"No," the representative said. "Charity wasn't raised by a family that encouraged her to brush, floss or visit the dentist regularly. She's had a hard life."

That night, I saw a TV spot from one of those chain dental clinics, advertising a complete set of dentures for $300.

"Wow," I thought. "Charity must really be poor if she can't come up with $300."

When Charity arrived the next morning, I avoided smiling so she wouldn’t feel she had to smile back. My mother was asleep so I invited her to sit at the kitchen table.

She opened her purse, removed a bottle of baby oil, dabbed the oil onto a cotton ball, then rolled up her pant leg, revealing a brightly colored parrot tattoo from her ankle to her knee.

"I got this yesterday," she announced. "I'm supposed to keep it moist."

"Do you mind if I ask how much that cost?" I asked.

"Three hundred dollars," she replied proudly.

I rest my case.