The Truth about Female Tattoos

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I’m down with ink, but let’s be honest: if a girl wants to get all tatted up without looking like a crack whore, her options are limited. Every available tattoo location on the female body comes with some type of preconception attached.

Hey, I don’t make the rules. If you’re female and you’re determined to sport tats, prepare to be judged. Evidence:


1. Lower Back:

Personally, I’m a fan of the female lower-back/upper-ass tattoo. I think it’s cute. The only downside is that some wisecracking amateur poet realized that “tramp” rhymes with “stamp,” and bam! What could have been a tasteful piece of body art is now considered slut-branding. So it goes.

 

 

2. Arm:

Arm tats practically scream this chick will shank you and steal your drugs. On the plus side, if you earn an arm-tatted girl’s respect (aka “slap her around”) she’ll pawn her motorcycle to bail you out of jail.

 

 

3. Neck:

The back of the neck is the ultimate hippie/lesbian tat location. If there’s a female equivalent to a guy getting his right ear pierced, the base-of-the-neck tattoo is it. Common neck tats include Japanese kanji and dolphins in majestic mid-leap. Also popular: any of the Lucky Charms marshmallows. Green clovers, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes, yellow moons…

 

 

4. Inside of the Lip:

What’s the point of this tattoo, other than occasional shock value? My favorite lip tat: barcode. Whenever I see people with barcode tattoos I always want to sprint past them with a grocery store scanner, just to see what rings up.

 

 

5. Ankle:

The ankle tat is the I’m-not-the-kind-of-girl-who-usually-does-this-type-of-thing tattoo. If you’re considering an ankle tat as your first ink, you probably shouldn’t be associating with tattoo artists to begin with. Do yourself a favor and stick to henna.

Common examples of ankle tats: yin-yang, barbed wire, any species of colorful flying insect (dragonfly, butterfly et al.). Dolphin is once again popular.

 

Incidentally, any girl who gets a dolphin tattoo is essentially admitting creative defeat. Dolphin tattoos are the natural evolution of the unicorn posters these girls used to plaster all over their rooms; icky vestiges of juvenile sappiness.

 

 

6. Labia:

Now that’s slut-branding. A girl with a vaginal tattoo is clearly willing to let some strange dude get all up in her biznatch with ink and needles and whatnot. Just…yick.

Tangent: Lunacy

Capitalism is all about the sanctity of ownership.

When you own a pair of jeans, they belong to you for life. If Levi Strauss himself rose from the grave and demanded that you cough up those faded 501s, you’d be within your rights to tell his moldy carcass to bugger off.

Distilled down to the basics, you could conceivably describe American capitalism with a single statement: No one can claim your jeans.

Until today. Because today, an American judge ruled that your genes don’t belong to you.

No, that wasn’t a typo. I’m talking about your GENES…the ones you were born with, the ones that are woven into the fabric of every organ and tissue and cell of your being. The very mechanisms that make you you.

As of today they officially…aren’t…yours.

For years, American biotech companies have been quietly patenting your genes. They do this for one reason: if corporations can be the first to identify a piece of your genetic makeup, they can charge up the you-know-what every time you need to access that snippet of biological info.

In today’s case, the corporation is a sleazy biotech outfit called Myriad and the pieces of genetic information are the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes. It turns out that when a person’s BRCA genes carry a specific type of mutation, he/she has upwards of an 80% chance of developing breast cancer.

Myriad developed a test for the BRCA gene mutations in 1994, and for almost 20 years they’ve been gleefully charging $3,000 a pop every time a woman needs to find out whether she’s predisposed to a horrible, often fatal disease.

But Myriad didn’t just patent their test. They patented the actual genes. And today, an American judge upheld their patent.

Lunacy.

If you discover a new planet somewhere in the universe, you get to name it. That’s pretty cool. There are billions and billions of planets, so if I identify a few million planets and stars, I could conceivably paste my name on an entire corner of the sky. Constellation Shane. Sweet.

But you know what I wouldn’t get to do? I wouldn’t get to charge people to look at my planets. I wouldn’t get exclusive rights to massive balls of molten rock just because I peered into a telescope for a couple years. Even if I spent my entire fortune locating one solitary planet, I wouldn’t own it, because a planet is a naturally occurring phenomenon that existed long before I was born and will be here long after I’m gone.

But companies like Myriad insist that there are grey areas when it comes to ownership. These planet-patenters like to point out that you can, for instance, own a piece of land, which is a naturally occurring phenomenon.

But there’s a key difference: I already own my genes. We all do. If a corporation goes rooting around in someone’s closet and discovers a mint condition Stratocaster, they don’t get to patent it, sell it, and keep the money. That would be theft.

Biotech companies like Myriad are thieves, plain and simple. They’re stealing our genes. It’s time to take them back.

If you’d like to show your support, head over to The Gene Patenting Petition and sign online. Then call your congressman. Call everyone’s congressman. Spread the word. Tell companies like Myriad that our DNA isn’t a playground, and they don’t get to play Finders Keepers with our genetic information.

 

The Truth about Applause

Deep down, we’re all applause whores. Everyone secretly desires the reassurance and approval that we’ve come to associate with spontaneous hand-slapping.

Luckily, applause isn’t hard to get, because some subconscious element of the human psyche desperately wants to clap and holler like a retard.

Here’s a quick guide to applause procurement:

1. End all of your sentences with “For the troops.”

2. Gradually increase your volume and conclude your speech with a loud whooping noise.

3. Be attractive.

4. Bitch about the government.

5. Flash boob.

The Truth about Flag Planting

The concept of planting flags is genius. Honestly, whoever came up with that idea…snap.

If you’re the first person to arrive at a location, just poke it with a stick and it’s yours. And in case you think flag-planting is some kind of antiquated colonial relic, keep in mind that barely four years ago Russia sent submarines to plant a flag on the underwater Lomonosov ridge.

Well played, Russia. Staking claim to the ocean floor is a certified pimp move.

It goes without saying that everyone should carry a sack of flags at all times. Rules for flag-planting have never been adequately defined, but I’m taking the conquistador approach. Whether someone arrived at a location before me is irrelevant; if I’m the first to plant a flag, you’d better recognize…or suffer the consequences. Superior firepower for the win. (Slingshot firepower, to be precise. I don’t do guns, but I can deliver a mean welt from fifty paces.)

I’m in the process of creating a kick-ass flag. And once this flag has been forged, I’m going to plant it everywhere. Your backyard. Your Prius. Your Starbucks muffin. Your dog’s face. (That’s right, I claim your dog’s face. Face claim! Deal with it.)

Call me the Justin Timberlake of imperialist colonialism, ’cause I’m bringin’ it back.