Funny Stories
Karen in the studio...
She marches up to the front desk and says, “I need a tattoo. Something meaningful. Like... a butterfly. But, like, not basic.” Cool, I think. Totally doable. My coworker shows her some flash sheets and gives her the price—$150.
Karen’s face contorts like we just told her the earth was flat. “One hundred and fifty dollars? For that? I could get a whole butterfly sticker pack on Amazon for ten bucks!”
I lean over from my station, trying not to laugh, and say, “Yeah, but Amazon stickers don’t come with sterile needles and a license, Karen.”
She gasps like I slapped her with a receipt and demands to speak to the manager—which, unfortunately, is also me. I walk over, introduce myself, and she just blinks like her mental reboot didn’t load properly.
In the end, she stormed out mumbling something about Yelp and “exposing this racket,” and we all went back to work, grateful she didn’t stay long enough to ask for glitter ink.
And that´s why friend its important to be thoughtful and respectful with the prices of the studio...
The Great Misspelling Incident of '22
Let me tell you about the day I learned the true meaning of double-check your stencil.
It started like any other shift at Inked & Dangerous, my beloved little tattoo studio sandwiched between a vegan bakery and a suspiciously quiet psychic. Business was slow that morning—just me, my over-caffeinated apprentice Kevin, and a backlog of emails from people asking if we’d tattoo their pet lizards (we will, for the record).
Around noon, in walks this guy—mid-30s, gym muscles, “I’ve never cried in my life” energy. He had a tight black T-shirt, sunglasses indoors, and the words “NO RAGRETS” practically etched across his soul. He was pumped. Said he wanted a chest piece in gothic script that read: “Only God Can Judge Me.” Classic. I’ve done it a hundred times.
“Got it,” I say. “You want it bold, centered, and holy.”
He gives me a thumbs-up and takes his shirt off like he's in a perfume commercial. I whip up the stencil, and as I’m pressing it onto his chest, Kevin walks by and mumbles, “Hey, isn’t ‘judge’ spelled with an ‘e’?”
Cue record scratch.
My stomach drops. I stare at the stencil. There it is, in all its typo glory:
“Only God Can JUDGE Me”
Except I wrote:
“Only God Can JUGDE Me”
Jugde. Like some kind of celestial container. Maybe a holy thermos?
I freeze. The guy’s lying there, eyes closed, vibing to some intense trap music, blissfully unaware he's one vowel flip away from being a meme. I panic internally while externally trying to look like a professional adult who definitely did not almost tattoo “Jugde” onto this man’s sternum.
“Uh... hey, buddy,” I say, forcing a casual tone like I’m just gonna offer him a mint or something. “Mind if I tweak the stencil real quick? I think I can make it... holier.”
He shrugs. “Cool, man. Just make it badass.”
I nod, back away slowly like I’m defusing a bomb, and sprint to the printer. Crisis averted.
To this day, Kevin randomly whispers “Jugde” during staff meetings to keep me humble.
And that, my friend, is why I now triple-check every tattoo stencil like it's a nuclear launch code.