Spider here, again. It's been a while since I wrote on this thing. Been busy. Get over it.

Man, tomorrow is the day I hate the most. St. Patrick's Day. Nah, I don't got a problem with the Irish, or those that think they're Irish, or those that wish they could think they're Irish. I just don't wanna have to do any fuckin' four leaf clovers.

I swear, as soon as March 17 rolls out, every fucker who wants a tat suddenly decides he's fuckin' Irish and comes in, usually too pissed to see straight, demanding I give him a shamrock on his balls or somethin'. Try tellin' a drunk fuck you can't do his ink because his blood's thin and he'll bleed all over the fuckin' floor. The next thing you know, you're rollin' on the tiles as the dickhead screams about you denyin' his heritage. Then, there's blood on the floor anyways. And it sure as shit ain't mine. Still don't make it any more fun to clean up.

I tried switchin' shifts, but Trey's already drunk in anticipation of sitting his black ass down and celebrating his Irish heritage proper, and my boss is the one who handed me the shit gig in the first place. So it's me and the piercing chick (whatever her name is, piercing chick ..7, I guess; they come and go like there's a fucking revolving door) and I don't think she's gonna be much help.

I'm gonna tell 'em they gotta take a breathalyzer test by law and the machine's broke.

I'm gonna lock the fucking door and make 'em show me what they want before I let 'em in.

I'm gonna tell 'em I'm out of green ink.

Fuck it. I'm gonna do the four leaf clovers. I'm just gonna charge 'em triple. They'll all be too wasted to notice.

Come in if you dare. I'll give you a discount if you don't want anything Irish (no shamrocks, no Celtic druid or pagan crap, no leprechauns, not even one of those setter dogs).

If want any of the above, you'd best be ready to pay, and feel some pain.