Monday, November 24, 2008
The Tatt Vortex
There’s a certain type of tatted up muscle-t wearing uberbag type we call “The Tatt Vortex.”
Like staring into the sun, or jamming raisins up one’s nose then gargling with hot sauce, The Tatt Vortex causes Gregorian chanting Nuns in Northumbria to cup-slap autistic penguins.
And if that last sentence seemed a tad non-sequitorious, it’s only because Nadja makes me want to glide on one knee down a paper mache protoplasmic jello boobie until I land in the upper thigh area, where I will nuzzle contentedly and wait out the long winter.
