03 Sept 06


“Do you wanna blow some money?” I was asked in the library by Certified, a squat youngster with a face like Al Capone's.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I wanna show you my new tats.” Certified dropped his pants and boxers. Above his urethal opening, etched on purple skin, was a dollar sign with blood coming from it. Originating at the base of his glans penis, Harley Davison-style flames flickered down the shaft. Jiggling his penis magnified the visual effect.
“Did it hurt?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah!”
“How bad?”
“It felt like someone puttin’ a cigarette out on my dick.”
“Why do they call you Certified?”
“’Cause they say I ain’t mentally stable.”
“How many mental disorders do you have?”
“I’m bipolar, and diagnosed as severely mentally ill.”
“What meds are you on?”
“Lithium, Prozac, and Tegratol. Check this tat out” Certified removed his T-shirt and revealed a tattoo the size of a license plate at the top of his back that read: CERTIFIED.
“Where’s your next tat going to be?”
“I’m thinkin’ of more tats to get on my dick.”
“Does it take long to do a dollar sign?”
“About fifteen minutes. Why dontcha get one?”
“I’m sensitive down there. It would hurt too much."
“I wanna have sex with midgets,” Certified said, “’cause then my little penis would look big in their small hands.”
“You should try and hook up with Bridget the Midget when you get out then.”

What should Certified's next design be?

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood