Whitesburg KY
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Mention of tattoo gets pen knocked from Ike’s hand

Ike Adams


Loretta says she doesn’t read this column anymore.

“Don’t have too,” she grumps. “Everybody stops me on the street or calls to tell me that I’m in the paper again. I wish you’d stop it! I can’t even go to church without being laughed at over something you’ve put in the paper about me. I’m sick and tired of it!”

“Hey, baby. You sell papers and that’s what this is all about,” I explain to her.

“You lead an interesting and newsworthy life,” I say. “Most women would be proud to make the paper so frequently,” I insist.

“Then you should have married one of them,” she says. “If I had a tattoo on my behind you’d take a picture of it and put it the paper.”

My eyes light up. Instant inspiration is such a rare occurrence these days.

“Come over here and let me take a look,” I say. “I could draw one right this minute with this set of colored ink pens and stencils I scarfed at Friends’ the other day.”

Loretta gives me the look. The one where her brow wrinkles, her lips purse into a glowering scowl and little flames shoot from the corners of her eyes.

“Come on, honey. Be a sport. I’ve been looking for an excuse to ask the papers for a pay raise and this could do the trick. Heck, I might even get a Christmas bonus,” I plea.

“Old Santa Claus might be able to afford Victoria’s Secret instead of the clearance rack at J. C. Penney’s for a change,” I say as I grin and flick my eyebrows knowingly.

“You’re serious,” she mutters before she becomes speechless and shakes her head in total disbelief.

Her scowl turns vivid red. The flames from her eyes could now catch the house on fire. Meanwhile, I am on a roll.

“I’m telling you. baby. The press crews at the papers would be ticked off because they’d have to come back in and do another run. But they do get paid for overtime and the publishers would love it,” I exclaim! “This could be the break that I’ve been looking for,” I yell!

I reach for the little pack of pens and motion for Loretta to come on over.

Loretta’s hands ball into fists and she puts them on her hips. Now her face is bluish white. The flames from her eyes have turned into lightning bolts.

“If you ever, ever, ever mention my underwear in a newspaper again, the only thing you’re going to get for Christmas is a headstone and that’s assuming that the kids love you enough to buy one,” she snarls.

“I am not talking about your bloomers, honey. Would you just listen to me for a minute? All we’re talking about here is a butterfly there on your hip a few inches below your beltline. It’s not like people would see it in public and besides that, it would wash right off as soon as your skin sheds. Says so right here on the package,” is what I tell her as I wonder why she is being so stubborn and uncooperative about this mighty fine idea.

“Hey, if you don’t like butterflies, take a look at this,” I say as I muse at a new discovery. “How ’bout a little poinsettia on a bright green bow. It’s even got little yellow dots in the middle. I could draw this is less than five minutes,” I insist as I test the pen on a scrap envelope to make sure the ink is going to flow.

Loretta steps toward me, snarling. I’m not sure whether it was her hand or one of the lightning bolts, but something slapped the pen out of my hand and then whacked me viciously upside the head before she stomped out of the room.

I don’t know what she’s so upset about, but if you see my wife on the street this week, please don’t mention that she’s made the paper. Nor should you call to tell her so. I don’t believe she’d actually shoot me in my sleep but there’s no sense in taking avoidable risks.

So if you readers keep quiet, she should not find out about this column. Everything should be okay and my domesticity should return to perfect bliss and harmony.

Loretta has already told me that she’s stopped reading this column in the paper.


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