do not drink and ink
This is the time of year when parents all over America take their children to the nation’s sports facilities, sneak down to courtside and show the youngsters how dangerous it is to drink and ink.
How else do you explain Golden State Warrior Stephen Jackson’s hands? Not the hands at the end of his arms. The tattooed hands on his chest and stomach, holding a handgun, praying. I am not kidding — two hands praying with a gun between them. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.
What is the message Jackson’s stomach is trying to leave us? “God, please help me knock over this Kwik Stop?” “This is the Glock the Lord hath made?” Neither. Jackson says it represents him praying that he doesn’t need to use a gun again.
Damn, Stephen. Where’s your commute, Fallujah?
How else do you explain Kenyon Martin’s lips? Not the lips on his face — the lips on his neck. They’re fire-hydrant-red women’s lips, smooching there for all time, a permahickey. They’re a tracing of his girlfriend’s lips, the rapper Trina. I hope they stay together. Because hell hath no fury like a woman who has to stare at another woman’s lips every day and night. You’re talking turtlenecks in July.
You need look only a foot farther to see something even more puzzling on K-Mart, whose skin is a kind of human bathroom stall — his ornate “I Shall Fear No Man But God” scrawled on his back. Uh, see Kenyon, the thing is: God isn’t a man. Did you mean, Fear No Man. Fear God? That’s the unfortunate thing about tattoo guns: no delete key.
