was like any Tuesday, even though it was Saturday. I had just shaved my legs when there was a knock on the door. It was a tattooist, and he was drunk. "What is it?" I asked through a cracked window. "I'm here to replace your tattoo," he answered. "Replace my tattoo?" I repeated. "Yes, yours has expired. I have a new one and it won't cost you a thing," he assured me. "That sounds wonderful. Come on in!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. He got to work immediately: removing my expired tattoo with a potato peeler, staunching blood with a shop rag, kissing me on the lips as I screamed in terror. "There! All done!"  He bellowed, proud of himself. "How much?" I sobbed. "Absolutely nothing! My reward is your happiness!"; "Well, I'm not very happy now because I'm in tremendous pain," I whimpered between moans. "Chin up. The pain will pass. I have to go now."; "Wait! I have 2 more expired tattoos."; "Do you want me to replace them now?"; "Yes, if you don't mind."