A few moments ago I was in the break-room rooting around in the refrigerator, when a co-worker came in and said to me "Hey, what's that tattoo you've got on your lower back?"
I stood up quicky, tugging my shirt down over my hips. "What tattoo?"
"I'm pretty sure I saw some ink back there."
Sheepishly, and because she is also a friend, I lifted my shirt to reveal the, uh, artwork my daughter gave me a couple of nights ago.
"KICK ME", it says, in permanent marker.
Little shit told me she was going to draw a flower or butterfly or something pretty.
I knew I should have raised German Shepherds.