Do they call it a stampede stamp?


Sometimes, it starts as innocently as a regular Wednesday at work…  Except this was not a regular Wednesday, oh no, this one will go down in the history books as why one should always carry a camera.  Oh, before you go jumping to conclusions, this is not about boobs.

Midway through the afternoon, a cowboy needed some yard stuff loaded up into his busted-ass diesel truck.  He was your typical cowboy: skinny, short (stood tall with his shit-kickers on), grubby wranglers with a big dirty chew ring, and a t-shirt that was probably funny a decade ago.  Top it all off with a felt cowboy hat, gas station sunglasses, and a handlebar moustache, and you’ve got yourself the stereotypical Saskatchewan, mid-twenties cowboy.  “The orange Chevy yours?” he asked, obviously knowing I was the only one on staff when I greeted him, acted as cashier, and loaded up his purchases… “Yeah.  It’s a ’72.  350, Turbo 350, 12-bolt 3.73, non-posi.” I replied, hopefully answering any follow-up questions he might have.  “I’ve seen this truck around,” he said, “and it ain’t no 350.  Pop the hood, I’ll show ya.”  Dick…

So I pop the hood and stand back so mister expert Chevy-small-block-face can prove me right.  I’d recently wire-brushed the numbers clean myself to see what it actually was, and it turned out to be a 350 with mis-matched 305 heads.  Would’ve lost that bet…  That being said, I live off protein shakes, cheap beer, caffeine, and nachos, so I lack the knowledge-rich vitamins that come in a can of Skoal…  Anyways, this guy is bent WAY over the grille of my truck, his head way back by the heater box on the passenger side.  I have no idea what he thought he’d find back there, but as he reached way down, his shirt climbed way up, exposing his identifying mark:  A lower back tattoo!  Some sort of symbol from one of the Asian alphabets, roughly twice the size of a Skoal can, right above his Wranglers!

I was taken back at this point.  The world stopped spinning, I couldn’t breathe, I didn’t want to start laughing, and I certainly couldn’t pay attention to whatever he was trying to tell me about my dressed-up junkyard engine.  There he was, totally confident in educating me, while all I can think about is how he likely thinks his tattoo says “courage”, when it more-than-likely says “dump load here”.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a lower-back tattoo hater, nor am I one to call them all out as “tramp stamps”, but fellas, for the love of God, anywhere but there.  I wanted to get a blacklight out and check it for DNA evidence.  I’m confident my research would’ve proven more successful than his did…  The moral of this story, you ask?  Always carry a notepad for the story, but also carry a camera for the proof of the truth.

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