My luck is so bad. As a “for instance,” here’s something that happened just recently to me:

Forrest and I were having a spirited discussion about tattoos, though I don’t exactly remember how it started, since neither of us have a tattoo or were planning to have one put onto us. We were arguing the pros and cons, and I like to make a habit of taking the “con” side of whatever issue is put before me.

“Why would anybody ever get a tattoo?”

Forrest said that some people like them, and I said I’d never be stupid enough to get something permanent put on my body that I might later regret. He said that it was only because I was afraid to get it done that I hadn’t already. He thought he knew me. He thought his eyes could see right into my soul. So, I decided to prove him wrong.

After doing a little research on the ‘net I found a good local tattoo parlor and made an appointment. The tattoo artist’s name was Claudio, and he was very friendly. The place was very clean and hygienic, and there were some very classy designs put up as suggestions. Claudio asked me what design I might want, and I realized I hadn’t really thought about it. I decided I didn’t want the logo of my favorite band, because what if somebody saw the tattoo and didn’t like that band, and got offended? Claudio suggested I get some barbed wire around my bicep, but I explain to him about how barbed wire made it easy to fence off large sections of grassland, and made the cowboy way of life obsolete. Claudio said he’d never known this, and that it made him sad and angry. I gave him one of my pamphlets.

Finally, I decided to get a tattoo of my favorite chant from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Afterwards, I gave Claudio a firm handshake and a satisfying tip for his trouble, and I left to go home and prove to Forrest what was what.

I hadn’t even gone three blocks when, out of nowhere, a van screeched to a halt in front of me and two men jumped out, wearing robes with masks over their faces. One of them put a silenced 9mm pistol to my head, while the other thrust me into the van and slammed the sliding door behind me.

“Who is your master?” one of them said, pointing to my arm.

I started laughing, and explained to them that I wasn’t part of their doomsday cult, or any other doomsday cult for that matter. I told them about how Forrest and I had had this argument, and how I couldn’t think of a good tattoo to get, so I had settled on this one. They explained that the tattoo I’d gotten also happened to be the pass phrase for entering their inner sanctum, where the high priest of such and such sat regarding the mysteries of something or other.

I said I was very sorry for the mix-up.

They said they would have to kill me anyway.

I offered a compromise that I thought would suit both parties. I would have the tattoo scraped off my skin by one of their sacrificial knives, and they’d buy drinks afterwards. So we did, and it was a pretty funny situation.

When I got back home, I tried to explain what had happened to Forrest, but he just laughed at me. Later, the place where they’d cut the tattoo away became infected, and I had to go to the hospital. The doctor explained that I had blood poisoning. “Just my luck,” I said, and we both laughed at that one, although now that I think about it, I don’t know why the doctor was laughing.