TEAM LAST CALL

Once you’re done throwing up, listen to this: It appears that the young man’s nose-skewering technique just might become a trend. People all across the nation have started jumping on the “pierced eyeglasses” bandwagon. Apparently, the fact that they need to have an extra hole drilled into their heads with a power tool isn’t much of a deterrent. Let’s just hope these people never have a problem with their pants sagging.

The development of pierced eyeglasses is a major breakthrough in the world of body piercing. Suddenly, not only can your piercings be fashionable, but they can be functional too. Just think of the possibilities!

Are you tired of walking out of the house without your wallet? Why not attach it to a big chain, and then connect that big chain to a big ring, and then put that big ring right through your tongue! That way, it would alwayth be thwinging right in front of your fathe. It’d be nearly impothible to forget.

Are you constantly spilling coffee on your shirt during the morning commute? Why not just pierce your nipples and mount a little cup holder onto the studs! We can call it the Nip & Sip.

Are you always embarrassing yourself by leaving your baby behind at places like the laundromat and grocery store? I’m calling the cops.

I myself used to have a few body piercings, although that was back in the olden days when they were just for looks. Like mink coats, or Jessica Simpson.

One day when I was 18, I decided that I simply couldn’t go on living without having my own bellybutton ring. That decision now ranks up there with the day I tried to stuff 20 marshmallows in my mouth and the day I tried to snort a line of salt, which were the same day.

I’m all for being frugal, and I agree that there are some things that you definitely should go price-shopping for, such as cars, groceries, or, in Donald Trump’s case, wives. But if there’s one area where you really don’t want to be cutting corners, it’s body piercing. Trust me. I mean, if you look long enough, you can always find some dude who’s willing to pierce any part of your body in the back of a van for $5 and a sandwich, but that’s not always the best solution.

When it comes to piercings, I like to live by this simple rule:

If it’s in an office, pierce that orifice.

If it’s in the back of a van, get a medical plan.

And here’s another rule: If the guy’s name is Luke, run.

I found Luke in a Harrisburg phone book after calling about a dozen other places. It took him about 10 rings to answer the phone, and another two minutes to catch his breath, and then another two minutes to remember that he had placed an ad in the yellow pages about body piercing. But the fact that he was the only piercer who could schedule me that same day – and the fact that he was about $20 cheaper than every other place I had called – made him my go-to guy.

All I could think about was how proud it would make my parents that I was being so responsible with my money.

One hour later, I was on my back in a sticky leather recliner while Luke, sweating profusely through his yellowed undershirt, chain-smoked and searched around in a drawer for a clean needle.

Once things were all set, he drew a purple dot on my belly with a marker and got out the “needle,” which was actually a hollow metal tube approximately the same size around as Michael Moore.

Then Luke looked at me and said, “Grip my thigh.”

“Grip what now?” I said, sliding back in the chair.

“Grip my thigh,” he repeated.

I didn’t get it. “Why do I need to grip his thigh?” I wondered. “What’s the big deal? I’m just going to lie here and relax, and he’s going to numb my belly and pierce it and holy crap that’s a huge needle and why hasn’t he used any anesthesia aaaaah!”

And just like that, Luke plunged the needle right into my belly. I looked down at the giant tube jutting through my skin. Then I threw up. Then I passed out. I should have gripped his thigh.

When I woke up, in addition to a splitting headache, I had a brand-new ring running through my belly. And probably several communicable diseases.

I was awfully proud of that ring and kept it around for several years, showing it off like a battle scar to everyone I met. Until the day I looked in the mirror sideways.

Apparently, my belly didn’t get the memo that the rest of my body had decided to stop growing. In the six or so years since I had gotten my piercing, my belly had expanded from a normal, boy-sized tummy to a bulbous mound of jiggly, wiggly pudge. Suddenly my bellybutton ring was less like a cute little accessory and more like a giant flashing beacon perched on top of Mount McPlumpy.

No matter how many layers I wore, you could still see the ring parading around under my shirt like a mouse under a rug. It was like having a tiny circus barker strolling around on my belly with a megaphone, calling one and all to witness the freakishness poking out over my belt. “Step right up,” it said, “and behold the pudge!”

Further complicating things was the fact that my piercing had more infections than a Kid Rock groupie. Every other week, my bellybutton would swell up like a ripe tomato. It looked like I was constantly trying to smuggle a poodle around under my shirt.

And so, with great sadness, I had to say goodbye to my precious bellybutton ring. All I have left to show for it now are two little holes. Which, now that I think of it, would be an excellent place to mount that cup holder …