Shit Happens lettering on an upper arm

Mab kept the chandlery at the bottom of Fish Steps, and on the morning the Constance of Penzance came limping in with her rudder hanging off by a rope, Mab had already spent her last shilling on a new kettle. She stood on the quay with the kettle under her arm and watched the captain climb ashore, grey as a pilchard. "Bad luck," he said. "Aye," said Mab. "Bad luck and worse."

Then the gale came back that night, and the chandlery roof went with it, and the kettle went into the harbour with the roof's best slates. Mab sat in the wreck of her shop with a candle stub and a tin of tar, and she didn't weep. She laughed till the gulls scattered. Old Jory Pell heard her from the Ship Inn and came down with a lantern, thinking she'd gone mad. She had, a bit. She painted a plank of driftwood black with tar and tallow, set two words on it in the heaviest letters she could manage, and nailed it above the door.

The next morning the captain came back for his rudder bolts and read it aloud, slow, the way a magistrate reads a verdict. Then he laughed so hard he had to sit on the step. Every man who came through that door for the next thirty years read that board before he paid. Mab never once painted a sign that said anything else.