Keith Urban is Nicole Kidman’s husband. He is also a relatively famous country singer, though as the below story indicates, he’s a frickin’ superstar inside his own head.

The following tale comes from a tipster. If you enjoy people vastly overestimating the size of their own celebrity, you will enjoy it.

I work in Portsmouth, NH, and Keith Urban visited the strip mall I work in to get a tattoo at another shop, called Oceanic Tatau, owned by Trevor Marshall, who is kind of a big deal in the tattoo world, I gather. Anyway, the shop was closed to anyone else while Urban was there, and a bodyguard stood in front of the door to deal with lookyloos. Here’s the thing—nobody was bothering him. Nobody knew he was there, and the few that did (like me) could not care less. There’s actually a restaurant with patio seating directly opposite the ink shop, and all the diners seemed entirely unaware Urban was in the vicinity. At one point, Urban’s personal assistant (a guy in his fifties) was running around the plaza in a frenzy. He nearly bowled me over trying to access my shop, and quickly retreated. He then went to his car, parked in front of my window, and started tearing the backseat apart, eventually finding a backpack that seemed to ease his mood. He went running back to the ink shop. A few minutes later, Urban was ushered out by the bodyguard and assistant in a hurried and protected fashion, as though shielding him from the papparazzi. There was nobody in their way. It looked ridiculous. And the bodyguard opened Urban’s car door for him. It was a shitty Buick with Pennsylvania plates. No big deal. But it looked stupid, and I don’t give a fuck about Keith Urban—but what the fuck was in that backpack that caused the assistant to run around from shop to shop before realizing the backpack was exactly where he left it? A koala bear? What the fuck? BTW—Nicole Kidman was not there. Which is probably the bigger story. BUT WHAT WAS IN THAT FUCKING BACKPACK?

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