Hey! Like your new stuff. A lot better than what you used to do. When did you learn to play guitar? LOL no offense.
None taken! Funny story: I went down to the crossroads and fell down on my knees a little while back to see what I could do about my situation. The devil, of course, was waiting for me there. "Well, well, look who’s here. Been waiting on you almost a quarter of a century. You finally ready to join the ranks of the immortals?" "Yeah, yeah, we gonna do this deal, or not? Let’s get on with it." "Now look who’s impatient. Okay, let’s see what we got." The devil’s salacious grin suddenly turned to an annoyed grimace. "Really? Are you kidding me with this?" "What?" "This soul. This … thing … is seriously devalued, to say the least. There are so many liens on here I’ll go upside down the minute I try to move it.” "What are you talking about? It’s not like I go to church, but I still make fun of new atheists. That’s worth some god points, right?" "Look, you’re not getting Robert Johnson. You’re not getting Jimmy Page. You’re not even in Peter Frampton territory here." His bony hand went into his hood to rub his invisible forehead. "Best I can do: we heal up your left hand a little bit so you can do full barre chords, you can be the next pop punk legend." "Because that’s what the world needs, another Billie Joe fucking Armstrong." "It’s what I’ve got for that sorry piece of shit you call a soul." "I’m fifty-three years old. In what universe do I become a pop punk legend?" "We’ll get rid of the gut, get the gray out of your hair, tone you up a bit. No one will necessarily know how old you are. Of course it wouldn’t kill you to get contacts and show up at a gym once in a while." "Sorry, no sale. What else you got?" The devil shook his head. ”Well, I can do Derek Bailey. Seriously good stuff, but just no market for it. An acquired taste, apparently. That’s fire sale value, friend. It’s a lot more than you deserve, so you better take it before I change my mind.” "Nope. I already got a Derek Bailey fake that fools most people. Don’t need the real thing, I’ve got all his records." The devil heaved a black sigh. “Fine.” He rummaged through his robes, came up with a small duffle bag, and threw it at my feet with a metallic clink. ”Here’s a bag full of really gross guitar fuzz boxes. It’s my final offer: take it or leave it.” "Done and done!" "Pleasure doing business with you" the devil intoned with a sarcasm that permeated the ages. He walked away muttering under his breath. "This economy really needs to change. Thankfully there’s another Clinton ready for the White House." So that’s the story of my guitar prowess upgrade, old friend. Gross distortion boxes. And I’ll occasionally tune, as well. Didn’t used to do that much. See you at the reunion show!