Unicorns, Rainbows, Guitars

László

Too Many Notes
Joined
Apr 26, 2012
Messages
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Location
Michigan
A Tale of Unicorns and Guitars

"My fellow Americans: As many of you know, the North Korean government reported that archaeologists had discovered a unicorn lair last month in its capital, Pyongyang. I'm sure you'd agree that this secretive communist state, with its recent development of nuclear weapons, is a government whose announcements are to be taken seriously:

http://www.usnews.com/news/articles/2012/11/30/north-korea-says-its-found-a-unicorn-lair

None of us want our last vision on this planet to be hordes of North Korean soldiers invading our country riding wave after wave of unicorns, hurling nuclear weapons in our direction and vaporizing us.

Yes, my friends, we have a Unicorn Gap.

Despite all of our technological and scientific expertise, not one scientist or archaeologist in the USA has discovered a single unicorn. That's scary. We should all be a little worried, and as your President, I'm asking Congress to authorize Unicorn hunts and expeditions all over this country.

There are those in Congress complaining that we have a Rainbow Gap with Ireland. Well, we acknowledge this. Not only have we not found one pot of gold at the end of a rainbow in the US, no one is researching the problem. No one is out trying to capture a single leprechaun, but we're spending billions trying to talk to aliens on the space phone with that SETI deal. I thought we didn't want aliens, and that's why Congress is talking about fencing out Mexico, so why are we trying to talk to them? But I digress. At least the Irish aren't threatening us with nuclear weapons and unicorns.

However, we plan to set aside funding for leprechaun research right here in the US.

Thank goodness, the Chinese leadership is spending its free cash on ground rhinoceros horn powder, so they're a little distracted.

My fellow Americans, I'll tell you what may be the only thing preventing them from saddling up those unicorns and coming after us: guitars. Because nothing scares a unicorn like a guitar, and especially a guitar with a pointy headstock. It will be the policy of this government to put more guitars into the hands of our soldiers and people. We are building guitars here, and our allies in South Korea have been building them for a good reason.

All along the West Coast of the United States, our well-trained guitar player-soldiers are standing at the ready, waiting by the sea for the North Korean fleet to start loading the landing craft with unicorn mounted troops, because they know that a few bars of "Pipeline" or "Surf City" will turn those guys right around. Especially if played with fuzz. I ask you to stand by them.

And I will stand my ground here in Washington with my trusty PRS, as part of the guitar army in reserve, waiting. Watching. Keeping an eye out for unicorns, rainbows, leprechauns and aliens. Keeping my thoughts pure, and my HXDA on standby, and...bzzzzt....crackle....buzzzzt..." (transmission suddenly ends).
 
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"Did you fight in the Unicorn Wars, Grandpa?"

"Oh yes...of course! We all did."

"What did you fight with, Grandpa?"

"I fought with this weapon; I wanted you to have this when you were old enough, but your uncle wouldn't allow it. He feared you might follow old Grandpa on some idealistic crusade like your father."

"What is it?"

"Your Grandpa's PRS. This is the weapon of a Barre Knight. Not as clumsy or random as a Gibson or Fender. An elegant weapon, for a more civilized age."
 
History rewritten by the infamous North Korean Hu Flung Poo.

Goldtop in the Good Ol' USA
 
"I'm Laszlo Buzzdriver; my grandfather Ani Wan Buttme sent me here to find a Barre Knight Master named Yngwie, but I seem to have crashed his minivan into this swamp. I did manage to pull his PRS to safety before it got wet. Thank goodness for this waterproof carbon fiber case!"

"Looking for Yngwie, are you?"

"Yes. I am trying to become a Barre Knight, if I can ever get this minivan out of the swamp."

"Do not try; do or do not. There is no try."

"I'm not sure what that means."

"Oh. It's a saying. It means, you know, don't say you will try to do something, just do it. That kind of thing. Peoples' fathers used to say that sort of "Think Positive" stuff to their children in the 1950s and 1960s. So I kind of made it my own thing. Like talking in riddles and appearing to know everything."

"Oh, OK. Would you mind helping me pull the minivan out with this rope? I tied it around the bumper."

"Rope I will not use. Your PRS you must use."

"My PRS? Why? What's playing a PRS going to do to get the minivan out of the swamp."

"So little faith have you. These are 408 pickups. These pickups do magic!" (Yngwie plays and the van slowly levitates from the swamp to the amazement of Laszlo).
 
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+1, the SE crack was gold

I already kinda changed the whole thing, and don't like it as much as the original.

It's kind of falling apart into a Star Wars spoof. I'm kind of hoping my fellow inmates will contribute and write a few episodes, maybe change the direction a little bit.
 
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Lazlo Buzzdriver woke up in a cold sweat. The leavings of most of a case of Natty Bo and not a few Pollock Johnnies strewn on the floor near the bed merely confirmed what he already suspected. An overindulgent night of hometown dogs and beer had him dreaming again.

Lazlo slipped out of bed and stumbled on his Schefman voodoo doll, cursing it ironically. As he padded across the room, he took warm comfort in the goldtop siggy sitting next to his HXDA. As the last remnants of the ill-fated Il regime of Northern Korea and their nuclear unicorns left his mind, he swore off Goulden's spicy brown for good this time.
 
As the fog of sleep once and for all cleared his mind he heard the shrill sound of the telephone.
"Dammitt! Who the hell is calling me at this time?!"
Lazlo looked at the clock on the table but was having trouble making out the time. He suddenly noticed Jane Buzzdriver wasn't in bed. Clearly, it was later than he thought. The empty bottles of Goulden's Spicy Brown answered that question.

There was a mumble of words and then Mrs Buzzdriver walked into the bedroom with the phone.
"It's Bob."
"Bob who?" Lazlo enquired.
"Bob... Your uncle." She said with a hint of puzzlement as she handed Lazlo the phone.

Lazlo was in no mood to speak to anyone - particularly not his Uncle Bob (Whom he'd never heard of). All he wanted to do was grab a coffee and have a fiddle on his new Goldtop PRS.

"Hey Bob, what is it?"
"It's happening again Lazlo..." Lazlo froze."The Unicorns are back and this time they may be Zombie Unicorns"
"But Uncle Bob... it was just a dream..."
"I'm not your Uncle Bob, Lazlo. Get dressed and meet me outside with your axe in 30 minutes"

lazlo briefly thought of his Grandfather Ani Wan Buttme and his Grandmother Nobedee Wan Buttme. Their memory gave him a little strength for the battle ahead. He got dressed and had a bite to eat. Then - just before the mysterious 'Uncle Bob' arrived - he opened the secret tin and dug out his secret weapon. The pick. He knew he was gonna need this triangular piece of plastic more than at anytime in his life...
 
Lazlo quickly checked through his zombie apocalypse "go" bag. There were others of course, all lined up under the pedal storage shelf. There was the G.A.S. go bag - well worn from years of emergency use with it's no limit credit card and white cotton gloves. Next to it was the gig go bag overstuffed with condoms and hand sanitizer. Next to that the never used, but always ready Fender and Gibson go bags. Lazlo found that once he settled on PRS, those bags were just gathering dust. He'd have to do something about that. They would probably go the way of the Martin go bag which used to sit next to the Taylor go bag, but was long ago offered to budding musicians who didn't know how to play yet.

Past another few bags, Lazlo found the bag he needed, appropriately just under the shelf holding the Ibanez Tube Screamer. At the behest of his Buttme grandparents, Lazo had assembled this particular bag for this specific contingency. Like the other go bags it held a change of clothes, an extra set of strings and a size 36A Wonderbra. Lazlo sifted through the contents to make sure the items which made this bag unique were present and in good order. He easily located the .308 tracer rounds impregnated with KC Masterpiece Bar-B-Que sauce - essential ammo for combating Zombies, dispatching them quickly while simultaneously frying their brains and seasoning them for good post-apocalyptic dining. At the bottom of his bag he found his Armalite AR-10. He had tried the AR-15, but found that it took more than one shot from the relatively whimpy .223 round to effectively put down and cook a zombie.
 
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Mor Izmor surveyed the landscape through his zombie eyeballs. He'd bought them on eBay from a guitar player who wanted to fund a Private Stock. He wasn't afraid to use guitar players' body parts. Mor scratched what was left of his goatee. It was hard to keep zombie skin together, and it tended to attract insects, but he managed with a combination of Crazy Glue and Nu-skin. He looked down at the zombie body he'd built up as an NFL football player, now in rough-looking shape but still strong, and thought, "Hard to believe I wasted all that effort on the Detroit Lions."

He didn't see any guitar players. There was only open country ahead. Mor wheeled his unicorn around and headed for the zombie camp. He and the ten thousand unicorn riders he called his Immortals were ready. They had a new weapon.
 
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Under the AR-10 in Lazlo's bag was one of seventeen identical Glock 31s. All of them with long ported slides for quick follow up shots, night sights and chambered in the misunderstood and maligned .357 Sig round. This particular Glock was slightly modified by Skitchy at PTC - the Special Forces Unit of PRG Guitars. Skitchy had milled a small compartment in each side of the polymer hand grip and inlaid solid gold, raised private stock eagles on each side. The effect was the increased grip offered by the menuki on the handle of a samurai sword. Lazlo found plenty of hollowpoints for the pistol right next to the KC Masterpiece bullet dipping pouch his grandfather had made him. The 'leather' of the pouch was from the first zombie unicorn wars. Grandfather Buttme had somehow saved the nape skin of his last target and, through a process he refused to divulge, preserved it for this special little pouch.

Lazlo imperceptably sighed as he began to close the bag over the Wonderbra. "One day..." he thought to himself. At the last moment, he grabbed the Tube Screamer from the shelf above, checking it's battery, and stuffed it into the left cup of the Wonderbra. It never hurts to be prepared.
 
Mor Izmor saw that Autumn Sky was exhasuted. She had spent the entire night trying to break free of the rusty chains that held her to a wooden post in the center of the zombie main tent, and now her wrists and ankles were sore and bleeding. She was dirty, and almost asleep. Mor thought that she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and while alive he'd have been nervous to approach her, even at the height of his NFL career.

He had difficulty keeping the Immortals away; to all of them, she seemed a particularly tasty snack.

But he knew the power of a hostage, especially a pretty one with family connections.
 
Jane Buzzdriver of course knew all about the go bags and the Wonderbras, after all, she had helped Lazlo pick them out. While Lazlo sipped his coffee, she regarded him from the other side of the kitchen table. There was no way in the world she could ever fit into a 36A again, not unless the 'muffintops' look returned to style anyway. As she shifted the torques in her skimpy halter top, Lazlo smiled. He loved Jane. He loved her because she knew he would never leave her for Autumn if he ever did find her again. And so Jane loved Lazlo and aided him in what she teased him as 'the perky quest.'
 
The Special Forces Unit was busier than usual. Shawn Nuthall and his elite crew were busy modifying another guitar for Carlos Santana. It was a mod they had performed before on many of Carlos' other cherished axes. The tricky part was getting the sighting mechanism hidden into the top perfling that was the Santana model trademark. Without a good sighting mechanism, the integrated semi-auto .50 BMG barrel and action from a cannibalized Barrett would be just that much harder to aim. Not that Carlos needed to aim anymore as he usually fired from the hip while doing a signature max feedback bend. But Carlos was a stickler that anyone should be able to pick up one of his off-stage guitars in an emergency and use it with precision, so the sighting mechanism had to be there.

Notably, the Santana SE models had had .338 Winchester Magnums installed in them from the beginning. Carlos insisted that the student edition of his guitars made by PRS be all that they could be and never hold back the budding guitar player.
 
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