GUITAR CONTEST PART II Jackson V Closed to Further Entries

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Hello Again Community!

The same rules other than the contest dates and selection process apply to this contest that applied to the Jackson Kelly Contest which can be found here:
https://www.rig-talk.com/forum/threads/free-pedal-winner-announced.265300/page-3#post-3128125This contest will run until Sunday, April 30, 2023 and the winner will be announced on or by May 5, 2023.
I will be conferring with the mods to select the winner of this contest.
If need be we will each choose our favorite and have the community vote if we cannot come to an agreement on the winner.


This time around I have up my Limited AMS 1997 FujiGen built Jackson Randy Rhoads V based off of Randy Rhoads prototype concorde #2 in black and gold. The case is not included. This guitar is very rare in this finish combination with (iirc) only 25 built for American Musical Supply. I have not seen this overall finish combination on any other production model. So, if you would like a chance to win this lovely V then tell us all in a short story about a completely made up event of the time you hung out with your musical idol or guitar hero. Funny, sad, or extreme, just have fun with it. Doesn't even have to relate to the music if you don't want. Remember your story has to be made up, so don't waste your entry on an autograph experience you once had. The more interesting the better. Impress us with your story telling skills and you may well win! GL to y'all!

❤️Lisa

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I will update with guitar specs soon.
 
I posted this story before...

when I was a kid, my guitar teacher worked at the store, Brian's Guitars in New Haven, CT. The day I was there looking at guitars, Paul Stanley showed up at the store. My guitar teacher introduced me to Paul, and I played part of Hotter than Hell; Paul asked for the guitar, and showed me how to play it right.

The encounter with Paul was brief, probably around 3 minutes. My recollection after all these years: he wasn't mean or "nice", he wasn't arrogant or a dick, but I got the impression he was in a hurry to get his business done, and was a little miffed that my guitar teacher interrupted him to introduce him to me, I had what was to be my new LP sitting there, and that's when I did the HtH riff, and he asked to see my guitar, and showed me the riff, handed the guitar back. He picked out a few guitars, I recall Brian (the owner) asking "do you want these shipped to the usual place?" or something like that, then he was out the door.

edit: this was in '78, because I got a new '78 Les Paul Custom, black with gold hardware that day, which was the guitar I was playing.
 
Surfing in SoCal…mid/late 80’s.
See this young lady struggling outside (she had no business being outside)
I Paddle over, extend my board and log her in to shore. Super greatful, she pays me reward moneys. It was Brooke Shields of all people.

I blew the entire wad hiring Van Halen to play a birthday bash…
Ed was cool. For a little guy, could crush the liquid bread.
 
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He was a consummate performer. Amusing generations of guitarists with his boomer bends, and wew-diddlys, and sticking pike in underage groupies vaginas.

And it so happened, on that night, I stood next to the great Jimmy Page at the annual Grove meeting/Sacrifice to Moloch.

"Man, the chord work in 'Rain Song' has really stuck with me over the years," I interjected awkwardly, as the keening wail of the condemned baby could be overheard amongst the chants of the hooded ritualists.

"Oi Bruv'na, wotcher cheerio socialism you got a LOICENSE for that?"

I had miscalculated. I don't speak fog breather. Perhaps, I could fake it.

"Innit...." I ventured, "pillock codswallop beans for breakfast."

The infant blood dripped down the legendary Zeppelin guitarists chin, as he processed my broken approximation of misgendering people on Twitter being illegal.

"Bollocks, right then!" Jimmy was feeling the affects of the adrenochrome. In the background, I could hear Hillary Clinton cackling maniacally - she always enjoyed a good blood orgy.

Afterwards, Jimmy Page gave me his personal HiWatt DR103. It still smells like baby blood, but Baal willing, someday I'll be able to give it the business, just like him.
 
True story.

About 10 years ago I was at Bucee's in Luling Texas getting gas and a 44oz Mountain Dew, for the road.

So there' I am at pump #7 gassing up the truck, and a black SUV parks right in front of the store. 3 dudes get out of each door, and then one diminutive little guy gets out of one of the back seat after everyone else had exited the vehicle.

I look, and this dude is dressed up to look like Billy Gibbons.

I'm thinking, what a clown ! Who does that ?

..then I realize.. it's Billy Gibbons. He owns a ranch nearby.

So, I'm in Bucee's getting my Mountain Dew and some beef jerky, and lo-and-behold there's Billy fucking Gibbons topping off a Mountain Dew at the drink fountain. Now, I don't wanna be "that guy".. you know, the one that acts all star-struck and asks for an autograph and all that..

I'm just standing there, waiting beside him to get some soda..

So, Billy keeps tappin' that drink dispenser tryna top off his 44oz cup.. going like 'psst.. psst.. psst..' and Mountain Dew is starting to spill over the edge of the styrofoam cup and all onto his hand..

So, without really thinking about it, I go, "Whoa brother, save some for the rest of us !"

He looks over at me, and in this gravelly voice he says, "This has gotta last me all the way to La Grange."

:cool:
 
"Left, LEFT UP AHEAD!" forgetting Ludwig was deaf for a moment. Debris from the bullet impacts explode hard across my face, though I don't even feel it as the adrenaline holds me together. I nudge him with my right foot and motion to the left, but it's too late. We enter the warehouse district running low on fuel and and plasma. I unsheathe my knife slowly with the glimmer of blood on my face shining back at me from it's reflection. As I poured the white powder cross the blade as if it were free, I knew this was it.

"Funk!" I let out as the pothole in the road sends it flying everywhere like Christmas snow. I check my ammo; low. "Down to three rounds," I mutter as Beethoven proceeds to rabidly lick and inhale the fine Columbian mixed with the vomit left over from the previous night's partying. He had run out long ago.Not just ammo, but his mind. "We need to take out these motherfunking clowns," I say as if anyone is listening. "Pull up here," I motion to his bloodshot eyes, more red than the blood dripping from my lower lip.

Before the car could come to a stop I jumped out, feeling invincible. A roll or two and then immediately halted by the lamp post. My ribs. "This is funked. We are funked," as my feelings of godliness soon wane. Beethoven rushes to my side lifting me by my torso, unaware of the agony. I bite him in a primal response to the pain rushing through my body. He drops me back to the ground while letting out the loudest silent scream in history.

"Surrounded," I think to myself as the gang of Juggalo Clowns approach with hatchets and waterguns in hand. I line up one of those ICP loving son of a bitch cannibals with my sights. "Kisses," I exclaim while squeezing the trigger. Before he could hit the ground, the scent of his blood had claimed the clown beserkers senses as they proceeded to dine on his corpse. The moment we needed to escape.

"Ludwig!" I yell loud enough for him to feel my words. "This isn't a buffet," I say to his confused and bloodshot eyes as he attempts to join in on the human feast. I motion to run. Each step hurting more than the last I could only wonder to myself if I had forgotten to set the dryer on tumble back at home. "Those garments were expensive," I say again to no one listening. "Here," he mumbles strangely in English. As if luck were on our side for the first time tonight, it's unlocked. We proceed into the dark warehouse immediately seeking defensive positions. Quiet, but with violence in the emptiness of sound.

"Two rounds left," I eye with what little I could see through my blood soaked cornea. The door flies open with crowded zombie clown lunatics filling the entrance as if the tickets were free to the show about to unfold. I line up three of those scumbags and squeeze my spare hoping it would entice distraction. My aim was true, but only if to give away our position. As the lights came on I knew this was to be my final sunrise. "Helium factory?" as I shake my head to Ludwig in disappointment of our last stand.

Hundreds, if not billions of Juggalos surrounded us. I looked around the room to gauge a way out of this mess, and saw none. My last words, I think. "I'm sorry that I said ICP sucks" I tell them completely empty of truth. "Really? Are you really sorry?" one of the heavier fellows asks me in true inquisition. "Funk no, ICP sucks" I say to their clown tattooed faces while raising my weapon one last time. Despite science saying otherwise, the explosions from the helium tanks could be eyed from space.

"And that's how babies are made," finishing the story to my son Reznor while tucking him in tight for the evening. "Mommy, are Juggalos real?" he asks. "Of course they're real, and if you don't go to sleep they're coming to eat you," I respond with love while closing his door for the night. Moments later a knock at the door as if perfect metronome. "It's just Ludwig," my husband exclaims as I set the dryer to tumble. "Be home by dawn," I tell my love with a soft kiss to his lips.
 
I really felt that this would be a bit more popular. No one else looking to win the RR V?
 
Marty Friedman tour in 2015.

He had just got off the bus.

He made a bee line for the restroom.

I chased after him.

He ran in, door closed and locked, noises ensue.

All I could think of was, I wanna shake his hand so maybe some of the magic will rub off.

He did shake my hand after he came out, but it was wet, and that little wet water is all I got from that exchange.
 
I worked in a tattoo studio bout 20 years ago. Vanilla Ice walks in and gets a tattoo. Random, I know. He gives me backstage tickets to his "concert" in Dallas. I'm not a fan. But I figure, shit. Guy probably knows how to party. Fuckin A right he did. I showed up late for the concert, because lets be honest, I'm not there for the music. Did a few lines before and accidentally had a good time for the little of the show I saw. Had a few beers at the same time. Ended up being in quite the jubilant mood going backstage.
I just had the right attitude at the right time. The right amount of drugs and alcohol to get started. The party could have been for me. I get back there and there are naked women and men doing lines off of them. I obviously partook.

There were way too many women back there, I'm sure by design. I am no fuck machine, but I gave it hell. Then did some more drugs, drank, and fucked some more. I think possibly Iceman forgot he invited me. Doubt he cared one way or another, but I was feeling pretty grateful.

I am walking down the hallway feeling dubious, wondering what kind of shit I will get into next. Just happen to look to my left and the scene before me has me a little fucking confused. I walk in and there is an otherwise pretty sexy bitch in 6" stillettos taking a shit on a glass cofee table. Vanilla Ice is under the table jacking off. Aparently, he had made her swallow a lot of peanuts whole and wanted to see if they came out in the shit.

I start laughing pretty good, and she turns really quick to look at me. Her left stilleto breaks through the table which shatters, and damn thing scrapes his throat. The way he screams, you would think the end was nigh. Honestly, I was a little worried for the guy. He was screaming, and comes and grabs me and tells me the bitch killed him. Said the glass had cut his throat. There wasn't any blood really, so i was pretty sure he was ok, but i was trying to avoid getting her shit all over me, so I was kinda trying to back up.

To this day, I don't think I will ever be able to forget the fear in his eyes as he looked pleadingly for me to come up with some miracle. But if you are out there, bud. I appreciate the invite. That was some crazy shit. And i have been to some crazy parties.
 
So my daughters and I walked down the road to the lake to feed the fish cereal, as we do many weekend mornings. When we got to the boat launch we set down our backpack and I asked the youngest to grab the bag of Cheerios.

“Cheerios!” She happily exclaimed

“Cheerio to you” said an older British voice behind us.

We turned around to see who it was and much to my surprise it was Ringo Starr!!

“Mr Starr, what are you doing in the Berkshires?” I asked.

“Please, call me Ringo” he said with a smile as he reached out to shake my hand. “I’m here to check out the new Alpaca clothing store that just opened up on Main Street”.

My girls asked if he would like to hang out with us for a bit while we fed the fish. Always the gentleman, he graciously took a few moments to sit with us and made some small talk.

“Do you know what we call cheerios in England?” he asked us

After sensing our blank stairs he says “…Cheerios” with a hardy belly laugh.

A few minutes later he politely excused himself as he wanted to get back to shopping.

I asked if we could take a picture with him quickly before he left, which he happily obliged too. So we took a picture with the beautiful lake as a background, just like we do every trip to the lake, sans a rock and roll legend.

Later at home I was sat on the couch to look through the photos from the day, still slightly in shock from meeting a celebrity. Playing around with the picture I zoomed in on our faces and I noticed something strange in the reflection of his famous round sunglasses. It was what appeared to be a man in a thicket of trees, staring at us from the shoreline.

“Creepy” I thought to myself. But figured it was business with usual for someone as famous as Ringo. With that I was off to bed, as I had a busy day at work tomorrow.


The next day I arrived at work, eager to tell all of my friends about meeting Ringo Starr! I sat down for coffee and before I could get a word out someone asked me “Dude, did you hear about Ringo Starr?!”

“Yea!” I said excitedly. “I heard he was in town this weekend.” still smirking.

“Uh yea” he replied with a stern look on his face. “He was kidnapped in town this weekend!”

“What do you mean he was kidnapped?” I asked in shock. “He was hanging out with us at the lake.”

At that moment I remembered the photos I took, and the creepy man reflection in Ringo’s glasses. I showed to photo to my friends and one responded “hey that looks like Skipper.”

“Skipper?” We asked

“Yea, Skipper Jenkins. The owner of the new alpaca clothing store on Main Street.

“Ringo said he was in town to shop there!” I said.

“I know where Skipper lives” someone chimed in. “Let’s get over there and save Ringo!”

So we all hopped in my Jeep and headed south towards the alpaca farm.

We arrived to find the gate locked, so we hopped back out of the Jeep, and started walking slowly towards the barn. “God these things smell” I thought to myself. The smell got stronger as we walked further up the hill until we reached the crest and saw the back door of the barn.

“There” I said as I pointed to the door. “Let’s try and sneak in the back.

We reached the door and slowly lifted the latch to open it. “This way” I motioned to everyone else.

Not 2 steps through the door we were greeted by 3 angry alpacas. “God they are ugly up close” I thought to myself. I turned around to the rest of the guys and asked what we should do next.

They were frozen with fear. The alpacas drew closer as my life flashed before my eyes. I thought about my family and all the good times we had at the lake, and that’s when it hit me; I still had cheerios in pocket from the day before.

“Cheerios!” I exclaimed.

“Cheerios??” Asked everyone else

“Cheerio to you too” I heard from a distant corner of the barn

“Ringo!” I screamed. “We are coming for you!”

I chucked the cheerios at the alpacas. Confused at first, they soon realized they might be good to eat. Moments later they were laying on the ground, snacking away. More importantly, completely oblivious to us walking past them.

We reached Ringo. Freed him from his alpaca haired restraints and made a swift escape. When we reached my Jeep again on the outskirts of the farm we finally stopped to catch our breath.

“How did you find me?” Ringo asked

I lowered my sunglasses, looked at group and said:
“With a little help from my friends”

The end
 
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I met Eddie Van Halen in the mid 1970's at a music store in CA. He was playing some guitars, so I picked up one and started to play. He came over and asked me to show him what I was playing. I thought nothing of it. A few years later I saw the first VH album in the store and bought it. Low and behold.... the second song on the album was the song I was showing Eddie how to play. He named the song "Eruption".... I wish I never showed him those licks. :mad:
 
Smashedguitaris⸸ said:
I disagree. While disgusting, It is a very sensual act...i cant pretend. You are correct. You dont want to know. I would hope the blumpkin has never occurred
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Then should I just categorize this with goatsie and move on?
 
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