Buying guitars must hyperactivate your kidneys. I was making really good time home in the truck, but nature's call had progressed from a gentle urgency to "if I don't find a bathroom real soon, I'm going to blow bladder all over the dashboard." I stopped at a UDF and scurried inside. After I had taken care of the situation, I grabbed 2 jerkies and a Stuarts Cream Soda. The girl behind the counter flashed a smile showing teeth that could only be called teeth in the most polite sense. "I see you buy guitars." She motioned at my truck. "Yes." I was trying not to look at her mole. She had a mole on her chin that looked like Abe Vigoda's nose, only in HO scale. "I don't have a guitar, but I have a case for one." She gave me my change. "No market for cases. Sorry." I smiled and hoped the charm I exuded didn't pass for flirtation. "It's monkey skin," she said. "I keep it here. Mom says it's creepy and she doesn't want it in the house. My boss lets me keep it in the back by the dog food. She had me at 'monkey skin'. "May I see it?" She disappeared through 2 banged up aluminum doors and reappeared before they even stopped swinging. She plopped it on the counter. Yikes! This was the most grotesque guitar case I'd ever seen. "My Uncle Donny skinned a big monkey that he found dead in his swimming pool. He made it into a gig bag for his electric guitar. See?" She pointed to a raised area. "I think that's his nipple." No knowing about the legality of owning such a thing, I passed. But I can give you the address if you're interested.