He offered the guitar to me like it was a giant fudgesicle. "I got it in a deal with Satan," he said. He was short, fat and all his visible skin was covered with badly drawn tattoos: flames, skulls, devils, you know, generic wicked. I laughed. "I don't know what you gave him for it, but apparently Satan only had to cough up a $50 piece of crap from Kmart." How is it these idiots make so many deals with Satan? Why don't they hit up St. Joseph or Raphael or somebody like that? Casper the Friendly Ghost would come up with a better guitar than this. It was pink, I swear. Barbie pink. Mary Kay pink. Hannah Montana pink. The kind of pink you'd see on the diseased toenails of a cheap cheap hooker. "It's pink," I said and my lip curled in perfect disdain. I walked away. It you go guitar hunting, beware the old pat "Got it from Satan," story. Satan doesn't make guitars and if you believe he does you're probably already signed up in his minion book. Pink? Give me a break.