I'm Hard on my G-Strings

Before I start, let me clarify:

I don't wear man thongs. Though I'm sure that I would be a smoking hot piece of sexy manhood if I did. It's just that even the thought of something wedged between my butt cheeks makes me squirm a bit. I couldn't imagine doing it for thirty seconds, never mind for a whole day.

So where was I?

Right. G-strings.

Since I've eliminated the male lingerie factor, I can only be talking musically.

See, after a month or so of guitar lessons, I've decided that I wanted my own guitar. However, last week, attempting to tune my guitar as I was taught, I managed to break the G-string.

THREE times.

It makes a sound so loud and awful I can't describe it. And it surprises you almost to the point of filling your drawers. And it makes you say a really bad word. Every time.

Luckily, I had my friend Matte to get me to the point that I discovered where I was going wrong. Thanks Matte. But I wish you were there two strings earlier. And what the hell's up with that 'E' in your name anyway?

...

So, I suppose, now that I won't be so hard on my *musical* G strings, the only way that I can keep up my reputation is to head down to "Night Magic", buy a "Cuban Constrictor", and then head to the grocery store to pick up a big bottle of Salsa.

That combination, I expect, would be pretty hard on the G strings.