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     Having zero luck in the music industry I decided to raffle off my guitar riffs at an auction house. They called it a Riff Raffle. A half-dozen jerks who still clung to my miserable career showed up. Also mixed into the crowd were some local burnouts, junior high guitar students, and Rock legend Dave Grohl was there on pure coincidence. He lived near the building and was looking to bid on a eucalyptus tree.

     The auctioneer positioned herself behind the podium and announced my name. I wheeled a scuffed-up pelican case onto the stage and popped it open, revealing the last vestiges of my misspent youth. It contained those guitars most responsible for injuring my self-esteem like Wally the Washburn who gave me a freak electrical burn to the ring finger, causing my divorce. Then there was B.C. Richard the Second who I was forced to lock away in a castle so he could no longer betray me.

     I resentfully grabbed Repeat O’Fender and strapped him over my shoulder for what would certainly be the last time. Although I wasn’t auctioning off the guitars themselves I knew within the bassiest vibrato of my heart that I would never again lay another finger across their backstabbing fretboards. Not after today. All those years I’d wasted envisioning dreams of fortune and fame and redheaded groupies were illusions, betrayals even, from the cunning wit of deceitful guitars who knew just how to string me along. Now I understand it was the guitars who were actually playing me.

     With my treacherous amplifier fired-up and the auctioneer standing at the ready, I laid into the first riff I ever wrote. It came from this love-ballad thing about my high school sweetheart, Heather, who never really liked it anyway. Probably because I called the song ‘Meghan.’ Beginner’s mistake. The riff was twelve bars in length and relied on an interval change around the C-major power chord. Having to play it for the zillionth time felt more like a C-major pain the ass. Afterward, the bidding began when a few hands shot up in the air, mostly from high school guys who needed new ideas to help impress the chicks. Typical, I thought, but if I manage to bank a couple of bucks off of their stupid hormones, fine. The winner was this kid named Gordon who, by the looks of him, needed all the help he could get. I was okay with watching the ugly boy take the riff home. To help speed-up this whole ordeal I even threw in a foot pedal. My loss was his gain/reverb toggle switch.

     The next piece of exhausting audio to hit the auction floor was a lightning-fast solo that I’d once worked on for six months. It was supposed to be the jewel piece for this one song I was foolish enough to believe would top the Billboard charts, but it never actually saw the inside of a recording studio. Before I even had the chance to record the stupid lick I was blasted with a wave of amnesia and forgot how to play it. Until now, that is. I just don’t get how average dopey people seem to get music stuck in their heads because music always gets lost in mine. Sometimes it’ll be five years between when my mind creates a riff and when my fingers get around to actually playing it. It’s like my brain just doesn’t give a shit.

     The auction excruciatingly rambled ahead as I unloaded every single piece of useless guitar virtuosity that I couldn’t stand to strum through anymore. With each sale, the riffs were gladly erased from my memory and transferred into the buyers. Every slide, every tremolo, every hammer-on. By the time I left the stage it was my hope that I wouldn’t even have the slightest clue as to how ‘Smoke On The Water’ goes. I'd be happier wearing oven mitts for the rest of my life for all I cared. I mean, if I could give my hands the finger I would.

     My final riff was this stupid chugging thing that I couldn’t even remember having written. It was something I must’ve been toying around with that never actually made it into a song. And now it never would, thank Jesus. I'd only gotten halfway through the melody when I was interrupted mid-riff by Dave Grohl. He rose up from his chair, picked up his chair, and launched his chair at my head. I didn’t have to wonder what he thought of the tune. I knew where he sat. But then he started haranguing me about how I'd ripped-off that riff from Black Sabbath. I informed that tonedeaf jerk that he sounded paranoid. He accused me of stealing paranoid, which didn’t make any sense.

     Because I was forever done playing the stupid guitar I figured that my hands could be put to better use across Dave Grohl’s face. Call me a riff stealer, will you? Let me help you occupy your brain. Oh yeah! He responded in kind by rhythmically bashing my skull. His timing was incredible. Like clockwork. Meanwhile, the auctioneer kept herself crouched behind the podium and called the action: “I’ve got a single punch from the gentlemen wearing green. Can I get a one-two combo? One-two combo, anyone?” That’s when Dave Grohl really started jawing at me. He said that I had no chance of connecting with a knockout blow. The way I fought wasn't good enough to score a one-hit-wonder. Then he unloaded every single hit in his arsenal. For someone who was supposed to be a punk he really strung together a ton of great hits. The guy fought with more foo than you could believe.

     The auctioneer called the fight for Dave Grohl. When no one was looking I stole the eucalyptus tree, left the auction house, and went to the hospital. He said both of my hands were severely mangled beyond repair. I thanked him for the good news.