I know this is an old post, but I'd just like to say that if you're playing a five-string banjo with a pick, it doesn't matter what you run it through.

Go to a Bella Fleck concert. He'll take your breath away.

And...
How many lead guitar players does it take to change a lightbulb?
Just one. He holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.



A man fell off a cruise ship and washed ashore on a tropical island. He awoke to a crowd of friendly natives surrounding him who, for puposes of the joke, spoke perfect English.

He told them how grateful he was, and as they took him to see the chief, he noticed drums playing from the jungle.

"What are the drums for?" he asked. The natives stopped cold, and one somberly told him, "We don't talk about he drums. When the drums stop, the bad thing happens." And none of the natives would say another word.

So when he got to the chief's hut, he asked him the same thing. The chief, until them a cheerful and jolly sort, looked at him shocked. "Never say anything about the drums," he whispered. "When the drums stop, the bad thing happens." And he wouldn't say another word.

The man's time on the island was peaceful enough, but he found himself getting more and more obsessed with the drums. He would lie awake at night, listening for the drums to stop, scared to death of what the bad thing might be.
Eventually, nothing else mattered to him. Morning, noon and night. He couldn't eat or sleep, or even think, from the constant terror of not knowing what bad thing would happen if the drum stopped. Had they stopped before? They must have, if the natives know about the bad thing. What would he do if they stopped now? How could he protect himself if he didn't know what might happen?

Finally one twilight, he could take it no longer. He crawled into the chief's hut, and on his hands and knees he sobbed, "Please, please tell me what what happens when the drums stop. What's the bad thing?"
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"Bass solo."