Nothing Rhymes with Mangina

I feel as though we should make a few changes in the band, if we want to "make it".

We may have the "master action", but we don't have the "master plan"...or the right kind of equipment to create a black hole of reverb so large that its gravitational pull could rip the anus out of The Edge and spit it back onto Bono's face, splattering into a perfect portrait of Kierkegaard making love by the river Sienne with Nietzsche...poetically, of course. Poetically.

I think we need a street team.

Kiss My Absinthe,
Medula Maglongata