Let me be open and honest with you, TMT reader. A couple days ago, I played spin the bottle with the news section. What felt like a semi-slow news week in the music world needed some hot, steamin' action. I may have crossed some sort of journalistic line, but at the moment, I thought the "line" was just a sexual object waiting to be trampled.

First off, I wrote down ten pending new articles yet to be written on to ten multi-colored note cards. I pricked my finger with a dragon letter opener and wrote the headlines in my own blood. I then took a 45-minute shower until every inch of my body felt and looked like Grandpa Gene's testicles.

I then drank an expensive bottle of Chateau d'Yquem and placed the empty bottle next to my feet, as I laid out the ten note cards in a circle around me. I spun the bottle, and it landed on this news article that you're reading now. No, I don't mean an article about me finding a news article to write. That would make no sense. It was fate that I happened to be holding the card in my hand that read "Konono No°1 Release Live CD."

I started to stroke the note card like a kitten and began to lightly purr into the note card's ear. I gave the note card about four Jägerbombs, and it started to tell me all about the Konono No°1 album. According to the note card, the DIY group from Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo are releasing a live, eight-track mini-album called Live at Couleur Café August 27 in Europe and September 11 in the U.S. The note card also said that, with never-before heard material recorded at Brussels' popular Couleur Café festival and production by Vincent Kenis, no one should be disappointed.

We both agreed that we enjoy Konono No°1 immensely and that we are both anxious to buy the album. It was around that time when things got intense.

The next morning, as I awoke naked and throbbing, I realized I had a drunken, fantasized sexual encounter with a note card. A few days had passed, and I built up the strength to write this all-too-revealing news story. However, last night when I went into my bedroom to sleep next to my wife, the note card was laying on my pillow with a gigantic hole in it. I awoke my wife and confessed the whole story to her.

Emceegreg has learned to leave the experimentation up to the musicians and not the writers who write about them.

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