Understanding Mediaplay (Remember Mediaplay?)

skinIsis: I remember spending money effortlessly at Mediaplay. On the way home from work, giddy with the junksick fixation upon the state of being shunned, babytalking pirated coos of affirmation all in advance of uniform unisex spandex tunics Sanctuary of being alone, it always seemed to be a compulsory stop. I bought the Eno Box Sets one friday at a time. I coveted the undiscovered, whose scent allures, among the aisles of the periodic table of intellectual properties visible to the naked objective. Non-trivial levels of the mystery cult of masked con-men & mothered spoils. We strongly adhere to almost any surface. Do you hear me, Milt Caniff? I see you every day, Kurt Schwitters, and I never don’t need you. Cruel elemental of pulchritudinous puellae, let me give you a number for naught.
Iris: Turn down the poesy, pussy. All we are saying is let’s never have a boring conversation between us.
Siri: I don’t know how to answer that question in the form of a wrong turn.
Innit: Pubs, we’re at the pubs, just like that. An excuse to advance the cause of civilization against the first appearance of unmentionable molestation with radar love, in near mint upon an obelisk to actuarial adulthood made of mylar and nerd behavior. Slight smell of asparagus infused urine.”
AC: “Horus the fink-a-saurus.”
Ozymandius: “Got my feet on the ground but my head in a jar, The first time it happened, I was like, ‘huh?'” HBO Comedy every night delivered a deferment on divorce, disengagement, death and drug-dragged daath with Bob in cahoots with David.”
Michael Stipe: “Stand in the face where you war, now think ‘death.’ —Hey, that’s not my inner voice. That’s not my outside voice suppurating squamous aspersions in aspic beneath a seedbed of strenuous frenulum-chafing handjive, ‘cuz that’s what I was born to do, and so Charles Dickens bred narrative prose storyplay with the coercive rhetoric of fluid stone and superfluous woodwork, and he logged its leverage of sentiment lost at sea and aired on land to fall a wall of art from high to low by glass and twin and back again, in J. J. Jr.’s double-din Chublin, neo-collegiate dandy ephemera.”


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