Why is my sordid earlid meltinggggggg open to these shaggy carpet sounds of syntholins that I don’t even enjoy because I ain’t not a soft nerd and I wasn’t aware that the genre of exotica was a past fetish of popposers and now I’m thinking what kitsch trash recycling do I do with these styles the next time I open my recordo machines. It all started with the birthday of this Yma Sumac lady who I ain’t never heard of but she can sing from Fred Flintsone all the way up to a Csárdás whistle bird, she even freaks past Ariana and now this strange fragrance of, it’s like falling asleep in a tent by the ocean made of thatched palm leaves and coconut sticks, inside your mojiktail with a Squidward valium daydream, I’m stuck in a schmekmocolor movie that has a languid plot and guys with their hands in their suit pockets and women with their hair all updeedoopdeedood in winkly curls. Take your tiki pick you central african american polynesian candlestick with an oyster island beeswax wick. Anyways this is interesting even if unfulfilling for some reason. Les Baxter Stan Kenton Martin Denny, I’m too northified to know who these weirdos are but I can’t tell orange from blue in these soundtracks, because that’s what they are soundtracks with some ok I’m passed out underneath a small paper umbrella on an ice cube.
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