I have seen democracy decline, wars begin and end, cargo shorts can be adjusted up and down, and babies are born a few feet away—while I sit unnoticed. When people follow me, I’ve heard them call me “son of a bitch” so many times that I can’t count, or snore, or mutter to their loved ones, “We’re watching the hell What’s up?” or “I’m sorry, but Kevin Costner is super hot in this area.”
I spent most of my life in a cold barn, patiently waiting to be loved, but I was everywhere. I was licked by a toddler. I spent two months in 2003 under an empty Papa John’s box in a motel in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. On a Saturday in October 1999, a family of eight in Billings, Montana, followed me four times. They don’t even eat or go to the bathroom. It’s weird, but it was the best day of my life. I’m a digital all-in-one, a failed copy after the 1997 apocalypse The postman (8% on Rotten Tomatoes). I am a proud soldier in Netflixmy ratings, and I’m dying.
On April 18, Netflix announced that after 25 years, it would end its DVD-by-mail subscription service. I’m sorry, Ted Sarandos, my lord, savior and undertaker, but this is bullshit. You are abandoning your most loyal customers. You are giving up your company’s roots. You are abandoning movie buffs and off-grid citizens. You are giving up one of the last vestiges of a more connected, curious, and humane world.
Remember the Revolution, Ted? Remember when I and liquid And Fifth element And She is everything and Carrot Top’s chairman of the board joined forces with the USPS, those notorious assassins, and we launched an all-out flash attack that captured the hearts and minds of American families and decimated VHS, Hollywood Video, and Blockbuster ? The excitement, the barbarism!
Remember the ecstasy written on the faces of countless exhausted parents when, sifting through insurance and AT&T bills, they noticed our red envelope—symbol of bloodlust ours—and that means a happy evening ahead of them in the form of Bank agent Cody And snow dog And Shark Boy And Lava Girl? Remember when the cover art of every DVD romcom in the early 2000s promised 93 minutes of “extremely sexy fun”? Remember the menu screen, hot bonus features, like an exclusive interview with The judges run away Foley artist, or hot photo collection for Neighbor girl? Remember the clicks, hums, and beeps of machines reminding customers that they’re in control, they’ve manually filled out order forms and are loading up their bodies with great entertainment? Remember we are the future?
Remember what we sacrificed for your millions of dollars, Ted, your company’s billions of dollars? Remember the puddles of sweat trickling down on us by moody 15-year-olds watching on portable DVD players on their way back to Ford Windstar? Remember the number of times we were ejected and thrown like Frisbees? Remember the scratches and splatters the spicy sausage hit us when we weren’t loading? I am proud of these scars. They are reminders of our conquest. They are reminders of what the created world can offer.
