Friday, June 21, 2024
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Final plea from one of Netflix's abandoned DVDs

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i have seen democracy Decay, wars begin and end, convertible cargo pant-shorts rise and fall, and children are conceived away from me—while I pass unnoticed. As people looked at me, I caught them counting me, or snoring, or muttering to loved ones, “What are we looking at?” or “I’m sorry, but Kevin Costner is absurdly hot in this.”

I’ve spent most of my life in a cold warehouse, patiently waiting to find love, but I’ve been everywhere. I have been raised by children. I spent two months in 2003 living under an empty box of Papa John’s in a flophouse in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. On a Saturday in October 1999, a family of eight in Billings, Montana, visited me four times in a row. He neither ate food nor went to the bathroom. It was weird, but it was the best day of my life. I am a digital versatile disc, a copy of 1997’s post-apocalyptic flop postman (8 percent on Rotten Tomatoes). I’m a proud soldier in the ranks of Netflix, and I’m about to die.

On April 18, Netflix announced that it was ending its DVD-by-mail subscription service after 25 years. I’m sorry, Ted Sarandos, my master, savior and undertaker, but this is dogma. You’re leaving out your most loyal customers. You are leaving the core of your company. You are leaving out moviegoers and citizens living off the grid. You are leaving one of the last vestiges of a more connected, curious, human world.

Remember Revolution, Ted? remember when i and flicker And fifth element And That is all and carrot tops chairman of the board Joined forces with the USPS, those high-socked hit men, and we launched an all-out blitzkrieg that won over the hearts and minds of American families and slaughtered VHS, Hollywood videos, and blockbusters? Excitement, wildness!

Recall the writhing of ecstasy on the faces of countless weary parents when, while sifting through AT&T and insurance bills, they laid eyes on our red envelopes—the symbol of our bloodlust—and that meant joy. they had an evening ahead Agent Cody Banks And snow dogs And shark boy and lava girl, Remember when the cover art for romcom DVDs in the early 2000s promised 93 minutes of “outrageously sexy fun”? Remember the menu screen, attractive bonus features, such as an exclusive interview fugitive jury foley artist, or sizzling photo gallery for featurette girl next door, Remember the clicks and whirls and beeps of the machine that reminded the customer they were in control, filling out the order form with their hands and loading the glory of entertainment with their bodies? Remember we were the future?

Remember what we sacrificed for your millions, Ted, for your company’s billions? Remember the pools of sweat by moody 15-year-olds watching on a portable DVD player on their way to the Ford Windstar? Remember how many times we’ve been taken out and tossed like frisbees? Remember those scratches and smudges of pepperoni saliva that got on us when we weren’t loading up? I’m proud of these scars. They remind us of our victories. They are a reminder of what the created world can bring.