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Netflix, Why Have You Forsaken Me

I canceled my cable a while back.  When I was sharing the apartment with two and at one point three other people, that would have been out of the question.  We couldn’t live without it. 

actually, I wouldn’t mind watching this

Cartoons reigned supreme in our house with Family Guy up at the top.  There was also a Seinfeld addict (or aficionado as he may prefer to be called) so the handful of hours a day that was on was necessary to keep him calm. 

I could give a shit about sports but the guys I lived with were heavy into baseball, one a diehard Yanks fan while the other inexplicably bet his life on the Tigers year after year.  But these were sports dudes, they didn’t give a shit if it was baseball, football, hockey or jai alai.  That meant hours a day were devoted to Sports Center. 

Cable was a big deal back then.  We needed it.  Then those d-bags moved out, one with his girlfriend and the other to get a girlfriend—which story for another time, but I’ll probably never tell it, because it’s really none of your damn business.

Point is—they moved out and now I had to pay this cable bill myself.  It probably wouldn’t have been that bad but I never returned the second hi-def cable box, so that was an extra whatever a month to deal with. 

I’m not a fan of paying bills to begin with, so it wasn’t worth the ninety bucks or whatever I was paying just to watch the new SyFy abomination.

just watching the TV on my Netflix machine

I just finished watching Surface, which was a good show but only lasted one season.  A lot of shows now almost expect to be canceled, so the days of cliffhanger season finales seem to be all but over.  They wrap things up enough to give some measure of closure to the show at the end of the season, but leave just the tip when it comes to room for continuing the story.  They build and build and ask a hundred questions that need to be answered, and by the end of season one, yeah, they may answer a few of those. 

That’s enough to satisfy the first season, to give a solid finale, but they also leave enough to expand upon if they get renewed.  They don’t, and you’re left with Edwin Drood syndrome. 

Breaks your goddamn heart.

Back on the ranch though, I finished watching Surface, rated it like a good little Netflix bitch and waited for my top ten recommended results.

The problem now is that of the top ten recommended based on that rating and the rest of what I’ve been watching, I’ve seen nine of them.  I’ve watched and rated nine of the top ten shows or movies that Netflix wants me to watch now.  How is that helpful for me?

I’ve watched Angel.. its on at 5am, along with not much else, and after you’ve been up all night, you start to enjoy it. I’m still not watching Buffy.

Really?  You recommend Lost?  Based on my having just watched Lost.  Thanks.

There’s a whole category of named ‘Watch It Again’, why is everything else basically a watch again menu?  I rated this show, I’ve seen it, I don’t need you to recommend it to me.  I have that covered.  The only time you should be recommending me a show that I’ve already watched and rated is when new episodes or seasons are added. 

the power of Christ compels you!

And clicking ‘Not Interested’?  Does that do anything?  I can’t tell, because Netflix, you’re still recommending that shit to me.  How many times do I have to tell you that I am not interested in VeggiTales?  And what in my taste preferences made you think I was to begin with? 

The only VeggieTales I want to see are when they were massacred by Drawn Together along with Captain Hero’s lame friend Steve from Long Island.

Netflix, I think you need to define your animation categories a little better, because my liking Drawn Together and Family Guy does not warrant VeggiTales and My Little Pony getting added to my top ten.

My friend sent me a clip of My Little Pony the other day, some pony singing this song that apparently causes wars.  Maybe that show is darker than I imagined it, but after 5.3 seconds of listening to that song I spent the night hiding behind my couch rocking back and forth. 

That show is creepy.  Tattooed freakishly colored ponies, singing songs—I don’t get it, and I don’t want to.  And I don’t want them recommended to me because I happened to rate another animated show where the fact that both are animated are the only commonality between them.

And just because I rated  a show staring whoever, does not mean I now want to be recommended every single thing that actor has been in.

Remember when I used to search for a movie, but it wasn’t available on streaming and came up with a little ‘add DVDs to your package for whatever’, but I could still rate that movie?  Why can’t I do that anymore? 

Why, if I only have streaming do movies not exist if they’re available only as DVDs?  Before you’d try to sell me on getting DVDs, now you’re messing with my head and saying the movie doesn’t exist at all.

yeah, maybe I should get out more

I feel like I’m a five year old and Netflix is my mom yelling at me that I watch too much TV and need to go play outside. 

“Nope, sorry, you’re out of things to watch, see—everything you could want to watch you’ve already seen.  You have watched all of Netflix, maybe it’s time to do something else.”

Maybe they’re right, maybe I should do something else.  I could go outside, it’s a little sunny out but maybe I’d get used to it.  There’s always that puzzle I started, or I could get to work on that novel, finally finish that up—

                                           —oh, cool!  New episodes of Doctor Who!

 

The Autobiography of Kevin

Chapter 1

Monday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and a baked pork chop that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Genny Cream Ale on the coffee table, and left the nineteen dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible five thousand ninety-seven times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

Tuesday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked chicken that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Miller High Life  on the coffee table, and left the thirteen dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had places to be.

Tonight was Man Night, the weekly gathering of a dozen or so friends in a crowded, disheveled attic, complete with pool table leveled out with coasters, a naked female mannequin, several televisions of debatable working conditions, a deep-fryer and a keg, kept snuggly in a refrigerator of debatable working condition.  A paradise this attic is, a true Eden for the group of young professions interested in drinking, debating the merits of the metric system, making fun of Dyke Lofer, a young man in possession of the honey-pot who frequents the Buffalo Club for no discernable reason whatsoever, and pissing out windows in front of which the aforementioned naked female mannequin was situated.

After I polished off half the keg I decided it was time to go.  The local police had stopped circling the block watching the house about an hour before, so it was safe to leave.

On my way home I stopped at this great sub place and ordered the Philly Cheesesteak, a fourteen inch log of grease sprinkled with meat.  When I got home I sat in my La-Z-Boy and inhaled my sub.  Once I had caught my breath, I farted.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 


Chapter 3

Wednesday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked fish that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under ninety seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Busch Lite  on the coffee table, and left the nine and three-quarters dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible six thousand twenty-eight times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

Thursday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

When I emerged I made a quick, yet well-balanced dinner of instant mashed potatoes, instant stuffing and some kind of vegetable from one of those steamer bags, and piece of baked chicken that had been thawing in a colander in the sink under a steady stream of warm water for the several hours I was pooping.

I inhaled my dinner in just under forty-five seconds while I watched Sports Center, and paused before my now empty plate to catch my breath.  I left my plate and empty cans of Icehouse on the coffee table, and left the twenty-two dishes and bowls I’d used to cook my dinner strewn about the kitchen.  There was no time to clean up, I had stuff to do, people to Facebook chat with, and farts to fart.

Later, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to watch Sports Center for a several hours, despite there being only twenty minutes of actual information.  Perhaps it was the repetition of sports information that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of these several hours I farted an incredible six thousand one hundred and six times, beating my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 5

Friday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

After that I went to work.  Did some stuff there.

When I got home, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.  I had to cut my normal pooping time down today though, after all it was Friday, I had places to be.

I changed from my shirt and tie and my gray pants that may be too tight or may accentuate my bum just for the ladies—you be the judge—and put on my play-clothes so I wouldn’t get yelled at later.  I wore my plaid going-out shirt and rolled the sleeves up in a just-so casual kind of way.  Some people might think that shirt’s a little tight on me, but I think it’s just right.  I’ll let the ladies decide when I’m up on stage later at karaoke with my buddy Dave, totally making “Bye Bye Bye” our bitch.

Then I went out to the bar.  That’s where I drank.  While I was drinking I held a conversation with my former roommate Busse entirely in quotes from The Simpsons, Seinfeld and Family Guy, occasionally referencing the “Danger Zone!” and “meowschwitz” as well.

After we finished all the beer at the bar we left to meet up with Dave and some other cool dudes.  We sang some karaoke.  For our encore, me and my buddy Dave sang “Quit Playing Games with My Heart.”  We totally rocked that shit.

When we left we stopped at Mighty Taco on the way back to my apartment.

Once back home we fueled our sphincters on taco-taco-burritos and polished off the last of the Natty Ice.  Then Busse’s girlfriend called him and he was “in twouble,” since he’d told her he was on his way right home after work, which was eight hours ago, so he had to go home.   When he left I put on this movie, “The Ice Cream Man,” starring Clint Howard in a tour de force performance that was heinously snubbed by those pretentious flamers running the Academy Awards.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

Saturday

 

I woke up this afternoon.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.

I made some coffee.  While it was brewing  I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, while I drank my coffee I struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

Being Saturday and all I spent my day firmly ensconced in my La-Z-Boy watching SyFy Channel original movies.

Around halfway through “Octoyetisaurus vs Giant Squidapus in Cleveland” I had to poop.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

After that I went out to Wegman’s and picked up a sub, the quite tasty and vastly underrated Wegman’s Assorted with ham, turkey and roast beef.  I housed that shit and had a few Beasts, aka Milwaukee’s Best.  Damn right it is.  Then I burped and that bad boy rocked the house.  I thought the TV was going to fall off the wall.  It’s a really nice TV.  Then I farted.

After that, I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand, to continue my SyFy channel marathon.  Perhaps it was the utter stupidity of the movies or the 80s-pop-star/soft-core-porn/chick-fight in “Mega Python vs Gatoroid” that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of the next several hours I farted an incredible six thousand five hundred and thirty-two times, breaking my previous record.

Then I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

Sunday

 

I woke up today.  As I was getting out of bed, I farted.  Then I went to take a shower.  One my way to the bathroom, I farted again.  I was done showering after a minute or two, as I am a notoriously efficient showerer, but stayed in for another ten minutes or so shooting snot-rockets against the wall.

Later, I made coffee, and struck a pose, holding my coffee cup just so in front of me while I watched TV in a manner that said, I have created this, and it is good.  And then I farted.

I was skited, or excited for you lay people.  You see, today was foozball day.

I turned on the TV.  It was still pretty early, only 9am, but I turned on to the Buffalo Bills pre-game show.  Since kickoff wasn’t until 1pm I left the room.  The sink was overflowing with dishes and the trash can had garbage piled up about six and half feet above the rim of the can, but instead I ignored all that nonsense and put a load of laundry in.  three hours or so later I moved that load to the dryer and put another load in the wash so that they’d be ready in four days when I finally went back to retrieve them.  Laundry really takes a long time, I don’t know how my mom would get it all done.

When I came back upstairs, I pooped.  It was heinous.  I refused to turn the fan on in the bathroom, as to pay proper homage to a poop such as that, one must bask in the toxic death that is its aroma.

A  little before one Busse came over with half a case of beer and some tacos.  There was still some Red Dog left so we were pretty well stocked up for the game.

When the game finally started I settled into my La-Z-Boy, beer in hand.  Perhaps it was the repetition of Bills’ turnovers that relaxed my sphincter as over the course of the next several hours I farted an incredible six thousand seven hundred and two times, breaking my previous record.  It’d been a pretty good week for La-Z-Boy farts, I’m hoping I can keep it up and crack 7k next week.  I’m feeling good, the sphincter’s feeling loose.

Then Busse’s girlfriend called.  She was back from yoga or picking up smokes from the Indian reservation or doing something else, and he was nowhere to be found, so he was “in twouble” again.   Since it was a horrible day for the Buffalo Bills anyway, he left.

I flipped channels from one football game to the next and watched ESPN so they could remind me about everything that had happened during the football games I’d watched, then I watched some cartoons.

Around ten  I fell asleep in my chair and started snoring.  I slept through the deafening and raucous chainsaw-like snoring but woke up when I farted.  I was afraid I may have pooped myself.  False alarm.

It was at this point I decided to go to bed.  Before settling in for the evening I made sure to crack my bedroom window, as I’ve often feared farting in my sleep so much I actually dutch-oven myself to death.

I certainly didn’t want to die in my sleep though.  Tomorrow was Monday, the start of another week, and I just couldn’t wait to do it all again.

 

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