Monday, December 26, 2005


So, watching Michael Winterbottom's 24 Hour Party People the udder night, and halfway through the Netflix DVD goes all fuckie on me. I take it out and toss some glass cleaner on that bitch, and try to play it again. The result - naught. That cee-esser is dead.

I have to ask (plaintively) why, Netflix, why? It was 1 a.m., and all I wanted to do was finish out a movie in peace with a cat on me. You're handing out shoddy discs, you cee-essers - this is not the first time we've given up on a disc before the movie was up.

The way I see it, you owe me time back and disenchantment points taken off my cosmic till, because the time will come when something wonderous will come my way, everyone around me will be going all "oooh, ahh!" and shit, and all I'll be able to do is look ironically at said wonderment and crack wise, detachedly and disassociatedly.

I don't want to be dead inside, hugecorporateplex.