I'm basically what you'd call a philanthropist. I believe in my fellow man. And that's why, when my poor friend who is poor bemoaned the expensive monthly fee for a Netflix account, allowing her to instantly stream all of the movies and TV shows she wants (within reason, of course—still waiting for 227 to become available), I said, “Oh, my dear girl! Please, take my password! And don’t make fun of me for using the title of a Joni Mitchell song as my Netflix password!” You know what? IT WAS A MISTAKE.
Last night I got home from a long day at work and wanted nothing more than to lay in my bed with a glass of wine and my laptop and catch up on all of the
Ingmar Bergman films episodes of Ally McBeal in my queue. (What? Don’t act like you’re too good for that dancing baby or Vonda Shepard.) And lo and behold: my Instant Queue was suddenly empty. What’s worse? Netflix was now telling me that I would love Farscape, Dollhouse, and Highlander because my friend has been busy as hell watching all of Firefly. (That’s Highlander the television show, you guys. How embarrassing.)
I’m assuming that the deleted queue was some sort of glitch (probably the Netflix admins catching on to how many different computers are accessing my account), but that’s small potatoes next to the fact that the site thinks I have terrible taste. Oh, how I long for a Cerebral British Drama or a Dramatic Comedy Featuring a Strong Female Lead!
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