I’ve been meaning to cancel Netflix for the longest time. Finally did this week. There was a jumbo $28 popcorn tub of reasons. First, top of the Blame List goes to my lovely, apple of both eyes and talented 21-year-old daughter. Indiana Boston watches Netflix (out of desperation, she confesses) more than I do. My daughter and I have different preferences in movies. Consequently, when I DO pay the rare visit to Netflix, I get these bubbly AI messages. Like —

“Johnny o Johnny o Johnny Boy, whom we love so much! Not that we’re judging you or your personal pronouns (White; Old; Walks With A Limp; Likes Soup), we couldn’t help but notice you recently watched, ‘Teenage Cheerleader Vampire Vixens vs. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.’”

What can you do? You can’t scream, “NOOO! That was my dopey daughter!”

Insufferably, Netflix goes on: “We thought we’d recommend, ‘Beneath the Planet of Cheerleader Vampire Vixens vs. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles — PART 2!’”

Now I don’t want to seem like an uncool/unhepcat daddy my daughter’s generation despises. BUT — I don’t know why she hasn’t made her own Netflix profile. She hasn’t. She won’t, either. You know why? I cancelled Netflix faster than a Hunter Biden check.

In this ongoing case of mistaken identity, Netflix never tired of pointing out that, apparently, my only criteria for a film is it’s littered with No One Understands Me teens with no discernible body fat and pouty lower lips that preceed them by a quarter of an hour. Sherlock Holmes-like, I’m beginning to deduce that my daughter, a senior in a prestigious eastern art........

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