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 college founded in 1796, is spending an inordinate amount of time watching vampire/terrapin movies. To her? An “old movie” is “Guardians of the Galaxy,” which has a little wise guy rude-talking trash monkey raccoon but no turtles.  Her movie choices have ramifications in my life. Everyone, including Hezbollah, is part of The Borg, that humanoid/robotic civilization in a Star Trek spin-off where greasy gooey aliens float about the universe in a giant, minimalist toaster cube, conquering civilizations, sucking the brains out of the weak-minded and making them their uncreative, unquestioning and eye-wateringly boring slaves. You know. Like the Democrat Party?  My daughter sometimes has questionable cinematic taste. (I shouldn’t talk; I simply love reruns from “The Rifleman” and, as I like to point out, “Guns Don’t Kill People; Lucas McCain Kills People.”) But, because I have been falsely labeled an aficionado of karate-fighting tortoise movies, I am doused with advertising and surveys about turtles. Turtle food. Turtle Wax. Turtle soup. Vacation packages to the Galapagos. First aid kits made especially for those suffering from snapping turtle bites.  Then, there’s the fact Netflix has been raising the prices like, every 20 minutes. Originally, it was a beautiful scam. You’d pay like $7.99 a month and get all these free movies. Most of them in English. Now? It’s $15.49 monthly, $22.99 premium. With premium, I think you get to take a screen shot of the “NETFLIX PREMIUM” graphic, print it, then tape it to your rear pickup truck window as a status decal.   Then, there’s Reed “Hock, Ptooey” Hastings. Reed’s the grand poohbah/high holy mucky muck of Netflix. A few months ago, Reed donated $7 million to Kamala Harris’ presidential campaign because, really, we need someone even dumber than Joe Biden laughing out of context for the next four years. Barack and Michelle Obama just signed a deal rumored to be in the nine-figure range to produce a couple of movies for Netflix, something along the theme of, “Let us harp on you puny unworthy racist Americans about all that’s wrong with you while we pinch snuff and eat oysters with our pinkies out.”  There’s some inescapable math here. By paying $23 a month to not watch mutant snappers gifted in the martial arts, I was paying Barack and Michelle and probably George Soros along with that dweeb L.A. County District Attorney George Gascón to eat oysters with their pinkies out.  I had one of those Divine Intervention Moments the other month when Indy Pie was home for the summer. Making dinner, I could hear Netflix blasting from the living room. Variations of the same dialogue kept pounding the walls. Here. Here’s a direct quote: “RRRrgggrahhh!! Mehhhhhh ughrrrrrrr grreee eeeeeeeekkkkie ooooo growl snarl spit scream why I oughta LOOK-OUT!!!”   As I lovingly prepped vegetables for the evening’s designer salad, I started yelling the same lines back from the kitchen: “RRRrgggrahhh!! Mehhhhhh ughrrrrrrr grreee eeeeeeeekkkkie ooooo growl snarl spit scream why I oughta LOOK-OUT!!!”  Holding back a giggle, my daughter yells back, “Will you knock it off I’m trying to watch ‘Jurassic Park’ you’re not funny!!”  Just to get the last word in, I added, “RUN!”  “DAD!!”  This was wrong of me, but I yelled my own Spanish subtitles, “¡¡AMIGOS!! ¡¡CORRER!!”  It’s a strange experience, taking in just the audio from a Jurassic Park movie. I must confess. I’m jealous. I wince, imagining penning a 125-page screenplay. Page after page is the dialogue, “RRRrgggrahhh!! Mehhhhhh!! EEEEeeeee!”  And here’s your check for $750,000 with, o hope against hope, an Oscar nomination for Best Screenplay By A Lizard.  With trepidation, I feel this isn’t the story’s end with Reed Hastings, The Obamas, Netflix and countless movies where the dialogue consists of, “Oooof! Take that! And that! And that, Buster!!”  Something is lurking within my ethereal shrubbery.  I’m waiting for those insincere corporate correspondi from Netflix, confessing what a fool they’ve been and, short of taking up Catholicism, they’ll do anything to win back my love.  To sweeten the deal, they’re offering “Beneath the Planet of Now All Nude Cheerleader Vampire Vixens vs. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles — Part III!”  Of course, it’s going to cost me $29.99 to rent it, plus a 20-minute free trial subscription to The All Nude Turtle Movie Channel. In Spanish …  Twenty days until johnlovesamerica.com launches at 12:01 a.m., Halloween morn. Humor. History. Trivia. Inspiration. Nice things about America. Fun online store. Buckets of gee-whiz stuff …   The post John Boston | Naked Turtles. Or, Why I Had to Cancel Netflix. appeared first on Santa Clarita Valley Signal.