TEXAS — In a plot twist stranger than My Demon Lover (1987), a growing cult of Americans has begun secretly praying for the resurrection of Blockbuster Video, unable to cope with modern streaming’s soul-crushing convenience. These nostalgia casualties gather in abandoned parking lots, lighting candles in empty microwave popcorn bags beneath sun-bleached Hellraiser posters.
Experts warn the movement, known as “The Clamshell Covenant,” is expanding at an alarming rate. Initiates reportedly experience euphoric visions of rewinding tapes and the sweet friction of shrink wrap. One anonymous member confessed to building a shrine out of stolen late fees and Basket Case clamshells, whispering, “Be Kind, Rewind” like it’s a holy mantra.
Texas authorities remain baffled but unconcerned, dismissing the group as “emotionally sunburned 90s leftovers with Blockbuster-shaped holes in their hearts.” Homeland Security, however, has issued mild concern over the group’s stated intent to exhume the corpse of physical media and restore Friday nights to their proper analog form.
Amazon has already begun seeing protest in select cities, with covenant members dressing as VHS tapes and picketing Prime trucks with signs reading Buffering is a Sin. One participant was arrested after trying to return a copy of Lucio Fulci’s 1979 ZOMBIE to an active Walgreens, insisting it was “his sacred duty.”
Netflix remains unfazed, stating they are “happy to let people feel feelings” as long as they continue paying. For now, cult leaders are planning a pilgrimage to the last surviving Blockbuster in Bend, Oregon, where they’ll chant the names of forgotten rentals, and maybe finally locate that elusive copy of Chopping Mall (1986).
Sociologists warn if nostalgia continues unchecked, Americans may next attempt to revive Circuit City, or worse, RadioShack. Scientists fear the emotional damage may already be irreversible.
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