It has come to my attention that, despite my repeated warnings, you have viewed the Netflix adaptation of my distressing work, known collectively as “A Seris of Unfortunate Events.” Some of you have even binged, a word which here mans, “Watched several episodes right in a row, despite having much better things to do with your time.”
To my horror, Netflix has been encouraged by this, and funneled their ill-gotten gains toward a second season of this unhappy and unnerving series. Even as we speak, set buildings, costume designers and trauma specialists are snapping into action, the better to bring you even more upsetting episodes, all because of your reputed enthusiasm for this grim so-called family programming.
I hope you’re happy. Because you won’t be, ever again.
With all due respect,
The series, which premiered in January, drew high praise from many critics, including Variety‘s own Sonia Saraiya, who wrote, “Tonally, ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events’ is a weird, wonderful masterpiece — a self-consciously droll gothic dramedy that might be what would happen if Wes Anderson and Tim Burton decided to make a television series about children together.”
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