It was almost worth sitting through two badly written, laughably acted, terribly CGI’d seasons just to see Elizabeth Mitchell’s annoying son Tyler get brutally murdered. Almost.
Great pedigree, solid premise, decent cast… if only it had been made for cable instead of watered down for CBS.
It was a show about a cute little blonde spitfire who fought the forces of evil. No — the other one. Despite brutally low ratings, our girl Veronica hung in there for almost three whole seasons. And hey, now she’s in the FBI, so maybe she’ll pop up again on, like, Without A Trace someday. (Or maybe not.)
For those who thought Cop Rock was a good idea.
Jesse, Russell, Vandy, Dawnie and Sam slurred Southern syllables and captured a nation’s interest and heart for three glorious weeks in 1999. Or something.
“Everybody’s smoking and no one’s getting high.”
It was a show about a fictional Presidency that was far superior to any of the actual ones it matched up against. President Bartlet and his motley staff were fair, just, commanding, and comedic at just the right spots. But as you might expect of a show about the President, the term eventually had to end. (Curse that pesky 22nd Amendment!) When it came time to elect someone new, NBC finally realized it should quit while it was ahead, and impeached the show. Relive the seven seasons of glory here.
It was an unambitious summer replacement show, an ensemble drama about a bunch of jerks who collected a huge payoff in the state lottery. But we say the real winners are the ones who gave up on it after four episodes. Like we did.
Lou Diamond Phillips’s waxed pecs worked very hard, Scott Bairstow and Max Wasilewski were very sexy, and young people thoughtfully got naked, but it turns out nothing can save a show that is, was, and always will be Very, Very Bad. One of its top dogs (one of many who came and went) called it “The Sopranos, but with wolves.” He will never, ever live that down. Relive the five glorious episodes of Wolf Lake, complete with lupine politics, nature footage, glowing eyes, and awful dialogue; you’ll understand why CBS and TWoP cancelled the shit out of it.
“Hello, my baby. Hello, my honey. Hello, my cancelled show.” The world isn’t big enough for two shows about disgruntled teens who obey the voices telling them to do things. This midseason replacement didn’t even get a chance. That’s what happens when you go up against God.
Savaged in the ratings by ER, railed against by mental-health advocates, Peter Berg’s psychiatric-hospital melodrama got the heave after only two episodes. You blinked, you missed ‘em — but we’ve got ‘em right here.
The first season was better than anyone (particularly in the art community) expected, but it still wasn’t museum-worthy.
Like a victim of a Stone Cold Stunner, like a recipient of a Pedigree, like a prone body being given The People’s Elbow, WWF Smackdown! is no more. The WWF lives on as the WWE, probably forever, but the recaps come to an end.
X marks the flop.
Remember when Scully was having a baby despite having no ova? Or when Mulder died? Or that other time Mulder died? Or that other, other time Mulder died? Hey, or how about Doggett and Skinner and the love that dared not speak its name? Or Moronica…no, let’s not speak of her. But remember the Adventures of the Action Figures? And how we made fun of Mark Snow? And the time Jessica almost went blind? Man, those were some good times. Good times. And now we can relive them in Permanent Hiatus. Or can we? No, we totally can.
It was a summer of love. A summer to remember. A summer to become sexually confused. It was one summer Pamie spent letting us peek into a world where girls become boys, boys become objects of man-love, sisters become lovers with brothers, and Mamawhore reigned supreme. Relive the laughs, the shivers, the untimely death of Saint Clare the patron saint of television I. Feel the power of Verve’s stare. Warm yourself up by the Lake Homoerotica fire. Quote the cheesiest lines with glee. Dance to the Steel Drums of Non-Gay Love. Young Americans was some really good eye-candy. Like all thing sweet, it was gone too soon.
Three hours, zero viewers. Sorry, Goose.