I hate to be harsh, but…dudes, you suck.
Were you trying to illustrate to aspiring writers how to lose your audience in five minutes or less? I mean, you barely have an audience for this moronic show to begin with, which is why—last I heard—you’re scheduled for cancellation, but alienating the few you had left doesn’t seem like a good idea. I assume you’ll want to write for other shows in the future, though I sincerely hope you won’t. Why?
Crusoe left his dog to die alone.
For my blog readers who have been smart enough not to subject themselves to this show, there wasn’t some catastrophic, life-threatening emergency forcing Crusoe to make a split-second decision between seeing his family again and saving Dundee. Dundee is his dog—they washed up on shore together—and, other than Friday, has been his best buddy for…I think at this point he’s supposed to have been on the island six years.
Crusoe has spent these years recreating the Swiss Family Robinson resort hotel and trying to convince the savage cannibal, Friday, who’s oft mistaken for a slave by the constant flow of people through the Grand Central deserted island, that he’ll be blissfully happy in London. Yeah. Okay. Perhaps he thinks that because the savage cannibal speaks several languages, all with a crisp, upper-class British accent, but I’m not even going to get started on that.
The guy who was one of Crusoe’s best buddies, but has stolen his children and sold his wife into indentured servitude, is sailing around trying to find and kill Crusoe so nobody finds out he’s the true heir to…something. Title, money, whatever. He, like a hundred other people, ends up on Grand Central deserted island. This time, Crusoe knows he’s going home because this was one of his best buddies, so they all trek off to the beach, which requires crossing a rope over a huge chasm.
Does the bastard fasten a sling to carry Dundee across?
No. He gets down on his knees and tells Dundee he wouldn’t be happy in London. Apparently dogs don’t acclimate to cities the way savage cannibals do.
And the rotten son of a bitch abandons him. Turns away and leaves him while Dundee watches him go with big, puppy-dog eyes.
So my Short Kid, who’s always been sensitive but has taken it to new heights in the last eighteen months, is sobbing, heartbroken that Dundee’s going to die and Crusoe just left him. On the surface, I’m comforting him—we know Crusoe doesn’t get off the island because he’s got like another eighteen years or something like that, so he’ll be staying with Dundee and Dundee will be fine.
But over his head, the husband and I shared a look. The asshole left his dog to die alone on the island. There’s no coming back from that and your audience no longer gives a flying fuck what happens to Crusoe. Way to save a dying show, people.
Watching something else Saturdays at 8:00