which follow, Broad Squad and Smart Alec, are performing so strongly, sources say the web's programming whiz, Don DeBono, is considering moving the successful skeins to shore up an ailing night elsewhere in the sked. DBC's Young Hudson Hawk isn't likely to grow much older, while the venerable Dedicated Doctors are on life support after five seasons as MBC's primetime prescription for ratings malaise.
DBC's Blacke and Whyte, beaten black and blue at 10 p.m., is being pulled and will reportedly return mid-season with a new title and a new format.
My Gun Has Bullets on UBC is loaded with a strong lead-in, but it's misfiring, dropping off a disturbing 10 share points from Smart Alec. This presents MBC with a real opportunity to blunt UBC's Thursday night dominance, but producer Eddie Planet's Frankencop is lumbering along a distant second, despite improving 25% on its Dedicated Doctors' lead-in. If lightning doesn't strike soon, Frankencop will be dismembered fondly.
It used to be that Eddie would shrug off a story like this. The vicissitudes of the business. It wasn't as if his life was riding on it.
That was before he signed with Pinstripe Productions.
After only six weeks on the air, Frankencop had tallied over a million dollars in deficits and its ratings were eroding. But it wasn't cheap to do a sci-fi action show these days. And going up against UBC's strongest night was a kamikaze mission. All in all, Frankencop wasn't doing badly.
Figure in that dickhead Flint Westwood, and it was a miracle the show even got made. Flint's real name was Huey Krupp, and he was Crofoot's cousin. His previous acting experience consisted of being a dick double in porno films financed by Crofoot. Luckily, playing a hulking, undead cop stitched together from corpses didn't require a lot of range.
Flint's unique approach to a scene was to ask himself "What's in it for my dick?" If his dick didn't have a motivation, Flint couldn't move. The same was true for Flint in real life.
Eddie had his hands full just thinking of reasons for Flint's dick to chase down bank robbers, kidnappers, and terrorists instead of jamming buxom Dr. Francine "Frankie" Stein. Simply telling Flint his dick was dedicated to truth, justice, and the American way wouldn't fly. Coming up with new dick motivations ("You've got a hard-on for the Statue of Liberty, and if the terrorists blow it up, you could become impotent") took more creative energy than thinking up stories.
So between the powerful competition and Flint Westwood, Eddie should be congratulated for even putting a show on the air. Even Crofoot could understand that. And if he didn't, fuck him.
The phone jangled. Startled, Eddie reached for the toilet paper instead, unspooling the roll all over his knees. Cool your jets, he told himself. You're the executive producer. You're a powerful man in this town. Remember that. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone, mounted just above the toilet paper rack.
"Eddie Planet," he said decisively.
"Have you read the trades, Eddie?" Crofoot's voice poured into his ear.
"Yeah, but I wouldn't take 'em too seriously," Eddie's knees clacked together nervously.
"I do," Crofoot said softly.
"We're in a suicide slot, everybody knows that. Coming in second is a major accomplishment. You should congratulate yourself."
"I'm not losing three hundred thousand bucks a week to come in second," Crofoot snapped.
Eddie wanted to say Take it easy, Daddy, have your daily jerk-off and leave me the fuck alone. What he said instead was:
"You wanted in the television business. No one said it would be cheap, and no one said it would be easy. It's out of our hands."
"You promised me the show would be a hit, Eddie."
"It is, it's a terrific show, the concept is fucking brilliant, but I'm not running the network. They put us in a rotten slotâyou can't blame me for that."
There was a long silence on the line. Each nanosecond was torture for Eddie. Had he said the wrong thing?
DBC's Blacke and Whyte, beaten black and blue at 10 p.m., is being pulled and will reportedly return mid-season with a new title and a new format.
My Gun Has Bullets on UBC is loaded with a strong lead-in, but it's misfiring, dropping off a disturbing 10 share points from Smart Alec. This presents MBC with a real opportunity to blunt UBC's Thursday night dominance, but producer Eddie Planet's Frankencop is lumbering along a distant second, despite improving 25% on its Dedicated Doctors' lead-in. If lightning doesn't strike soon, Frankencop will be dismembered fondly.
It used to be that Eddie would shrug off a story like this. The vicissitudes of the business. It wasn't as if his life was riding on it.
That was before he signed with Pinstripe Productions.
After only six weeks on the air, Frankencop had tallied over a million dollars in deficits and its ratings were eroding. But it wasn't cheap to do a sci-fi action show these days. And going up against UBC's strongest night was a kamikaze mission. All in all, Frankencop wasn't doing badly.
Figure in that dickhead Flint Westwood, and it was a miracle the show even got made. Flint's real name was Huey Krupp, and he was Crofoot's cousin. His previous acting experience consisted of being a dick double in porno films financed by Crofoot. Luckily, playing a hulking, undead cop stitched together from corpses didn't require a lot of range.
Flint's unique approach to a scene was to ask himself "What's in it for my dick?" If his dick didn't have a motivation, Flint couldn't move. The same was true for Flint in real life.
Eddie had his hands full just thinking of reasons for Flint's dick to chase down bank robbers, kidnappers, and terrorists instead of jamming buxom Dr. Francine "Frankie" Stein. Simply telling Flint his dick was dedicated to truth, justice, and the American way wouldn't fly. Coming up with new dick motivations ("You've got a hard-on for the Statue of Liberty, and if the terrorists blow it up, you could become impotent") took more creative energy than thinking up stories.
So between the powerful competition and Flint Westwood, Eddie should be congratulated for even putting a show on the air. Even Crofoot could understand that. And if he didn't, fuck him.
The phone jangled. Startled, Eddie reached for the toilet paper instead, unspooling the roll all over his knees. Cool your jets, he told himself. You're the executive producer. You're a powerful man in this town. Remember that. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone, mounted just above the toilet paper rack.
"Eddie Planet," he said decisively.
"Have you read the trades, Eddie?" Crofoot's voice poured into his ear.
"Yeah, but I wouldn't take 'em too seriously," Eddie's knees clacked together nervously.
"I do," Crofoot said softly.
"We're in a suicide slot, everybody knows that. Coming in second is a major accomplishment. You should congratulate yourself."
"I'm not losing three hundred thousand bucks a week to come in second," Crofoot snapped.
Eddie wanted to say Take it easy, Daddy, have your daily jerk-off and leave me the fuck alone. What he said instead was:
"You wanted in the television business. No one said it would be cheap, and no one said it would be easy. It's out of our hands."
"You promised me the show would be a hit, Eddie."
"It is, it's a terrific show, the concept is fucking brilliant, but I'm not running the network. They put us in a rotten slotâyou can't blame me for that."
There was a long silence on the line. Each nanosecond was torture for Eddie. Had he said the wrong thing?
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