Dramatic irony

In high school I learned that dramatic irony occurs when the audience knows something the characters don't. So you're sitting there, watching the people on the stage or the screen carry out their lives, and you already know that he has cancer or her boyfriend is cheating on her before they know it themselves. Meanwhile, they're saying stuff like "I'm fit as a fiddle" or "Tom's so faithful to me," and you're in on the joke because you know better.

So am I party to dramatic irony when I watch Journeyman every week, knowing full well it has a less-than-even chance of surviving on broadcast television? Every time Dan unwillingly travels to the past, should I wonder if he's going to get stuck back there — not because he lost his power but because NBC pulled his budget out from under him? Time travel doesn't operate on money, it operates on science! And tachyons! You can't fight tachyons, NBC! You can't even see them! But I digress. Why do networks that greenlight these great shows let them fall by the wayside?

When networks run promos for their fall premieres, they're showing you a menu full of delicious dishes of food. You read the descriptions of all these dishes, choose one — or a few if you're feeling hungry — and order it. Time passes and your server brings your food and places it on your table. You sit there in your comfortable chair, excited because this thing you have yet to taste is new and unknown, and contented because you know at the very least, you're about to enjoy a relaxing meal. You grab a piece with your fork and put it in your mouth and bite down and it's great, the best thing you've tasted in a while, you were hungry and this thing came along and satisfied that void of hunger and you forget how stressful and confusing life is and you simply enjoy your sublime meal.

Then the people from the bank barge into the restaurant and point their fingers at the chef and scream at him about loan payments. One of them whips out a gun and shoots the chef in the head but not before he sends you a fleeting apologetic glance that conveys his sentiments: "I hope you enjoyed what I made. I put a lot of time into it. I'm sorry!" Then the bank people storm over to you and unveil a blend of vomit, horse piss and rat shit (Deal or No Deal, if you're still following the metaphor) and cram it down your throat while coaxing you to buy a Nissan. And just as your gag reflex kicks in and you start hurling all this tripe back at the people from the bank, you catch a glimpse of the restaurant's kitchen door swinging open, and behind it … what's that? … oh, it's Matthew Perry, chasing a Vicodin with a swig of Jack while weeping over a tombstone that reads STUDIO 60 ~ TV'S STILLBORN CHILD.

The point to take home is this: Please don't cancel Journeyman, NBC. I'm a sap for time-travel plots and I took your bait and now I'm hooked, so don't haul me out of the water just to let me suffocate on shore; at least take me home and fillet me and maybe serve me with some wine, or throw me back in the water. Wait, no, Bionic Woman is waiting in the water. Just kill me.