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First up: J.J. Abrams. Not because I think he hates black people, but because the man can’t write an ending.
The dirty truth of it is that Abrams is man writing without an outline. He’s all wizz-bang-high-concept-ideas and explosive pilots but two years in when it’s time to put his head down and connect all those loose ends he likes to leave lying about, he slinks off to start a new project.
Felicity’s ratings in the toilet because stupid fans shit a brick over a haircut? Go make Alias!
Giving Sydney more sisters doesn’t distract fans from the fact that years of chasing Rambaldi McGuffins leads nowhere? Go make Lost!
Just realized that you’ve populated your new show with so many twists, flashbacks, origin stories, dream sequences, tropical polar bears and annoying love triangles that you couldn’t untangle this ball of yarn even if you wanted to? Go destroy New York, except make it so that camera shakes so much the audience doesn’t actually get to see any of it happen. Oh, and for an encore let’s see how you can fuckup Star Trek.
Always two there are, a master and an apprentice.
Here’s a thought Jeffery. Put down the Cloverfield monster toy and your two Emmys and go back and finish something. It may be too late for your other wayward children, but Lost is still out there, beating up kids on the playground for their lunch money. Boy needs a father figure.
And know this J.J. Your fanboys may have conveniently forgotten but hater#1 remembers your shame.
You wrote Armageddon.
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