An outrageous show centered around life, death, the afterlife, and Banana Bonanzas (with xxx-crispy bacon) at Der Waffle House.
The central troupe of undead consists of:
1. The plucky, though often apathetic, George (conked on the noggin by a flaming toilet seat - hurtling through the atmosphere at 200 mph from the Mir Space Station).
2. Mason, our dear lovable, half-wit, alcoholic, junkie. His accent makes ladies swoon . . . as does his signature scent (an unforgettable melange of Eau du Hangover and Alcoholicious).
3. Roxie, the rough, tough, bitter cop. She takes a certain delight in making sure that everyone adheres to the rules. And yes, she can kick your ass. And she'll look good while doing it.
4. The disarmingly ditzy Daisy. Hey, who hasn't she had sex with?
5. And, of course, Rube. Any group like this needs a level-headed, logic-minded, compassionate, sympathetic leader. Riiiiight. He maintains his control because, according to Mason, he "withholds the love". But as Rube points out, he can't withhold what he does not posess.
Dead Like Me, unfortunately, looks to be DOA (the slave of Satan, Bob Greenblatt, nixed a third season - presumably because of penis envy of the MGM lion). Sad, sad, sad.
The cancellation of Dead Like Me is, well, eleven kinds of suck.