And that's why Mr. Roarke Drank

I was thinking earlier today about Fantasy Island.

For those not in the know or not old enough to remember, Fantasy Island was a show in the late 70s where Ricardo Montelban played Mr. Roarke, who ran (possibly owned?  Must investigate...) the titular island.

(Easy, shriner. It means 'as referenced in the title'.  Although we're going to be coming back to what you were thinking about in just a moment, so hold that thought.)
 
So the upshot was that Mr. Roarke operated this island where he could make anyone's fantasies come ture.  Over the course of which they would of course learn and grow as people, possible learning some valuable life lesson.

(For example,I recall one episode where normal Shy Ken Berry had a fantasy of being more 'cool' and 'with it'.  So Mr. Roarke found that he of course had a double out there on the planet who was much more 'cool' and 'with it', switched their places, and Shy Ken Berry learned that Hip and Swingin' Ken Berry wasn't any better than he was.)

(Take a moment with the fact that you just read the phrase 'Hip and Swingin' Ken Berry...)

So.

Every week there would be two different storylines running concurrently, usually without interacting with one another.  At the start of the show, Mr. Roarke would welcome the two guests off of the airplane (Smiles everyone!  Smiles!), explain to the increasingly downtrodden and humiliated Herve Villichaize what their fantasies were (Mr. Jones wants to reunite with his estranged brother before his hideous painful death, Mr. Johnson wants to experience what life would be like without the undescended testicle,etc.) and then the stories proper would begin.

Smiles Everyone!  Smiles!

This is all well and good as a premise until you take a moment to think about the setup.  Say you put an add out there that you have a magic island that can make any fantasy come true (AND resolve all it's plot threads within the hour... Suck it, Lost)  I can pretty much guarantee you that the 'Want to reunite with my estranged brother' letters are NOT going to be the bulk of what you receive.

Here's how I imagine Mr. Roarke's normal mail day ran-

"Dear Mr. Roarke.  It has always been my fantasy to see my ex-wife have her uterus torn out and fed to her by demonic babies"

<deep sigh.>

"Dear Mr. Roarke,  I would love to be covered in Danish Lesbians...."

<Sound of soul dying>

Dear Mr. R.  You know how ... you know, not all the time... just every once in a while... you know how you might be a little.... curious... about getting it on with a dude but having him not remember anything about it afterwards...?

<Sound of expensive bottle of fantasy scotch being opened>

Dear Mr. Roarke.  I don't know if you know a lot about water sports, but...

<Shotgun blast>

Hip Swingin' Ken Berry's looking pretty good right about now, eh?

MY fantasy is that you all die.  

And that it is me that kills you.  

With rich Corinthian leather.

Things were so much easier before we knew that Mel Gibson was a giant asshole.

Sure, it's only natural for a vizsla of a certain age to look back at days gone by and imagine them to be happier and simpler than these difficult times we find ourselves living in. 

But all the same, I feel like this is more than nostalgia.  This has the unmistakeable ring of truth to it.

Things were a lot simpler back before we knew that Mel Gibson was a gigantic asshole.

(Spoiler warning - Apparently it's 'to be demeaned and sexualized 

while performing your duties as a law enforcement officer'.)

Seriously.  Remember when you could just enjoy The Road Warrior, without having to mentally apologize to the entire Jewish People for liking his performance?

Remember when you just spend a happy evening watching the first Lethal Weapon and ignoring his throwaway comment about finding lesbians to be disgusting?  Nowadays I kind of feel the need to pause the movie at that point to send a contribution in to Minnesotans United For All Families - just by way of apologizing for the Netflix Rental.  (Tax deductible, and still a worthwhile cause, kids)

And what about Tina Turner?  Tina couldn't have known, right?  I mean... if Miss Tina had known then surely the line would have been 'Two men enter!  One man leaves!  And then gets my grey futuristic boot up his ass!  That's why we call it...THUNDERDOME!'

And how about all the times we used to be able to enjoy sitting down and watching Man Without a Face?

OK, you're right, I'm just kidding.  No one ever did that.