"Wednesday Morning, 8 AM" is the only #SaveAPBio argument you really need

Adults lie to kids all the time, for as many reasons as you might care to name: manipulation, protection, convenience, and, sometimes, just because it’s easy, and kind of fun. The annals of educational film and TV are full of “great” teachers who inspire their kids by lying through their teeth, convincing them that Walt Whitman might have an impact on their day-to-day lives, or that standing on your desk and yelling is anything but a ticket straight to Sore Throat And Sprained Ankle City.
A.P. Bio’s Jack Griffin never lied to his students. (Okay, actually, he lied to them all the time, but only in a “tricking them into doing his mildly malevolent bidding” sort of way.) When it came to the important stuff—like whether high school bullshit actually matters to anybody not currently trapped within it, or whether being an adult is some magical gateway to happiness or freedom—Jack played it absolutely straight, if only because he couldn’t be bothered to come up with a comforting half-truth. That radically honesty kid-teacher dynamic—playing out over a tapestry of revenge schemes, insults, and surprisingly heartwarming moments of raw unsentimentality—was the core of what made Mike O’Brien’s A.P. Bio such a refreshing show to watch over the last two seasons. It’s also a big reason why it’s such a stone cold bummer that NBC’s decided that the show’s upcoming second-season finale will be the series’ last.
Not the only reason; as we noted in our write-up of the show’s abrupt cancellation—announced by a heartbroken O’Brien last week, and kicking off the sort of fan-rallying “save the show” Twitter campaign that you can only hope will end up less quixotic than it initially seems—A.P. Bio was also the showcase for a near-criminal array of comedic talent, a crew it got a lot more comfortable deploying as it settled into its far-more-confident second season. Nowhere was that clearer than in the show’s most impressive episode to date, “Wednesday Morning, 8 AM,” which tracks its way through the halls of Whitlock High in the chaotic half-hour before a typical school day formally begins.