Cartoon Network has delivered some of the most beloved and iconic shows in animation history—Adventure Time, The Powerpuff Girls, Teen Titans, and Dexter’s Laboratory, to name a few. But in its sprawling library of creativity, there’s a whole vault of series that didn’t get their fair share of fame. These shows may have been overlooked during their original runs, buried by bad time slots, or quietly forgotten as bigger hits took center stage. Yet they had heart, humor, bold storytelling, and that undeniable Cartoon Network charm that makes you say, “How did I miss this?”
Whether they pushed boundaries, told emotionally rich stories, or were just way funnier than anyone gave them credit for, these shows deserve a second chance—and a whole lot more appreciation.
Let’s take a trip down memory lane and celebrate the ten most underrated Cartoon Network shows that absolutely deserve more love.
#10: Sym-Bionic Titan
This beautifully animated, emotionally driven sci-fi epic came from Samurai Jack creator Genndy Tartakovsky—but never quite got the spotlight it deserved. Sym-Bionic Titan tells the story of three alien fugitives—Lance, Ilana, and Octus—hiding out on Earth in the guise of teenagers. Together, they form a giant robot (the titular Titan) to protect their new home from monstrous alien invaders. But what sets the show apart isn’t just the action—it’s the deeply human drama tucked inside the explosions.
Lance is the stoic soldier with a haunted past. Ilana, the alien princess trying to adapt to high school and hide her royal identity. Octus, a sentient robot who masquerades as their nerdy father and ends up developing a shocking amount of personality. The series juggles battles and teenage life with surprising nuance, giving each character layers and emotional arcs that resonate beyond the genre. Episode by episode, it weaves comedy, action, romance, and slice-of-life struggles together into something that feels part anime, part John Hughes, part Voltron, and all heart.
Sadly, the show only got one season. Rumors swirled that it was canceled not due to low ratings, but because it didn’t sell enough toys—a fate that’s befallen many great animated series. And that’s a tragedy. The animation is stunning, the characters are beautifully written, and some of the fight scenes are among the most kinetic and cinematic ever aired on Cartoon Network.
The episode “Shaman of Fear,” for instance, dives into Lance’s PTSD in a way that few kids’ shows ever touch, using dream logic and abstract horror imagery to convey inner trauma. Meanwhile, Octus’s romance with a human girl named Kimmy feels more authentic and touching than you’d expect from a robot subplot. The fact that we never got a second season feels criminal.
Fans still campaign for its return, and it’s developed a devoted cult following online. It’s a show that didn’t get a fair shot—but left a deep impression on those lucky enough to watch it. If you missed Sym-Bionic Titan the first time around, it’s worth finding. It was bold, beautiful, and smarter than most gave it credit for.
#9: Robotomy
Robotomy was weird. Like, really weird—and that’s part of what made it so glorious. This short-lived gem from 2010 only had ten episodes but left a lasting impact on fans who vibed with its chaotic energy. Imagine a show where robots attend a high school on a dystopian alien world where violence is as casual as math class. That’s Robotomy in a nutshell.
The main characters, Thrasher and Blastus, are two misfit robots just trying to survive their brutal school lives without getting vaporized or humiliated on a daily basis. It sounds like a fever dream, and honestly, it kind of is. The humor is loud, messy, and aggressively absurd—think Invader Zim meets Superjail! meets John Hughes on a caffeine bender. Yet beneath all the screaming and explosions is a surprisingly relatable core: awkward teens just trying to fit in.
Thrasher is the hopeful, sensitive one who believes in love and dreams. Blastus is the hyper-aggressive, insecure loudmouth who just wants to be cool. Their dynamic drives the show’s mix of dark comedy and coming-of-age nonsense. One moment you’re watching a robot get sawed in half during lunch, the next you’re genuinely feeling bad for Thrasher because his crush didn’t text him back.
The voice cast was top-tier, including Patton Oswalt and John Gemberling, and the character designs were delightfully jagged and expressive. But it aired with almost no promotion, on a strange schedule, and disappeared before it ever had a chance to find its audience. That’s a shame, because its fast-paced, nihilistic humor fits perfectly in today’s age of meme culture and surreal comedy.
Robotomy was ahead of its time. It dared to be gross, loud, and unapologetically itself. And in an age when weird animation is finally being embraced, it’s time to dig this one up and appreciate the robot carnage for what it was: hilarious, underrated, and weirdly heartfelt.
#8: The Secret Saturdays
Premiering in 2008 during Cartoon Network’s experimental “action revival” era, The Secret Saturdays was a slick, pulpy, monster-hunting adventure that never quite got the flowers it deserved. The show followed the Saturday family—Doc, Drew, and their son Zak—as they traveled the globe tracking cryptids, ancient legends, and secret threats the world wasn’t ready for. Think Indiana Jones meets X-Files, but for kids—and somehow it still managed to make chupacabras feel age-appropriate.
The core concept was brilliantly simple yet expansive: cryptids are real, and the Saturdays are part of a secret organization that protects both the creatures and humanity. It featured classic monsters like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, but also drew from lesser-known global myths, bringing in creatures from African, South American, and Asian folklore. That diversity in creature design gave the show a worldly flavor that felt adventurous and educational without being preachy.
What really sold the series was its tone. It wasn’t afraid to go dark. There were real stakes. There were betrayals. Villains were creepy, especially the show’s main antagonist, V.V. Argost—a flamboyant, creepy TV host obsessed with cryptid power and world domination. His voice, provided by the brilliant Corey Burton, could shift from goofy to terrifying in a heartbeat. He was weird, theatrical, and genuinely menacing—a rarity for cartoon villains at the time.
At the heart of it all was Zak Saturday, a likable, curious protagonist who wasn’t just along for the ride—he was central to the show’s mythos. His connection to the cryptids hinted at something bigger from the start, and when that twist comes mid-series, it lands hard. It’s the kind of narrative arc that would have been legendary if it had aired on a streaming platform today. It had serialization, mystery, and a unique art style reminiscent of 1960s pulp comics, thanks to character designer Jeff Matsuda (The Batman).
Despite all this, The Secret Saturdays struggled with inconsistent scheduling and poor promotion. It was sandwiched between more high-profile shows and rarely got reruns. But fans who did catch it often remember it as a hidden gem—smart, spooky, and thrilling in a way that stood apart from anything else on Cartoon Network at the time. And honestly, the fact that it managed to pack so much lore and adventure into just two seasons is kind of amazing.
If you love cryptids, creepy villains, and underdog heroes, this one deserves a revisit. And Zak? He walked so later monster kids like Luz (The Owl House) and Anne (Amphibia) could run.
#7: Time Squad
Time Squad is what happens when you mix time travel, bureaucratic dysfunction, and a trio of hilariously mismatched characters—and somehow, no one talks about it enough. Airing in the early 2000s, this show imagined a future where time cops have to preserve the historical timeline by correcting historical figures who have gone wildly off course. It’s absurd, chaotic, and smarter than it often gets credit for.
The main crew consists of Buck Tuddrussel, a brawny and brainless enforcer with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer; Larry 3000, a snooty and neurotic diplomatic robot who longs for elegance and order; and Otto, a history-obsessed orphan who’s somehow the most competent one of the bunch. Together, they zoom through time to make sure Abraham Lincoln doesn’t give up politics to become a professional wrestler or Leonardo da Vinci doesn’t start inventing medieval fast food chains.
That’s the magic of Time Squad: it takes real history and flips it on its head. Each episode dives into a twisted timeline where something has gone hilariously wrong, and it’s up to our heroes to fix it—usually in the most backwards, ridiculous way possible. It was educational in a roundabout way, sneaking in historical lessons behind layers of slapstick, sarcasm, and outrageous sci-fi scenarios.
The character dynamic was comedy gold. Otto was the straight man to Buck’s meatheadedness and Larry’s passive-aggressive snobbery. Their bickering gave the show a kind of Odd Couple meets Doctor Who vibe, but with more explosions and pratfalls. And the humor? Shockingly sharp. The writing wasn’t afraid to poke fun at history, society, and even its own premise. One episode had Sigmund Freud become a party-loving rock star. Another turned Napoleon into a stand-up comedian. The results were always bizarre and brilliant.
Visually, the show had a distinct, angular style that set it apart from other CN shows at the time. It was colorful, loud, and full of kinetic energy. And its opening theme? Criminally catchy. But despite its clever setup and cult appeal, Time Squad was short-lived—only two seasons aired before it was quietly dropped from the schedule, leaving fans wondering what could’ve been.
In a modern animation landscape that embraces weird, clever premises (Rick and Morty, anyone?), Time Squad feels like it was way ahead of its time. It had a winning formula: time travel, dysfunctional family dynamics, and a treasure trove of historical mayhem. It deserved better. And it still does.
#6: Megas XLR
Giant robots, intergalactic conflict, and New Jersey attitude—Megas XLR is what happens when anime tropes crash full-speed into American slacker culture and blow everything up with a guitar-shaped joystick. Premiering in 2004, this show had everything: action, comedy, sci-fi battles, and one of the most aggressively likable protagonists in Cartoon Network history. And yet, despite being everything that 2000s animation fans dreamed of, it never got the love it deserved. It’s time to change that.
The show’s premise is peak early-2000s absurd brilliance. Coop, a loud, lovable, car-obsessed gearhead from Jersey, buys a busted robot from a junkyard. Turns out, it’s Megas—a massive, ultra-weaponized mech from the future. Coop modifies it using parts from his old muscle car, paints flames on the side, and programs the controls to include arcade joysticks and a hot sauce dispenser. He’s not a soldier. He’s not a chosen one. He’s just a guy who loves video games and thinks giant robots are cool. And that’s the exact kind of hero you want piloting a mech in this universe.
Coop’s sidekicks include Kiva, the time-traveling soldier who was supposed to save the universe but now has to babysit Coop, and Jamie, Coop’s hilariously cowardly best friend. Their dynamic is pure comedy gold. Kiva’s serious, focused, and perpetually frustrated. Jamie is lazy, sarcastic, and probably hasn’t changed his shirt in years. Coop? He’s somewhere between lovable oaf and savior of Earth by accident.
What made Megas XLR stand out wasn’t just its humor—it was the sheer style of it. The animation was slick, the action was dynamic, and the references to everything from Transformers to Voltron to professional wrestling were nonstop. Every episode felt like a mashup of Saturday morning cartoons, late-night anime marathons, and 90s gaming culture. It was made for fans by fans, and it never once apologized for how unapologetically ridiculous it was.
The show’s villain, the Glorft—a squid-like alien race bent on domination—were a fun and frequent menace, but let’s be honest: Coop usually caused more damage than they did. He’d save the day, sure, but often by accidentally leveling an entire city block in the process. It was part of the charm. Every solution was “let’s smash it with the robot and see what happens,” and somehow, it always worked.
Despite rave fan reactions and a tone that was ahead of its time, Megas XLR was cancelled after just two seasons. The reasoning? Reportedly poor toy sales and some behind-the-scenes licensing issues. Fans were devastated. Since then, it’s gained serious cult status, with people still rallying for a reboot or continuation nearly two decades later.
The good news? The show’s entire vibe fits perfectly into today’s nostalgia-loving, meme-embracing fandom culture. If Megas XLR dropped today, it would break the internet. It’s a show made for binge-watching, quoting, and yelling, “It’s go time!” every time your microwave dings. So, if you missed it back in the day, it’s time to fire up that V8 engine, power up the mech, and embrace the chaos. You won’t regret it.
#5: Class of 3000
In 2006, Cartoon Network did something wildly unexpected: they teamed up with Outkast’s André 3000 to create an animated musical comedy about a group of middle schoolers attending an elite performing arts school in Atlanta. The result was Class of 3000—a genre-blending, rhythm-filled, unapologetically creative show that celebrated music, individuality, and art in ways few cartoons ever have. And yet… it came and went with barely a whisper. Let’s change that.
The show follows Sunny Bridges, a world-famous musician (voiced by André himself) who gives up fame and returns home to teach at his alma mater. His class? A group of talented, wildly diverse kids with big dreams, bigger personalities, and some of the best character designs this side of a sketchbook. Each episode focused on a different musical style or artistic theme, complete with an original song and music video-style segment that often exploded into trippy, surreal animation. And these weren’t filler songs—many were absolute bangers that explored everything from jazz to reggae to classical.
Sunny Bridges himself was part teacher, part mentor, part mystical musical Jedi. He was the kind of educator everyone wishes they had—cool, chill, insightful, and full of weird metaphors that somehow always made sense. His teaching style was more “Mr. Miyagi with a guitar” than “sit down and take notes,” which made for some wonderfully imaginative storytelling. Whether he was helping the kids find their own sound or taking them on field trips through musical history, Sunny’s lessons were always about more than just notes—they were about self-expression.
But the heart of the show was its ensemble cast. Lil’ D, the fast-talking hype-man. Philly Phil, the inventor who could turn a lunch tray into a bass guitar. Tamika, who could belt out a tune and take you down with a stare. Each student brought a different flavor, both musically and personally, and watching them clash, grow, and harmonize (literally) was a joy.
Class of 3000 had its own rhythm—visually and narratively. The art style was bold and expressive, inspired by graffiti, jazz album covers, and 70s funk posters. It moved differently. It sounded different. It was different. And for a network known more for slapstick and superheroes, it was a refreshing—and much-needed—splash of soulful creativity.
So why didn’t it last? A mix of production challenges and network shifts reportedly led to its cancellation after just two seasons. It was a rare example of a show that celebrated Black culture, Southern identity, and the transformative power of the arts on a major network—at a time when few shows did. And that loss still stings.
Today, Class of 3000 feels like a precursor to other art-forward shows like Craig of the Creek and Steven Universe, both of which have found bigger fan bases. But Class of 3000 was doing it first—and with a trumpet solo. It deserves more love, more retrospectives, and more people adding its soundtrack to their playlists.
#4: Chowder
Premiering in 2007, Chowder was one of the strangest, most delightfully absurd shows ever to air on Cartoon Network—and that’s saying a lot. Created by C.H. Greenblatt (who previously worked on SpongeBob SquarePants), Chowder combined slapstick, food puns, fourth wall breaks, and genuine sweetness into a stew of surreal brilliance. And while it had a dedicated fan base, it often got overshadowed by bigger titles of its era. But make no mistake—Chowder was something special.
Set in the whimsical world of Marzipan City, the show followed a plucky, perpetually hungry boy named Chowder, who’s apprenticing under Mung Daal, an eccentric chef with a mustache that probably defies physics. Chowder is adorable, naïve, and the human (well, maybe feline/bear/rabbit hybrid) embodiment of chaos. He means well—he just happens to accidentally eat half the kitchen, botch every job, and talk to the narrator while he’s at it.
But that’s the magic of Chowder. The show never played by traditional cartoon rules. Characters would literally pull down the screen to stop a scene. They’d switch from animation to live action mid-episode. Chowder would argue with the voice actor in real time, and the background textures? They didn’t move with the characters—intentionally. It was disorienting and hilarious, like watching a cartoon that knew it was a cartoon and wanted to have fun with that fact.
Beyond the chaos, the characters were what gave the show heart. Mung Daal, voiced by Dwight Schultz, was a mix of mad scientist and sitcom dad, always doling out terrible advice with full confidence. His wife Truffles (voiced with biting sass by Tara Strong) was the grumpy bookkeeper who kept the kitchen from collapsing. Schnitzel, the stone-faced rock monster who only said “radda,” somehow managed to steal every scene he was in through sheer deadpan brilliance.
And then there was the food. Every episode featured bizarre culinary creations with names like “grubble gumbo,” “bluenana bread,” or “thrice cream.” These weren’t just gags—they were integral to the plot. Cooking disasters turned into epic battles. Recipes came to life. Dishes exploded. And somewhere amid the madness, the show managed to sneak in some surprisingly emotional moments about growing up, responsibility, and believing in yourself—even if you’re a kid who eats everything in sight.
Chowder didn’t have a long run—just three seasons—but its legacy is strong. It inspired a new wave of cartoon weirdness and paved the way for shows like Adventure Time and The Amazing World of Gumball. And its finale? A heartwarming flash-forward that shows Chowder all grown up, taking over the kitchen, and mentoring his own apprentice. It’s rare that a cartoon gives you a full-circle ending, and Chowder did it with tears, laughs, and one last bite of grubble cake.
It might have looked like dessert, but Chowder was a full-course meal. It was colorful, chaotic, and completely one-of-a-kind. And it deserves way more love than it ever got.
#3: Infinity Train
Of all the Cartoon Network shows to fall through the cracks, Infinity Train might be the most frustrating. Because it wasn’t just good—it was phenomenal. A high-concept, emotionally rich, and visually stunning anthology series, Infinity Train told bold, deeply personal stories through the lens of a mysterious train that appears to lost souls in need of healing. Each train car contains a different world, a different puzzle, a different emotional truth. And for the characters inside? It’s a journey of literal and figurative self-discovery.
The first season introduced us to Tulip, a young girl grappling with her parents’ divorce and her own sense of isolation. Stuck on the train with a glowing number on her hand, she travels through bizarre cars—a corgi kingdom, a talking cat’s lair, a world of sentient orbs—each pushing her to confront her pain. Alongside her are One-One (a two-headed robot that’s half manic optimism, half soul-crushing depression) and Atticus, the noble corgi king. It’s whimsical, sure—but deeply resonant. Tulip isn’t just solving puzzles. She’s learning to forgive, to accept, to grow.
Later seasons shift protagonists entirely, evolving into an anthology about trauma, redemption, identity, and transformation. Book Two follows Mirror Tulip, a former reflection trying to define herself. Book Three explores the morally complex duo of Grace and Simon, leaders of a rebellious cult aboard the train. And Book Four tells a heart-wrenching love story between two musicians—Ryan and Min-Gi—who must repair their friendship while trapped in a train car that tests their harmony in more ways than one.
What makes Infinity Train so emotional is its refusal to talk down to its audience. It treats kids with respect, understanding that they, too, experience grief, guilt, betrayal, and fear. It uses high-concept sci-fi to explore very real emotional landscapes. It asks big questions: Can people change? How do we process loss? What does it mean to move on? These aren’t easy ideas—but the show tackles them with grace, maturity, and some seriously beautiful animation.
And the visuals? Incredible. Each car is like its own short film, from pixelated platformers to haunted houses to floating temples. The score is moody and cinematic, the voice acting top-tier, and the storytelling? Unmatched.
So why is it so underrated? The short answer: mishandling. Despite critical acclaim and a growing fanbase, Infinity Train was yanked from HBO Max without warning. No physical release, no digital purchase, just poof—gone. Fans were outraged. Creators were blindsided. And the loss of such a groundbreaking show felt like a gut punch to those who saw what it could’ve become.
But the love hasn’t gone away. Fans still talk about it, share fan art, write essays, and shout about it on every platform they can. Because Infinity Train deserves that—and so much more. It wasn’t just another cartoon. It was a mirror, a guide, and sometimes, a lifeline. And for many who rode its rails, it changed the way they saw the world.
#2: My Gym Partner’s a Monkey
In the mid-2000s, while the network spotlight was on bigger hits like Ben 10 and Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, My Gym Partner’s a Monkey quietly built a reputation as one of the most bizarre and charmingly chaotic comedies in Cartoon Network’s lineup. The premise alone was enough to make you blink twice: a clerical error sends a human boy, Adam Lyon, to Charles Darwin Middle School—a school for animals. Instead of fixing the mistake? He just rolls with it. What follows is four seasons of wonderfully weird animal antics, slapstick, satire, and surprisingly sharp social commentary.
Adam Lyon is your classic straight man—smart, awkward, and constantly trying to survive a school system not made for someone without feathers or fur. His best friend? Jake Spidermonkey, an over-caffeinated, wildly impulsive simian who’s part class clown, part chaos gremlin. Their friendship drives the series, with Jake dragging Adam into increasingly ridiculous situations—whether it’s navigating school dances with tigers, facing off in dodgeball against venomous reptiles, or being hunted by a romantic elephant.
The humor was fast, loud, and often downright unhinged. Every character felt like a walking punchline: Ingrid the tough-as-nails giraffe; Slips the perpetually clueless snake; Lupe the opera-singing, emotionally intense armadillo. But what kept the show from being just a string of gags was its subtle heart. Adam didn’t always want to be at Darwin, but he stuck by his friends. And while the animal world often made no sense (like, why are the sharks in a water tank in the classroom?), the emotional logic of middle school misfits trying to find their place rang true.
The animation was colorful and exaggerated, with bold outlines and rubbery expressions that fit the show’s manic energy perfectly. Visually, it shared DNA with early 2000s hits like Billy & Mandy and Johnny Bravo, but carved out its own identity with animal-centric designs and settings. You never knew what you were going to get—one day it was a lunchroom uprising led by the lunch lady hippo, the next it was a deep dive into Adam’s anxieties about growing a mustache.
Despite decent ratings and a Daytime Emmy win, the show often got overshadowed by its more “prestige” peers. It was treated as a “mid-tier” cartoon—but fans who grew up watching it know the truth: it was laugh-out-loud funny, consistently clever, and secretly relatable. Its take on middle school awkwardness was just as effective—if not more so—than shows with more realistic settings.
My Gym Partner’s a Monkey deserves more love because it never tried to be cool. It embraced its weirdness, celebrated friendship, and gave us a cartoon jungle where the rules of physics didn’t apply, but the emotions always did. Radda-radda? No. Banana, banana? Definitely yes.
#1: The Life and Times of Juniper Lee
Coming in at number one is the often-forgotten, criminally underrated action-comedy gem The Life and Times of Juniper Lee. Debuting in 2005, this show had everything you’d expect from a prime-time hit: a witty, charismatic protagonist, vibrant animation, rich world-building, and a unique twist on the magical girl trope. But for reasons that still baffle fans, it never broke into the mainstream the way it deserved to—and that’s a tragedy.
Juniper Lee is a preteen girl living in Orchid Bay City, a bustling town where magical creatures, demons, and mystical chaos lurk just beneath the surface. As the “Te Xuan Ze,” it’s her job to maintain the balance between the magical and human worlds. That means her after-school activities often include fighting trolls in the sewer, calming angry spirits, and solving ancient curses—all before homework’s due. She’s basically Buffy for the Cartoon Network crowd—and she slays.
What made Juniper such a standout was her voice. Smart, sarcastic, and deeply grounded, she wasn’t your typical high-strung superhero. She got annoyed. She made mistakes. She had to deal with bratty younger brothers, strict parents, and school drama on top of magical emergencies. But she always showed up—and not because she wanted to be a hero, but because she had to be. The responsibility wasn’t glamorous. It was part of who she was. That blend of duty and real-world problems made her instantly relatable.
The supporting cast added to the show’s charm. Monroe, the talking Scottish bulldog advisor (voiced by Carlos Alazraqui), brought the wisdom and dry humor. Ray Ray, Juniper’s younger brother, was an absolute chaos machine with enough energy to power a city—and often made things worse in hilarious ways. There were magical allies, dangerous villains, and a rotating cast of quirky mythological beings that pulled from global folklore, not just European fantasy. The show respected other cultures and made its magical world feel broad and inclusive.
Visually, Juniper Lee was sleek and expressive. The action scenes had weight and speed. The creature designs were unique. And the city of Orchid Bay had its own personality—equal parts normal suburb and supernatural hotbed. It felt lived in. It felt real. And it had layers that most kids’ shows didn’t bother to explore.
So why didn’t it explode in popularity? Timing and overlap. It aired in the shadow of Danny Phantom and Kim Possible, two other teen-superhero-type series that dominated the space. But while Juniper Lee shared some DNA with those shows, it carved its own path—one full of Southeast Asian influences, witty banter, and moral gray areas.
Its cancellation after three seasons left many storylines unresolved. And yet, for the fans who grew up with it, Juniper Lee was more than just a cartoon—it was a comfort, a role model, and a world that deserved more time to grow. It showed girls—and really, all kids—that they could be powerful without being perfect, strong while still being vulnerable. And that, more than any ratings number, is why it deserves a comeback.
These shows weren’t just “pretty good for their time.” They were clever, creative, ahead of the curve, and bursting with potential that went unseen by the mainstream. Some were too weird. Some weren’t marketable enough. Some simply got lost in the shuffle. But each of them had something that made them unforgettable to those who watched—and they deserve more than a footnote in Cartoon Network history.
It’s time to give them the spotlight they earned. Cue the reruns. Start the petitions. These unsung heroes of animation deserve another chance to shine.
