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Thursday - October 09, 2003
Miami Vices


Although it may seem like it, I am *not* a television addict. There are many, many hours of my life spent doing other things. However…

CSI: Miami must die. It must be stopped. It must be held underwater and drowned until it is bloated and blue and rot-infested. The producers should be drug behind a truck and then shot to insure they can never do this again. Then, and only then, David Caruso needs to be anally raped by crack-addicted coyotes with venereal diseases. Following his canine violation, he is to be decapitated with his head set on a spike on Ocean Boulevard as a warning to other preachy, self-obsessed, ridiculously hammy no-talent community theater rejects.

For the love of God. I have been tuning into this show because I have an understandable bisexual lust for Emily Proctor. The drawling accent, the long blonde hair, the big eyes -- I think we can safely agree that this little slut needs to be sucked on until she moans my name.

But I digress. 

CSI: Miami is an insult. And if you ever lived in Miami, it’s an unforgivable affront. Crime scene investigators do not have the authority to take over airline crash investigations. They do not boss around the FBI and they DO NOT drive around in fucking Hummers. And every murder that takes place in the city of Miami is not about global fucking terrorism. Sometimes people just like to shoot other people, okay? Sometimes Bob gets pissed off at Sam for eating all the Milk Duds and Bob expresses his anger with an AK-47. No one in the Middle East is even involved.

Also there is nothing of Miami in the show. It could be set in Bogota for all the effort the producers put into exploring a setting that is pregnant with possibility. Emily is very quickly becoming not worth enough motivation to sit through it. Almost. Last week’s sweaty Emily in a tank top made sure I’ll be tuning in next week. But they better get her in a fucking bikini pronto. Of course, they could just give the cast characterization, improve their ridiculous plot lines, and learn how to write dialog. But, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. 

It is for these reasons that I was very, very hesitant to watch Karen Sisco. Although I liked the Soderbergh film that inspired it, I wasn’t prepared to watch another visually okay television show glamorize a public service profession and deface my hometown. But…there was this hot chick…

From time to time we are delightfully surprised. And Sisco is a delightful surprise. It helps that I have also had a lipstick lesbian crush on Carla Gugino ever since watching her get her southern-drawling brains fucked out in Judas Kiss (a MUCH underrated film in which British actors Emma Thompson and Alan Rickman both pull off very convincing Luzianne accents and where there is an actual car accident where nothing explodes and those involved don’t walk away without a scratch).

In last night’s episode Karen and her father shared a Cuban sandwich off a roach coach. Fucking A! THAT is Miami. 

I don’t mind stylish cars. I don’t mind sexing up what are otherwise low-paying, dreary government jobs that go largely unrewarded. Maybe if CSI would stop taking itself so fucking seriously it might be able to expand its scope beyond Caruso’s hammy close-ups and take advantage of the beautiful setting it selected. Maybe the fucker could even munch on a Cuban sandwich and let one of the other cast members have a scene where he isn’t the focus of fucking attention.

Barring that, it should just lighten the fuck up and take a page from Sisco.

I’m not holding my breath. 

I am, however off to have a nice little fantasy about Emily Proctor and Carla Gugino all tied up in my bed and in need of some serious spankings.

Nummy.

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