CSI: Criminal Semen Investigators

Now you might hear me complain about how many things I have to do, but that is mainly because I am lazy; I actually have a very easy schedule. I mean, I’ve managed to reverse the American work week by working two days a week and getting five days off. Of course before you start saying how lucky I am, I spend those two days in Greeley, Colorado, which is a rant for another day.

Anyway, with all of that free time I could do many great things, like work out or read or volunteer in the community or figure out what the hell Snow is saying in “Informer” (try it). Of course, I do none of that. Instead, I take advantage of the wonderful invention that is TV OnDemand. This wonderful invention allows somebody like me to watch tons of TV shows without wading through stupid commercials about Sex and the City 2. It also gives me an opportunity to sit on the couch in my pink snuggie, which is another wonderful invention. Whoever makes fun of snuggies has clearly never used one. If you use a snuggie while watching TV and don’t agree with me that it’s the best thing since fizz-free roofies, I will personally show up to campus one day wearing nothing but a snuggie. I will need proof however, in the form of you sitting in a snuggie with a genuine frown on your face notarized by your local district attorney.

Anyway, back to the main point, even though I haven’t actually made a main point yet. (That’s why this site is great. If you took three paragraphs to get to your main point anywhere in work or school you would instantly fail.) One of the shows that I have begun watching again is all of the CSIs, mainly because they use songs by The Who. I remember when there was only one show. The next thing you know, they started breeding like bunnies in a box and blam, the next thing you know they are coming out with CSI: Wichita (I’m not sure what the show would be like, but I’m assuming it would revolve around Sean Penn investigating cow tippings and crop circles).

Now, I think that the shows are pretty good, especially the original. The only one I have a problem with is CSI: Miami. I have no problem with the show or the plot; I have a problem with David Caruso. Now, I have made fun of the acting skills of several people on this site, but I personally think that Caruso may be my least favorite actor of all time. For some reason, he is unable to ever make eye contact with who he is talking to or even what he is supposed to be looking at. They always show the crime scene, and there could be a headless body burning at his feet, and he would be looking with intense interest at a trash can in the opposite direction (with his sunglasses on of course, even if it is at night). Then, if somebody addresses him, he dramatically takes off his glasses, slowly raises his head, and delivers some sort of one-liner with the same tone of voice you might use to tell somebody you just found a large lump in their testicles.

Aside from Caruso’s acting, there are also a few other things that I have always found funny about CSI. For one thing, would they ever be able to solve crimes without semen? I mean, they always seem to find it everywhere, so I figure the only way you get caught doing something - like, say, robbing a bank – is if you somehow leave semen stains. In other words women will never be found guilty of a crime ever again. Also, you can’t ever leave hair anywhere, because apparently CSIs have zoom vision that enables them to see microscopic things stuck in people’s noses. I always figured that’s why I can never commit a crime; I shed hair all over the place like some sort of sheepdog with mange.

Although if you were to listen to some experts, CSI has actually made it easier to get away with committing crimes. Apparently all juries want to see today is hair and semen, as if they were some sort of Ron Jeremy fan-club. But then again, what do you expect? Do you know what kind of people get jury duty? People too stupid to weasel their way out of jury duty. Sure some people believe it is your “civic duty,” but I can’t imagine something I would hate more that doesn’t involve rusty scissors. Imagine if you were on a jury that let a guilty man go or prosecuted an innocent man? I imagine it would lead to a lifetime of regret and a feeling of personal responsibility, not unlike the feeling that everyone who saw Gigli must have.

But I feel like CSI has taught me many important life lessons. For one thing, you should never take out a life insurance policy or get in somebody’s will, because the next thing you know you are there lying on a metal table with a towel covering strategic parts of you crotch while they show exactly where in your guts the bullet went through disturbingly graphic computer images. Also, never hang around women, because they will eventually get mad at something and they are a lot more adept at swinging axes than you would have guessed. But most importantly, if you ever need to commit a crime, the best place would probably be right in front of David Caruso, because he will most likely be looking at the ground.

Lending A Helping High

Now I know that I complain a lot about the city where I currently live, Boulder, Colorado. But I still hold out hope that this town is actually filled with good-natured, law-abiding citizens who are simply ecologically friendly and have an undeserved bad reputation. Then a story comes along and reminds me that most of the people in this town are dirty hippies who worked hard to earn that reputation. This is one of those stories.

But believe it or not, this story has several signs of hope for the city of Boulder. For one thing, if the average Boulderite found a two-pound bag of weed, the last thing they would do is call the cops. This is a scientific fact, as the numbers from a very comprehensive survey I did of the three people around me when I read this article prove. When I asked them if they would have reported the find, the consensus was “F**k no!” Most likely, the lucky Boulderite would seclude themselves in their room with nothing but a Pink Floyd CD, the Wizard of Oz, and fifteen pepperoni pizzas and emerge a week later claiming he knows how to solve health care and who killed JFK. Also, it is very possible that this person simply thought that they were making a charitable donation. I mean, the street value of that pot was $8000, which is a lot more money than most charities get from people. In this person’s defense, they probably assumed (possibly correctly) that pot keeps people warmer than coats.

The part of this story that I can’t believe is that the police are actually trying to find the owner so they can return it to them if they have a legal right to have it. Now, I’m not a doctor, but for a person to have two pounds of medical marijuana, they better have a tumor the size of a large beagle on their forehead. I bet this is awkward for police, who are used to taking people’s drugs away, not giving them back. I wonder if they will do one of those things that they do in supermarkets for stupid kids that get lost.

PA: “Will the owner of the two-pound bag of Maui Wowie please report to the lost and found.”

Pot use in Boulder is sort of like polygamy in Utah and inbreeding in the south; sure it’s illegal, but law enforcement just let it slide. I mean, I picked up an issue of a local paper (I won’t say which but I will say that it is in Boulder and it comes out Weekly). I then realized that the entire back page was ads for either medical marijuana or marijuana paraphernalia. Now, I’m willing to bet the odds of a person with a painful terminal illness that would qualify for medical marijuana being enrolled in a four-year university are about as good as me winning America’s Next Top Model. (Not that I don’t have the looks, but I can’t walk in high heels. Don’t ask why I know that).

I’m sure that you have already assumed that the entire population of Boulder is a bunch of stoners. This is unfairly pigeon-holing us. We are much more than a bunch of pot-heads. For instance, we also drink way too much. And we’re perverts. And we beat people up late at night. The sad thing is that when I read that the assailant was described as a “Pacific Islander,” who was fat and ugly, the first thought that came to my mind was “What was I doing last night?” At that moment, my roommate Chris simply appeared in the doorway with a disapproving frown and simply said “Why did you do it?” Now before you bust down my door and make a citizen’s arrest, I took a look at the sketch and of course it wasn’t me. My sketch looks a little more like this (okay fine, more like this). Then again, you could be this guy. That is what we call hiding in plain sight.

As for the girl on the roof, the real mystery is how someone wasted enough to fall off a roof got on a roof in the first place. I also like how the “detectives” concluded that the girl had probably drank “large quantities of alcohol.” Now if that isn’t fine detective work I don’t know what is, because I would have never guessed this girl was drinking; I figured all women were just clumsy retards (that was sarcasm by the way ladies, but don’t worry the sexist comments are coming). This is just further proof that we should never let a woman do a man’s work. And yes, doing stupid stunts drunk is a man thing. When men do it, they don’t go to the hospital. They dust themselves off, shrug off the pain, continue drinking to the applause of his fellow drunken male admirers, and then die the next morning of massive internal bleeding and alcohol poisoning. The good thing is that in the off chance that he survives the fall, he will probably be prescribed medical marijuana.

Long Arm of the Law

So on Monday night, me and my roommate Chris were up at 1 am trying to study for a philosophy midterm exam. Needless to say, I was studying for this exam by watching Sting music videos, and it just so happened that the ad before the video for “Fields of Gold” (favorite song ever by the way) was an ad for Chicken McNuggets. And we all know what happened next; desperate for those little bite-sized morsels of chicken-flavored Styrofoam and an excuse to stop not studying, I told Chris we should drive to McDonalds and go get some.

Five minutes later, we pull out of the Drive-Thru with twenty nuggets, fries, and happiness in a paper bag (I literally mean happiness; that was not a drug reference). It seemed like nothing could go wrong (aside from failing the midterm that is). This was a sign that everything was about to go horribly, terribly, Bieber-esquely wrong.

Now, at 30^th and Baseline, there is a no u-turn sign that everybody ignores. I mean everybody. When the Pope goes to this McDonalds he pulls a u-turn in the Pope-mobile (I’m assuming that is what he drives). It was one in the morning, and the road was empty, so we pulled the turn. As he is doing this, Chris jokingly comments “I hope there aren’t any cops around.” Of course the last time he said this to me while making an illegal turn, we saw a cop. So I jokingly told him not to jinx it. As most of you have already figured out, sure enough a cop car appears out of nowhere and pulls us over. Now, we assumed that once he figured out that neither of us were drunk or high he would let us go with a warning (although it’s harder than you think to convince someone you aren’t high when you have two pounds of chicken nuggets sitting on your lap at one in the morning). But instead, the cop gave Chris a $100 ticket. These are the same Boulder cops who every year let 10,000 people gather on a field to smoke pot.

So basically, we ordered $110 McNuggets. With our luck, I was half expecting to open the bag and find out they got our order wrong, at which point my head would have exploded thus releasing the hamster that lives in there (his name is Happy). I haven’t had a fast food experience this bad since I was walking back from Wendy’s and I was jumped by a herd of raccoons (flock?). For those of you who can’t understand why this is scary, clearly you have never encountered a pod of raccoons (gander?). Just one of those things is scary enough, much less an entire school of them (maybe it’s a pod?).

Now, this story illustrates several points. First, studying is bad. If I had just conceded I was going to fail this test and gone to sleep like I should have, none of this would have happened. Also, no matter how great he was with the Police, watching Sting music videos past midnight never leads to anything good. But most importantly, we need to remember whose fault this really is: the cops.

Now I’m not ragging on all cops. I’m sure that most of the cops out there are drug-busting, cat-grabbing, rapist-catching, gun-toting, hyphen-using, bad-ass defenders of the innocent. But then again, there are cops like these. Now, I’ll at least give them this: if I were in a drug lord’s house for nine hours, the Wii wouldn’t have been the first thing I would have gone for, if you get my drift. But still, we pay these guys to get drug dealers off the streets, not beat their high scores on Wii bowling. Also, look at the cop’s celebration at 16 seconds into the video. I don’t want guys who celebrate like that confronting heavily armed criminals; they would eat him alive.

Now let’s go to the other end of the spectrum, from cops who don’t take their job seriously enough to cops that want to shoot you. Now, I understand using tasers on dangerous criminals and drunken people, but a 76-year-old? Where was the guy going to go? He was on a tractor (and why do they drive tractors in parades in Wyoming?) and he’s 76 years old. I’m pretty sure the cops could have handled him without shocking him (and yes, these cops were later fired).

I mean, if cops were serious about stopping real crime and drug use, they should just watch a Denver Nuggets basketball game on TV. The Nuggets have a deal where Taco Bell offers four tacos for $1 if the team scores more than 100 points in a game. This is a very big deal for the Nugget’s two announcers, Chris Marlowe and Scott Hastings, who occasionally mention it.

Marlowe: And Carmelo scores! The score is tied at 12.

Hastings: Only 88 more points until tacos.

Later on…

Marlowe: Basket is good! Nuggets ahead 97-95.

Hastings: Someone should shoot a three so we can get tacos.

Marlowe: Billups drains a three! Nuggets win!

Hastings: TACOS!!!!!!!!

Now don’t tell me that these two just like tacos. They have the munchies. The other night, with the Nuggets up by 40 points, Hastings stopped talking about the game and just started giggling and talking about tacos. If the cops just checked under his table, they probably would have found a bong the size of a large dog. But no, instead of arresting stoned sports announcers, they are on empty roads ticketing students merely trying to get some study food. Then again, maybe they’re just trying to catch Hastings coming back high from the Taco Bell Drive Thru.

Cop: Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?

Hastings: TACOS!?!?!?!