CSI Miami is an abomination.
CSI Miami is a crime against humanity.
CSI Miami may be more dangerous to society than those fast-breeding radioactive toilet piranhas that the government keeps releasing into the water table.
If you have based anything in your life—an opinion, dinner plans, a career goal—on watching CSI Miami, please report to your local town hall, fill out the appropriate paperwork, and proceed to the nearest suicide chamber in an orderly fashion. Do it even if you just like the show.
Last week, thanks to the inappropriately named American Movie Classics (AMC) network, after carefully avoiding over a decade’s worth of CSI Miami episodes, my pristine mind was passively exposed to ten brain-pulverizing minutes of this toxin—the same ten minutes from which I’ve formed my entire opinion. Here’s where I came in.
A female crime lab technician— no I’m not learning the names of any of the characters or even researching the actors’ bios. A female crime lab technician is talking to a stereotypical male homicide detective—salt and pepper hair, ill-fitting brown sports coat—about a bullet that had been extracted from the victim’s murdered head. She’s been doing some research and explains to him that the bullet had actually been “fired” twice. Once at the gun range, while the female victim was target practicing (back when she was alive) and then a second time when it was blown through the air and into her head by tornado winds. They even show a flashback—they love to use flashbacks on CSI Miami—of the victim firing her gun at one of those gun ranges where, once you’re done shooting, the ranger masters stop the other shooters long enough for you to locate and collect the slugs that you fired from your gun and place them in a bucket which you will proudly display on your windowsill when you get home. In another flashback scene, the tornado blows the bucket off of the window sill, sending shrapnel around the room until one of the bullets—the one that the crime lab tech has been talking about—lodges in the victim’s temple, making it appear as though she’s been shot.
Now, apparently the detectives had been focusing their murder investigation on the victim’s ex-husband, who has been maintaining his innocence all along.
“So, where was the [name of the suspect/ex-husband] during all of this?” the detective asks.
“Probably, hiding under the bed,” responds the crime lab lady with a hint of a smile. By way of confirmation, the scene then flashes back to a seedy looking blond dude hiding under a bed.
Then BAM! Just like that, the detective and the same crime lab tech (who, in reality, would never be asked to participate in an interview) are in an interview room with the same guy who we just saw under the bed in the flashback. With a smarmy smirk, the suspect/ex-husband says, “There’s no crime against being smart, is there?” It’s like he’s so proud that he survived that he’s willing to confess to this top flight crime fighting team, that yes, he had been hiding under the bed like a coward when the 250 mph winds hit.
Because he’s just been informed that he’s no longer a homicide suspect, the cocky douche decides that he’s just going to get up and sashay his not guilty ass right out of the police station.
“Not so fast,” said no crime lab technician who is not the star of a shitty television show ever, but this one does, “Detective?”
And this is maybe my favorite part. The detective explains to the loser that even though he is no longer a murder suspect, he did utilize the victim’s assets after the two had been divorced. I’m not sure if the wife was alive or dead at the point when this towheaded scumbag was supposed to have spent her money, but it’s almost immaterial since she is no longer around to tell the cops whether she wants to prosecute or not.
The detective informs the man who is suspected of spending someone else’s money that he’s going to go away for “a couple of years.” Because if you have a professional team of forensic scientists working on a case, you can convince just about any judge and jury to sentence someone for five years (in Florida, gain time accounts two-thirds of the sentence) for an unprosecutable crime.
I realize that I only watched about 20% of a single episode. Defenders of the show—who I imagine would be people who view it in a language that they don’t speak—might argue that this wildly popular stream of piss is an acquired taste and that it’s unfair to judge it after only viewing six hundred excruciating seconds. But the problem is that there was so little factual meat in my short sampling that even if this episode was an anomaly, and all of the others portray realistic crime scene investigation in all of its mundaneness, it still wouldn’t erase the televised stain that AMC left in my bedroom that morning.
CSI Miami, you’re not good.
CSI Miami, you may be irreversibly damaging our jury system with your baseless propaganda.
CSI Miami, you should come back for one final episode in which every one of your actors, writers, directors, and producers are tried for crimes against the arts, and once found guilty, snuff themselves out. It should air this week.
NOTE: I had completed this article when I discovered that CSI Miami had been taken off of the air. It still exists in syndication and continues to do immeasurable harm to individuals who are considering entering the already saturated crime scene investigator job market.