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Dear CSI Producers,
Rumor has it that S7 of CSI plans to become more character-driven and focus on the team's personal lives. Stop it. Stop it at once. Therein lies the road to perdition. Oh, sure, it's subtle at first-an aside here, a flashback there-but soon, the monster devours everything, including continuity and you know, the cases they're supposed to investigate.
Familiarity breeds contempt, and when you were bombarding us with Catherine angst and the wo-wo-woeful tale of Little Murdering Mobster Sam, it did not inspire sympathy. In fact, it made me want to beat her to death with a ballpeen hammer and a turkey baster, or barring that, hop in the Wayback Machine and stitch her loins closed so that that puling brat, Lindsey, never shoots out of them. Magnify the Wo-Wo-Woe factor by six, and I might just jab the TV plug into my frontal lobe, the better to enjoy such riveting television.
Look, I was reeled into CSI by the whodunit factor. I wanted to know who did it and how and why, and Grissom was a delightful enigma. I don't want to know that he leaves the seat up, scratches his ass when he wakes up in the morning, and loudly declares his own farts in the privacy of his own home. It may be true, but I don't need to know it. Now or ever, please and thank you. If I am treated to the vision of Grissom Rolfing in his underwear while Sara plays the bonga-bonga drums and Greg plays the lyre in a loincloth, I'm taking a bandsaw to my CSI DVD collection.
Oh, and memo to the CSI:NY crew:
Leave Flack and Stella and Mac and Danny and Hawkes alone. Please. In the name of God.
Rumor has it that S7 of CSI plans to become more character-driven and focus on the team's personal lives. Stop it. Stop it at once. Therein lies the road to perdition. Oh, sure, it's subtle at first-an aside here, a flashback there-but soon, the monster devours everything, including continuity and you know, the cases they're supposed to investigate.
Familiarity breeds contempt, and when you were bombarding us with Catherine angst and the wo-wo-woeful tale of Little Murdering Mobster Sam, it did not inspire sympathy. In fact, it made me want to beat her to death with a ballpeen hammer and a turkey baster, or barring that, hop in the Wayback Machine and stitch her loins closed so that that puling brat, Lindsey, never shoots out of them. Magnify the Wo-Wo-Woe factor by six, and I might just jab the TV plug into my frontal lobe, the better to enjoy such riveting television.
Look, I was reeled into CSI by the whodunit factor. I wanted to know who did it and how and why, and Grissom was a delightful enigma. I don't want to know that he leaves the seat up, scratches his ass when he wakes up in the morning, and loudly declares his own farts in the privacy of his own home. It may be true, but I don't need to know it. Now or ever, please and thank you. If I am treated to the vision of Grissom Rolfing in his underwear while Sara plays the bonga-bonga drums and Greg plays the lyre in a loincloth, I'm taking a bandsaw to my CSI DVD collection.
Oh, and memo to the CSI:NY crew:
Leave Flack and Stella and Mac and Danny and Hawkes alone. Please. In the name of God.