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Al Gore: The Most Serious Threat We Face Is... (Wait for It...) Global Warming | Main | GOP Video: Dems On Saddam's WMD's
November 15, 2005

CSI: McDonald's

This parody plays off the article Hoax Call to McDonald's Results in Forced Nudity and Forced Sodomy.

As you can imagine, there's a Strong Content Warning.

SCENE: Early morning in Las Vegas. A McDonald's restaurant shows BULLET DAMAGE in its windows and fascade as GRISSOM, STOKES, WARRICK, WILLOWS, GREG, and SARAH approach it.

Various beatcops mill around. DETECTIVE BRASS addresses GRISSOM.

BRASS: Looks like an armed robbery gone bad. Three swing-shift employees are dead. They ripped the safe out from the floor and took it with them. Probably going to drop it out of a high window... that's the amateur way of cracking a safe.

GRISSOM: Probably not an inside job. Someone on the inside would have had the combination.

BRASS: That's what I'm thinking. The vics were killed behind the register, but they were dragged back to the refrigerator. Their bodies are partly frozen, putting the time of death at sometime between midnight and two last night.

GRISSOM: Good. I'm going to want a thermometer in those bodies to get a more definitive T-O-D. Also, I'm going to want you to get on your knees and suck my hog.

BRASS: What?

GRISSOM (unzipping shorts): We're losing precious minutes, Brass. Kneel down and give me a wettie.


GRISSOM: I have to eliminate you as a suspect. It's protocol.

BRASS: Well, if it's protocol.... (he begins schlorping Grissom's manhorn)

WARRICK: Stokes and I will process the cooler. Figure Sarah, Greg, and Catherine can take the scene of the murder.

GRISSOM: Sounds good. I'll just be here, gettting sucked off by a 60 year old heterosexual man. (he grips Brass by the back of the head) Work the evidence, Brass.

BRASS: Mmmphhnmmbb.

GRISSOM: That's right. Work it. (dramatically, as we approach the scene-cut:) We speak for the dead.


SCENE: A large refrigerator's doors are open. Stokes examines the ground for shell casings as Warrick snaps pictures of the locations of the spent casings. His high-end camera snaps pictures with a HIGH PITCHED WHINE.

STOKES (on knees, marking casing with numbered-card): Looks like forty-fives. A lot of them. We may be looking for a machine-gun.

WARRICK: Could you move a little?

STOKES: Am I in your shot?

WARRICK: Not enough, actually. Can you stick your ass up in the air and sort of turn around with your face and give me a sex-kitten-y kinda look?

STOKES: Don't kid around.

WARRICK: No, I'm serious, you've got an absolutely spectacular manpooter.

STOKES: (blushing) Really? This old thing...?

WARRICK (clicks a picture): No doubt, no doubt. Now arch your back and really give me the buttsteak.

STOKES: Well, I can't say I'm not flattered, but shouldn't we start processing the corpses?

WARRICK: They're not getting any deader. Now pull your pants down to your ankles and start spanking yourself.

STOKES: I don't see why--

WARRICK: I have to eliminate you as a suspect.

STOKES: Well that makes sense. Maybe I should rub this Hot Apple Pie all over my ass while I'm at it?

WARRICK: Good thinking. It'll help me, uhhh, calibrate the f-stop. Or something.

STOKES (spanking himself, smearing sugary sauce on his buttocks): Warrick... these kids are only 16, 17 at most. What kind of monster would do something like this?

WARRICK: I don't need that kind of bad energy in my shoot. Now look fierce! Fiercer! Move your ass around so the light catches on the apple-pie filling!


SCENE: Sarah Sidle and Catherine Willows snap pictures of blood pools as Greg watches them.

GREG: Mid-velocity spatter. All this blood came from the vics. I don't think we're going to find any perp DNA here.

WILLOWS: There's a void over there, Greg. Why don't you see if you can figure out what might have blocked the blood-splatter?

GREG: That's a good idea. Here's a better idea. Why don't you and Sarah strip down to your panties and start boxing each other. Full contact, no holds barred. Feel free to smack each other in the poonanis while you're at it.

SARAH: Greg, I don't see what scientific purpose that serves.

GREG: I have to eliminate you as suspects.

Sarah and Willows exchange looks, then shrug. They strip down to their skivvies and begin kicking each other in the ovaries.

GREG: Oh yeahhh... oh yeahh... keep on keepin' on... I've almost eliminated you now.

Willows grabs Sarah by the hair.

GREG: Smother her in your breasts.


GREG: Protocols.

Willows shrugs and forces Sarah's head between her patently artificial breasts.

GREG: Yeahh... yeahh... ooohhhh... Okay, you're both eliminated as suspects.

WILLOWS: (panting) Can we put our clothes back on?

GREG: Nah, keep them off. I don't want the scene contaminated any further.

GRISSOM and BRASS walk in. Grissom looks very relaxed; Brass, not so much.

WILLOWS: Anything to report, Gris?

GRISSOM: Yes. A cryptic literary quote to show how scary-smart I am: "The thing is not what it is, but only what it signifies."

WILLOWS: What does that mean?

GRISSOM: No idea. I'm still buzzed from that hummer Brass gave me. He's got a mouth like fine velvet after a warm rain.
Well the motive might not have been entirely financial. Semen sample on the cash register.

GREG: Uhhh actually, that's my bad, Boss.

GRISSOM: Well it does confuse the crime scene. (unzipping his pants)

GREG (getting to his knees): You have to eliminate me as a suspect, I guess?

GRISSOM: Yes, but I'll need you to turn around, face the other way.

GREG: ....

GRISSOM: It's a very cutting-edge technique. I just read about this in the American Journal of Forensics. Or Screw magazine. I forget. They're both considered the bibles of modern criminalistics.

Greg reluctantly begins taking down his pants. Grissom grabs him by the hips.

GRISSOM: Don't move so much, kid. You ain't a bronco and I'm not John Travolta. After all: We speak for the dead.

(BUZZ-OUT sound effect, end scene)


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posted by Ace at 07:50 PM

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