Loser's Guide to Life
Once again the CSI man walks into the crime scene, crisp and black in his pressed suit, a well-oiled tool of a man. Vlip. He checks it out. Then he tells someone else to check it out.
“Check it out: mucus.”
“Uh ... okay, I'll ... hmblg gmb hrrm mrb...”
You will what? You'd better learn to talk a bit more snappily than that. There are all kinds of aging underwear models who'd kill for your job. CSI man looks around, shoots his cuffs, frowns. It's the scene of the crime. This is where it went down, man. Getting a sense of what happened here. Walk me through this. H'mmmm. Okay: what is that weird odour ... ? No, in the plastic bag. Yes, what ya got?
“Appears to be dogshit, Detective.”
H'mm, okay, bag it. Get it to ballistics. See if—
“You know, I don't think so, Detective. I think we're just gonna leave it here. Okay? In fact, why don't you go away? No, I mean, get in your car and drive away entirely. That's right. Bye.”