Only Skot can take a show so abhorrently awful as CSI: Miami and revel in it.

You see, it has morphed from a disastrous, insulting failure — not to mention a criminal waste of talents like Emily Procter and Khandi Alexander — into possibly the most overwrought, over-the-top, hilariously ridiculous spectacle since… I don’t know. The Piltdown Man? Any Cirque Du Soleil show? This show is so awesomely misguided and bizarre and campy that it could only top itself by having everyone perform in drag. And I feel bad saying that, because I have friends who are drag queens, and I don’t want them to feel insulted.

Every time I’ve been subjected to even sixty seconds of CSI: Miami, I’ve found myself wondering (a) how its existence is justified, and (b) why someone (anyone!) hasn’t sent the gift of actual acting lessons to David Caruso. I guess a partial answer to the first query is that, without the show, we wouldn’t have the awesome experience of reading Skot ripping it to pieces, something that’s almost worth the pain of watching it in the first place.