David Caruso could kick Daniel Day Lewis's ass

He may not look like your stereotypical Hollywood actor, but David Caruso is to acting what Michelangelo and Picasso were to painting.

I have been spent the last twenty minutes searching for excessively poetic ways to describe Caruso’s incredible acting powers, but my thesaurus has a limited selection of synonyms for “Kick ass” “sa-weet” and “like really, really good,” so I’ll just leave say it as simply and plainly as I can: David Caruso can freaking act.

You don’t believe me? You don’t trust my keen analysis of the thespian arts? Well, fine. You can just judge for yourselves. Below is a montage of Caruso’s greatest acting moments on the unbelievably awesome and well-written television crime show “CSI: Miami.”



I’m sure at some point this guy is going to win an Emmy for his drama skills. I mean its not like Daniel Day Lewis (star of “There Will Be Blood”) could recite a hip one-liner and then throw on a pair of sunglasses anywhere close to as well as David Caruso. And yet, all you ever here about is “Daniel Day Lewis, oh great actor. So good in that boring movie about oil.” Pa-lease.

Besides, Caruso could kick Daniel Day Lewis’ ass any day. And as Caruso stood over his bloody body, he’d say “I guess you were right ‘There was blood,’ (Insert "YEAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" sound clip)” and then throw on his sunglasses and walk off into the Miami sunset.

So, there. And if you still don’t believe that Caruso is the best actor ever, then just take Caruso’s advice:

The great Walmart electric shopping cart race

Gosh, I am the biggest boob on Earth. I mean I just don’t think sometimes. Take yesterday, for instance. On my way home from another boring day at work, I stopped into the Walmart in Eastlake. I figured I’d see what kind of stuff was on sale, maybe even buy some groceries. So, I started wandering the aisles, perusing the high-quality products and wouldn’t you know it: I ended up ruining some kind of electric shopping cart race!

Now in my defense, there weren’t any signs or any lanes marked off for the race, and come to think of it, none of the plump people on the carts were wearing numbers, but I’m damn sure there was some kind of race going on. After all, I must have counted about seven or eight people zooming around the store on those motorized things. And me being ignorant and stupid and moronic, I just got in the way, clogging up aisles with my damned able-body.

Whatever type of race it was, these people sure were focused. I specifically recall one blubbery sweat-pants-wearer squeezing his electric shopping cart passed me in the macaroni and cheese aisle. He was strangely entranced. I’m sure it was some kind of athletic, dogged determination, but I could have sworn the guy was just in some kind of zombie –like state on an undead quest to purchase enormous Cheese whiz canisters.

Like I said, I don’t know what the race was. There was no track, no referee and no finish line. It was weird. Maybe they had checkpoints or something along the way, because I kept seeing these electric cart people in specific areas - like the Randy Travis CD sale rack, the “As Seen on TV” back hair removal kit and Funyans party bag sections.

I admit I was pleased to see the race was a co-ed event that seemed open to anybody who wanted to enter except: elderly people, pregnant women or physically disabled individuals. This was probably because they have slower reactions or something, and the organizers didn’t want to endanger any of the other drivers.

Well, I was really distracted by the race and everything so I didn't actually buy anything. But before I left, I made sure to go over to the store manager and apologize profusely for my ankles repeatedly getting in the way of these electric cart racers. He just kind of blinked in my direction.

Man, I really need to pay more attention and stop doing stupid thing.

It takes a village...of hillbillies

An interesting phenomonen is sweeping America: Some powerful pickup trucks have recently grown long, dangling testicles. Whether you’re on Interstate 90 in Ashtabula County, Ohio, or the backroads of Appalachian Tennessee, you can see these well-endowed pickup trucks zooming past you, leaving you in a wake of Nascar exhilaration and cigarette smoke.

Of course, not everyone drives trucks with testicles. No. It takes a certain type of person: the few, the proud, the hillbilly. Not happy with the standard hallmarks of hillbilly pride (Nascar t-shirts with cut off sleeves, Rebel flags flapping in the wind, television sets on the front porches), some men are now proclaiming their intense hillbilliness by adding prosthetic testicles to their trucks.

I think the theory is that these testicles artistically symbolize the driver and the pickup truck’s “power,” “manliness.” But they just really annoy me. I mean everybody knows testicles are ugly, and I don’t want to be reminded of my anatomical ugliness when I’m driving down the road, trying to find a good radio station, text my pals and eat yogurt all at the same time. You know?

And any way, I have found it much easier and classy to demonstrate my scrotal fortitude by trimming my nose hairs, going to batting cages or writing something. I don’t need to attach a pair of highly realistic balls to my car.

I never thought I’d say this: I wish we could just go back to the days when overly self-indulgent sports cars were the way to symbolize a driver’s latent manliness... At least, then I didn’t have to actually see anything.

Vicious Christmas Wench

There's something to be said about the magic of the Christmas spirit. It's so powerful in fact that right on the day after Thanksgiving (which traditionally marks the return of the Christmas holiday season) seemingly normal American women transform into that lovable Christmas shopper: The Vicious Christmas Wench.

Once overcome by the spirit of Christmas, Christmas Holiday Wench instinctively and aggressively curses cash register clerks, steals parking spots and scrounges through toy aisles like a looter in the East L.A. riots.

I worked at JC Penney's during the winter break of my sophomore year in college. It was a challenging job that involved folding clothes, ringing out fat patrons and well...folding clothes. Vicious Christmas Wenches often appeared at my register. I usually could tell by their clenching teeth and the pulsing veins in their forehead that I was in for trouble. Generally, throughout a two minute checkout, Vicious Christmas Wenches would be sure to explain to me (in a tone that denoted a certain air of lunacy) that:

• the lines were horrible
• I wasn't ringing fast enough
• if I was going to work a cash register, I should shave
• my smirk was not appreciated
• the store was a mess
• the parking lot was icy and cold
• prices in the store did not match the prices in the paper
• I needed to pop that zit on my chin IMMEDIATELY
  

Being the kind, compassionate person that I am I usually replied with an "Ummmm, whatever."

If my experience in dealing with the numerous Vicious Christmas Wenches has taught me anything, its to lay low, view from afar and when push comes to shove, use MC Hammer dance moves to ward off coming attacks from this cranky Christmas shopper.

To help you better defend yourself against these hate-filled Christmas creatures, I have kindly provided training for you in the Youtube video below. I hope you appreciate this and send money to my "Buy the cowboy some yogurt fund" which will be coming to fruition in January of 2009. In the meantime, Turn this mutha out (ghetto for - "dance away those Vicious Christmas Wenches")!