Today’s post is not meant for children without adult supervision.
It will tell the story of C.S.I.‘s Gary Dourdan, who happened to be speeding down my residential street, out in front of my house, in his BMW 7-Series, speed speed speeding along without a care in the world and then how he came face to face with a concerned homeowner (ME) who decided to put a stop to his blatant disregard for the laws of the road.
There may be some cursing involved, too — although I’m not 100% sure yet.
It was a sunny afternoon, not unlike every single day of every single month of every single year here in a place they call “Sunny Los Angeles” and I had decided to go out onto my driveway to pick up a variety of flyers about carpet cleaning, chinese food and air-duct cleaning systems that had been littered on my lawn.
A typical day for yours truly.
Yet as I reached the edge of my driveway, I could hear the vroom vroom vrooming of someone who obviously felt that the louder their car could be, the more attention they could garner. I poked my head around the hedges, looking to see what was coming. And there it was:
A BMW 7-Series, black. Speeding at velocities unsupported in this residential area.
A feeling washed over me that I had never experienced before. While, as a kid, I had laughed at adults giving the evil eye to teenagers in cars who were speeding around the neighborhood in their recently aged-16 acquired cars, now I understood where they were coming from. Whoever this speed demon was — well, he must be stopped.
That speed demon just happened to be C.S.I.‘s Gary Dourdan — the highly intelligent, crime fighting, brooding afro-wearing dude — and he was coming my way. I could see his face through the driver’s side window as he approached me and careened at mind-numbing speeds (well, maybe 45 mph) past my house.
I screamed out, “Sloooooow down you a-hole!”
The words must have penetrated the soundproof windows of the German automobile, as Mr. Dourdan screeched his car to a halt and sent a fear I had not felt since I got a cavity filled, through my bones. I stood there for a split second wondering if he was going to throw-down some of that C.S.I. attitude and require the local police to visit a real-life crime scene in the near future, where the cadaver happened to be me.
Instead, he just gave me that “I’m going to kick your ass” look, before speeding back off down the street.
It seemed, of course, that I had lived to see another day of yelling obscenities at fast-driving neighborhood TV stars. But next time would I be so lucky? Next time would I experience the force of Freddy Prinze Jr‘s fist? Or Patrick Swayze‘s round house kick? Or Law & Order‘s Dann Florek‘s legal, yet painful wrath?
Only time would tell.
I just couldn’t help but wonder if I could have kicked Dourdan’s butt, though.
I think I could have.