HOW I ALMOST GOT RODNEY KINGED BY THE LAPD

THIS REALLY HAPPENED IN MARCH 2007

Hi, I'm 6 foot 3, 300 pounds, a recovering narcoleptic and I once had an epileptic seizure that totaled my car. In other words, I'm an interesting date and a bad insurance risk.
But that means I have to ride a bike everywhere and when I put on a suit for work, people get the hell out of my way 'cause they think I'm the world's scariest Mormon.

Riding a bike everywhere also makes dating weird. I tell chicks I'll pick 'em up on my bike, and they say "Ooh, Harley?" "No, Huffy."

Now I'm not allowed to drive, but the cops say I can ride a bike. I don't see the logic in that, but it should make my obituary a lot more interesting to read.

I don't understand a lot of things about cops. I got pulled over on Tuesday night – for walking. Not jaywalking. Walking. Up a sidewalk in Hollywood. By myself. First I heard a helicopter, then I saw a spotlight. I thought God was inviting me to do time comedically, but not in prison. So I waved at the copter, just trying to let 'em know I couldn't be guilty because I was so damn friendly. Instead, they apparently decided I was now not just a suspect, but possibly in need of commitment to an institution. Half a block later, three cops cars had pulled up behind me and I was told to drop everything and put my hands in the air. I don't know what I was thinking – IF I was thinking – but I said I hadn't done anything wrong. Of course, I forgot they hear that from EVERYONE they stop. When the lead cop pulled out a gun, I decided it was time to listen.

Next thing I know I'm on my knees, then lying flat on my belly while they keep yelling at me. But I can't hear them because of the damn helicopter, so I finally had to say "I can't f***ing hear you! You come up here if you wanna tell me anything." They decided to let a pair of handcuffs do the talking, 'cause now I was having my hands cuffed behind my back. I was then asked to roll over and sit up, like I'm a DOG.

But I'm a 300 pound dog, so I told them that might be difficult. They kindly yanked me to my feet and asked if they could search my wallet. I have a Costanza wallet. So they have a little trouble finding my ID, I can't imagine why. I tell them take a look behind my credit cards while they're at it, so they can see my business card. They ask why and I said don't worry I'm not trying to establish an online friendship or anything. I just wanted them to see I'm a reporter.

So about ten seconds later, the cuffs are coming off and they're telling me that I matched the description of an area burglar "to a T." Folks, look at me. I can imagine them calling that one in: Hello, suspect is 6'2", 300 POUNDS, wearing a black beret and red checkered Vans. No, we don't believe he's retarded. But he is guilty of crimes against fashion."

They told me then that I was free to go, as if I was leaving a dinner party. They asked if I was gonna write about it. I said "What do you think? Oh, and I'm also a standup, so I'll give you even more exposure." They finally said, "Sorry, but this was standard procedure." Say what? Those words cover a lot of wrong things: It was standard procedure for Hitler to gas the Jews. It's standard procedure for the NYPD to shoot a guy 41 times for pulling out his wallet. It's standard procedure for a bum to crap himself, or for me to piss in the sink if I'm trapped at a party and the bathroom line's too long.

Standard procedure doesn't make anything right.