Barney Fife meets NWA meets Kingpin

I love it when people randomly dial my number and ask for donations for charity. I don't know about you but I always feel like giving my credit card information to someone who has just interrupted me in the sanctity of my home, mispronounced my name, and read a donation spiele from a script.

So this weekend I was home doing something or other that I felt was important when the phone rang. I don't have caller ID so it's still a surprise to see who is calling. Lucky me, it was my good friend Sean from the Deputy Sheriff's Association. He first thanked me for my support during last year's fundraiser. I tried to interject that I never donated but he cut me off and rambled on reading his canned sob story about the families of injured and killed deputies needing money. Again, I tried to stop him but he kept going. Finally, I told him this was a really bad week to call me asking for donations to law enforcement seeing as how I had just shelled out more than $10,000 in impound fees and bail while my brother spent four days in jail due to some overzealous hipppy-hating cops. Sean seemed unphased, chuckled and asked me for the equivalent of just 28 cents a day - which amount to about $100 per year. I asked him if he had listened to what I said at all. He said, "I know people have some bad experiences with law enforcement but they have tough times too." Incredible. I then asked him if he remembered the band N.W.A. from the 80's. He said he did, thanked me and hung up. Idiot.

Of course, as with all absurdities in my life, the phone call reminded me of a date I actually went on with a CHP officer way back in 1997. I can't even remember the bloke's name so we'll call him Kingpin.

I met Kingpin while out mountain biking along the Sacramento River one fall day. He was out with a group of friends and I was off to the side of the trail fixing a flat tire. He earned big points by stopping to help - the fact that he was attractive didn't hurt either. We ended up riding in together then exchanging information and making plans to meet for dinner the next weekend.

Dinner, which was at the local Stuart Anderson's Steakhouse, was interesting in that he felt compelled to tell me he was carrying a weapon in case anything should "go down" during dinner. It sounded very serious so I glanced around at the crowd to do some profiling based on entree selection. It's always the early bird's who cause a ruckus. Anyhow, I took note and made certain I used the correct utensils and didn't get out of line. Conversation revolved around, big surprise here, him and his gun and how much he loved being a cop and pulling people over. Also enchanting was his discussion of how he profiled people to pull over based on their vehicle make and hairstyle. He said my ponytail with new truck was safe from profile-based stops.

He was having such a great time that he wanted the date to continue and suggested we go bowling. A bowler I am not but he was cute and carrying a loaded weapon and if you can't have fun with a gun at a bowling alley I don't know where you can.

On the way to the alley he told me how he was on the CHP bowling team and laid the foundation for what a superior bowler he was. He had his own ball, shoes and glove. Custom bowling gear plus chauvenism equals superior bowling complex equals unbearable arrogance so I knew I was in trouble.

Naturally, Kingping wanted to bet on our game, even giving me 20 points. I reminded him that I hadn't bowling since the sixth grade and had never broken 100 but he persisted. Whatever. He proceeded to slaughter me at bowling, gloating all the while. The people in the next lane were rolling their eyes along with me. Such a sad display and he was completely unaware.

After the longest bowling game of my life I was ready to go. He pleaded for one more game with a bigger spread. I refused. Then he did it...He called me a bad loser. This, combined with a couple of pints of beer, the murmurs of the kids in the arcade, and the fact I knew I had wasted a perfectly good Saturday night with the idiot, pissed me off. So I told him I'd play one more round but with my rules. Reveling in his manliness and thinking he could beat me no matter what, he agreed to a double-or-nothing game. The rule was simple: we'd both bowl left-handed to level the playing field (we were both righties).

Poor Kingpin scowled, whined, threw things, fondled his gun, threw the ball into other lanes, and ended up losing in a blowout 42-18 match. Idiot.