On a recent trip to Hollywood, I toured the Beverly Hills neighborhood, and was dismayed to find each home protected by security fences, Uzi-bearing guards, and crocodile-filled moats. This snooty stand-offishness inspired yet another epiphany: Using Special Forces to tour homes of Hollywood stars.
Do celebs have a right to privacy? Heck no. The typical Hollywood celeb earns $37 trillion a year, which equals $3.52 from every man, woman, child and hamster worldwide. For that kind of cake, we’re entitled to full access to their lives, homes, and underwear drawers.
Judging by the cold shoulder our tour received, the stars might disagree. Our tour bus took heavy fire when we stopped at Halle Berry’s house and started sifting through her garbage. Two tour patrons were critically wounded, and one we had to leave behind in the dumpster.
As I applied tourniquets and our tour bus sped away, I resolved to get even. And the only way to get even was to get epiphanizing.
It was time to fight fire with gunfire. I called the Commander of U.S. Special Forces, who fortunately I have on speed dial. In cool, clipped military directives, I spelled out the mission: Infiltrate the home of Ted Lange, roam around his house, meet him if need be, and take a gander at his garbage.
Ted Lange, as you will recall, is one of our country’s great thespians and known for his riveting portrayal of Isaac, the friendly bartender from the Love Boat. The picture at the top of the post is the same one of Lange I provided for the commander.
That night, Operation Lange Bang ensued. At precisely 3am, I donned night glasses and climbed aboard a Blackhawk chopper that had landed in my driveway. Twelve steely-eyed members of the Special Forces gave me a brief nod as I took my seat.
Operation Gone Haywire
We soon reached our Beverly Hills target, and the commander dropped a rappelling line to the roof. I followed the Special Forces team onto the roof, briefly jeopardizing the mission because I stopped to clean the gutters (an irrepressible suburban male instinct.)
Using cool Special Forces hand signals, the commander directed us inside. We crawled over barbed wire in the foyer, swam through a moat of shark-infested waters in the kitchen, and dodged a few heat seeking missiles by the powder room. All standard Beverly Hills security measures, I reckoned.
Eventually, we kicked in the laundry-room door, where a sixty-year old, Caucasian woman was folding shirts. She did not appear to be Ted Lange.
“Where is he!” I screamed through my gas mask. “Where’s Isaac?”
She looked at me with complete disgust. “Is this another special forces celebrity home raid?”
I flushed. “Uh, yeah. You mean they’re have been others?”
“Third one this week. You guys have got to get it straight. Ted Lange lives in Oakland.”
I slapped my head. “Oakland! So who lives here?”
“Your worst nightmare, that’s who,” she said with a malicious grin.
As a pair of powerful arms reached around me from behind and proceeded to snap my neck, it occurred to me that if you’re going to take Special Forces into the home of a celebrity, make sure you’ve got good intell.
Otherwise, you may land up in the home of an action hero – aka Arnold Schwarzenegger – and not a friendly bartender. The result can be very hazardous to your health.