If I could dunk on anyone, it would be Jaime Kennedy.

Let’s set the scene:
For the n+5th time, Mr. Kennedy is starring as a fish out of water wannabe down with the brothas white guy who thinks he’s “gangsta” and “ghetto” and doesn’t appreciate “bustas” “frontin” “on his stee-los.”

*shudder*

THIS time, through some confluence of impossible and hi-larious circumstances his character – let’s call him Reginald (or R-G-O to his boys) – has gone from suburban playground legend in his own mind to NBA rookie! Jamie and I come face to face on a red carpet half court assembled under spotlights in front of the Mann Chinese for the movie’s big premiere.

“Hey loser,” I shout past Elmo and two Cpt. Jack Sparrows. I interrupt him drunk sexy-talking two slightly below-average girls with slightly above-average bodies he picked up at Baja Fresh 20 minutes ago. “Hey
loser.”

He looks up.

“Why you hatin’ homey???”

He gets all up in my face. He’s breathing heavy from drink and because he must be at least 41. He edges closer to me like he he wants me to take a swing but doesn’t have the guts. I stare daggers and don’t budge. He’s doesn’t know what to do.

Then, inspiration strikes: an idea well-worn since before Scream 2.

“Oh so you wanna battle???”

I should mention that he’s wearing a navy blue Adidas tracksuit. Yes, to his own premiere. And he hasn’t shaved in 2.5 days. It’s like he’s cultivating a bloated, I just woke up at 1 pm hungover look. He thinks he’s cool. He thinks he’s keeping it real. He’s wrong.

He drops down into that stupid breakdance move that white guys with headbands always do, when they plant their hands and bend their elbows then put their legs up in the air and hold them in place for 2-3
seconds and hope people high-five each other in celebration. It of course sucks.

I take two steps forward, put my shoe to his forehead, and push hard.

His right elbow gives out and his legs flop over, twisting his neck. Shocked and embarrassed, he jumps up immediately.

“Dude what the fuck?!” He pushes me, pulling back halfway through because in spite of his posturing he doesn’t really want to get into it.

Too late.

My step-brother Chris throws me the rock. JK is backed up almost under the hoop and doesn’t realize the seriousness of his predicament until in unison the crowd breathlessly exclaims “awwwwwwww no!” They know it’s on. And now so does Jamie Kennedy.

I throw-spin the ball forward so it hits hardwood and flips back towards me. I bear down and advance full tilt. No crossovers. No fakes. No going lefty. None of that’s necessary now. I’m possessed of all the fire and rage any man would be given the opportunity to humiliate Jamie Kennedy..

He shifts his weight left-right-left. He’s trapped. Nowhere to go. His only desire is to be anywhere but here, but here is the only where he is.

I start my skywalk.

Left foot plant. Right foot raise.

I step hard on his bony, shitty knee and inner thigh, digging my cross trainer in like cleats.

Left foot up. Right shoe tip plants in his sternum – chip it raw – brace, and push off. And then …

And then his face. I fucking put my size 10.5 right on his stupid face. I jam the rubber of my heel into his bottom row of teeth and lower gums. For an instant, I’ve cracked his neck back 60 degrees
and am standing on his ugly mug.

Time slows down. Flash bulbs pop. Stu Stone covers his eyes. One of those Baja girls throws up in her mouth. I grind-twist my shoe and pop gristle.

Back to full speed, I launch myself up and towards the rim. I clear that bitch by almost two feet and throw down a punishing two-handed dunk that strips iron from wood and drives the rim directly into Jamie’s huge honking skull.

My feet hit the ground. Jamie’s head follows suit a half second later.

Is he dead? Will I be prosecuted? Does it matter?

Maybe. Probably. No.

I let drop the metal ring and it rattles harmlessly on the ground. The stunned crowd stares in silence. Rob Schneider is beside himself. I pick up the ball up and toss it to my bro.

I walk off the court and off Hollywood Boulevard. I call my girl and tell her I love her. It’s over. It’s done.  I did it.

Brian Alexander lives in Los Angeles, CA and runs CatsandBeer. He has a writing credit on Hannah Montana

James Harvey “Jamie” Kennedy (born May 25, 1970) is an American comedian and actor.

Advertisements