You should have seen this woman. You wouldn’t have believed it. I didn’t believe it at first. But this is Los Angeles; the entire economy hinges on a collective suspension of disbelief.

I was on my way to meet an old friend for lunch in Santa Monica. There’s no easy way to get to Santa Monica, not from where I live. In fact, there’s no easy way to get anywhere from where I live, unless I need something from the headquarters of the Russian Mafia. That’s an easy walk next door.

The easiest way to get to Santa Monica, or I guess I could say, the easiest way to get anywhere in Los Angeles is by helicopter, naturally. But since I don’t own a helicopter and don’t have big enough boobs to cover traffic patterns for a local Fox morning show, I had to take the second easiest way to Santa Monica: a straight line through the surface streets of Beverly Hills.

It’s easy to hate Beverly Hills with its rolling green lawns and bourgeois zoning laws requiring that all homeowners park at least one BMW at the head of the driveway. But the real reason to hate Beverly Hills is its disproportionate contingency of beautiful, long-legged women. Whoever cast Shannen Doherty as a representative resident of Beverly Hills was smoking some serious crack, and I want some.

At the corner of Beverly and Robertson on the edge of Beverly Hills, there are two coffee shops competing for business, a Coffee Bean on the north side, a Starbucks on the south side. Both shops are always packed, usually with the more well endowed of our species. I was waiting at the stoplight at this intersection, browsing the catalog of beautiful people milling about the sidewalk when I saw her.

She was a beautiful mixture of famous assets: Mary Hart’s legs in the early days of Entertainment Tonight; Pamela Anderson’s breasts before she had the implants surgically removed and then re-inserted; Jennifer Lopez’s ass as reflected in a slimming mirror; Angie Everheart’s hair if Angie Everheart’s hair were long and blonde.

I think I sat through three rotations of that light, even though I was at the front of the line of cars. No one cared; no one honked me into consciousness. No one could cease gawking at the vision in front of the Coffee Bean. Four men sitting outside at Starbucks leapt out of their seats and ran across the intersection defiantly betraying their brand loyalty.

When the first man approached the woman it seemed as if they exchanged a few pleasantries, perhaps a hello or a how-are-you-doing, I couldn’t really tell from where I was sitting in my car. But she must have said something terribly outrageous, indicated in some obvious way that things weren’t altogether normal, because he immediately about-faced and ran in the opposite direction.

It was at this point that I got a good look at her face, or I guess I should say his face. This vision, this Queen of The Coffee Shops was indeed just that, Queen of the Coffee Shops. He was stunningly hot. I’m certain Beverly Hills has specific zoning laws against this.