I'm nearly a paramedic and I frequently get to meet celebrities. Recently I got to meet Tom Selleck -- TV's "Magnum P. I." -- and I thought I would share that story with you.

Tom Selleck was eating lunch with a young Keanu Reeves when he suddenly gasped and turned blue. "Ohmigod!" Tom croaked. "I've got a large hunk of rumaki stuck in my throat!"

A horrified Keanu, wearing Commes des Garcons, pulled out his cellphone and dialed for help.

"DAVID? Hi. I'm lunching with Tom Selleck, and . . . what? Commes des Garcons. And he's choking, and . . . what? David, I am HORRIFIED you'd think we'd be doing that HERE. The Bistro Garden. David, you're not being much help. What? Let me write that down. 9-1-1. What's their number?"

By the time we pulled up to the restaurant, Tom was blue and his head was swollen even larger than usual. We hadn't a second to lose or there would only be TWO has-beens in the "Magnum, P. I." reunion movie. I loosened his tie and started to apply CPR but he didn't respond.

"TAKE HIS SHIRT OFF!" I barked, and instantly Clarice, my able assistant, tore the Romeo Gigli from his body. I swooned at the swirls of chest hair that looked like the state of Washington from the air before we sold off all the old-grove forests.

"Now take off his shoes!" Clarice leapt to my aid. "And drop those pants!" Here my youthful ward Rickie brutally pushed Clarice aside and dove for Tom's Gucci belt. Seconds later Tom was bright blue and clad only in boxer shorts.

"I'm going in, men!" Using all my acumen and oyster tongs that were laying nearby I gently prodded and poked until Tom's manliness protruded from his boxer shorts.

You know how eggs are rated "large," "extra-large," "jumbo" and "mammoth"? If Tom's penis were an egg, it would be a "medium."

Rickie piped in. "Maybe if we all squeeze his buttcheeks together the rumaki will come flying out."

Clarice and I looked at Rickie, horrified. Rickie looked at us blankly. Then he looked shocked. "HIS MOUTH!"

Relieved, we decided to try. We rolled Tom over and pulled down his Brooks Brothers boxers.

"Ewww!" Clarice cringed. "There's a zit! I'm not touching him!"

With Clarice out, Rickie and I, and some volunteers from tables nearby, positioned our hands on his large, round butt, and let me tell you there was room for six more volunteers.

"OK! On the count of three! ONE . . . TWO . . . THREE!"

Everyone in the restaurant held their breath as we all pressed as hard as we could on Tom's posterior. Instantaneously the wad of half-chewed rumaki flew out of his mouth and onto the front window of the restaurant, where it stuck to the glass and sparkled in the midday sun.

Tom regained consciousness a minute later. I was afraid there might have been brain damage, because he started mumbling about being late for a Pat Buchanan rally. Our job done, my young assistants and I packed up our gear and hit the road, with nothing but a good feeling for having helped our fellow man and a wistful memory of Tom Selleck's naughty bits.