I hate Dan Ackroyd.
In January 1992 I was working as a security guard at Muhammed Ali's 50th birthday party. Yes, redundant, but not the story.
Early in the evening, I was sent outside to make sure a parking spot was available for Tom Bradley, LA's mayor at the time. Dan Ackroyd pulled up to the lot in a silver Land Rover, and I wouldn't let him enter. He literally asked, "Don't you know who I am?" incredulous. I replied, "Of course I do, but that means I know you aren't the mayor of Los Angeles." He stepped on it and almost ran over a co-worker and me. He glared at me for a few seconds before going inside. I promptly had his Range Rover towed, and Tom Bradley had no problem parking.
On the other hand, Muhammed Ali was a really nice guy. Already shaking quite a bit, and his wife did most of the talking. But there was an air of gentleness about him, belying his ability to knock someone the fuck out.
Gary Coleman was a rude fucking prick too.