Here is a doozy of a hometown conundrum for your brain to ponder that came up at last night’s City Council meeting.
It is personal. It is philosophical. And if you care about the people who live among you, it is serious.
A certain lady with a salty personality and a temper she does not always hide, has retired after 4 1/2 years service with a perceived do-little commission.
Left-wing politicians remind me of a huffing woman so sloppy fat her upper body is indistinguishable from her lower extremities.
Madame Bulgy never gets enough to eat.
Left-wingers are incapable of satiating their bottomless appetite for curing what they suspect ails society. They can’t help themselves, running through their neighborhoods blowing sirens that global warming, for example, is going to end the world before “General Hospital “goes off television.
Whether a cat is up a tree or a house is burning down with four infants, heaven forbid, inside, for loose-change liberals, every situation deserves to be labeled an Emergency.
If you ever have invited liberal friends over for an evening, you probably follow our practice. When tykes come to visit — we shift everything breakable out of their reach. In anticipation of liberal guests, we move all valuables out of their reach.
Alas, their sticky fingers have struck again.
Liberals, you may remember, introduced to these sunny shores such imaginative notions as:
College-educated men over 6 feet earn $10,000 a year more than short men. Therefore, America is a bigoted against short men.
I have such an enjoyable time every month at the Democratic Club meeting, basking in the company of dozens of lovely Democrats, that it pains me to raise a feathery question about the lamebrained liberals who comprise the majority of the party.
This message is directed at the leaders of the Sunkist Park Neighborhood Assn. who will host the next forum for City Council candidates next Wednesday evening:
The dumbing down of Culver City now is two Community Forums old.
When your children were small, remember how they would occasionally misbehave when you were entertaining people you wanted to impress?
Just in time for Wednesday night’s 7:30 Candidates Forum at the Culver City Democratic Club meeting, the nine contenders for the City Council now have endured a similar lesson.
Based on last night’s rocky performances by the present City Council, the mostly brand- new candidates have been handed a — shall we say loose? — set of guidelines on how to comport themselves on the dais.
My friend The Heart Surgeon was born a Democrat 69 years ago in Chicago. In medicine, this is called a congenital defect.
My friend The Heart Surgeon is such a hardcore liberal that he would vote twice for Hugo Chavez and three times for Mrs. Chavez before entertaining the possibility of casting a ballot for a Republican — under an assumed name, of course.
But even the doctor pinches his nostrils and puts one finger in his ear this election season when discussing Hillary Clinton. Can’t stand her. Said so again yesterday at our Shabbat lunch table. So did my rabbi, also Democrat down to his kishkes. Both are pledged to vote John McCain.
He is gone, my treasured friend Walt Marlow. This week’s tense home-bedroom vigil ended about 4:30 this morning, two days short of his 82nd birthday.
Before slipping into a deep and final sleep, he asked for me, and I sat with him on Monday night and Tuesday night.
I spoke louder than usual, assuming, with complete illogic, that since he was sick, his hearing must have gone south.
If you hired a graphic artist to envision the Perfect Presidential Candidate, he would create a portrait of Mitt Romney.
None of the cackling Democrat pandering, “Vote for me because I am a woman,” or “Vote for me because I am black.” None of the equally odious John McCain pandering, either, “Vote for me because I became a hero by spending 5 1/2 years as a prisoner of the Viet Cong, and that should give me a pass with voters for the rest of my life.”
When I left the bedside of my treasured friend Walt Marlow late last evening, he seemed to be involuntarily loosening his grip on a life extraordinarily well-lived.
His family has been steeling itself for this moment since last summer after the Scripps Institute doctors pronounced him incurable.
One afternoon in December, he telephoned me from home in Laguna Hills to say he had met with the mortician, completing all ritual and financial arrangements.
I was stuck, paralyzed over how to respond. In lieu of clarity, I mumbled.
