If I tell you the screwball state Sen. Alan Lowenthal (D-Long Beach) is a retired professor of “community psychology” — community what? — you may deduce that if he were an automobile, something would be rattling and a lot would be quivering as he shlepped down the street.
This is a vehicle in strong need of a garageman, I concluded, after learning last week of his latest excursion into goofy legislative waters.
Settle in to hear why the Sierra Club — and its equally balanced pals who seek to rid the world of everybody but their kind — genuflect in prayer each morning before a statue of Our Boy Alan.
Our Boy Alan must have devoted all those years at Long Beach State to teaching “community psychology” — community what? — as a neck-shaking prologue to sponsoring Senate Bill 568.
Here is a load of sand to occupy the underactive professional life of Our Boy Alan and his friends for whom the front doorbell ringing is the highlight of their day.
As described in the Long Beach Press-Telegram, the Lowenthal (accent definitely on the first syllable) bill would:
“Prohibit a vendor from serving food food in a container made of polystyrene (the downtown term for styrofoam) after Jan. 1, 2016, except in jurisdictions that recycle at least 60 percent of the plastic foam.”
Now you have to be a sworn-on, and hopefully sworn-off-of, environmentalist to digest that nonsensical, slavish sentence and not choke and laugh simultaneously.
Liberal daffiness has plunged to a ground-swill level.
Who needs a circus or Letterman when you have monkeys like this running around loose, high-fiving each other?
The P-T reports that school districts are exempt for an additional 18 months. Thank you, Allah.
The state Assembly, where Sen. (You Can Call Me Jack) Lowenthal previously hung out, was scheduled to vote on this Clarabelle concept today.
Our Boy Alan, like many a morality-free liberal, would resist the charge he is a mindless puppet for the ditziest dimension of the environmentalist seminary, those aging holdovers from the 1970s who used to walk around in long white gowns and spaced-out eyes repeating softly to each other, “Farther out, man, farther out.”
You may wonder why the legislator who sometimes legislates as if he is the closest relative of Sissy Spacek, is backing this darned thing.
The P-T says that bill proponents maintain styrofoam is harmful to both the environment and our health, and besides, the darned stuff is difficult to recycle.
I have a bulletin for Mr. Smarty Pants:
So were my first two wives, on all three accounts.
Yet did I see Our Boy Alan hippy-dipping about the landscape trying to outlaw either one of them? Nooo. He was too busy foisting “community psychology” — community what? — off on the spongy, unchallenged minds of unsuspecting Long Beach State students. Or trying to get green tomatoes banned on the moon.
Dear Friends
You may remember a few months ago a few well-intentioned (now you know something bad is coming) politically correct gentle ladies and gentle gents huddled in front of City Hall at a pep rally to ban plastic bags.
Declining to snicker because I really do like the people, their strongest argument seemed to be people throw plastic bags in the ocean and that messes up sea life.
First, your life is pathetically vacuous if you pass up a date with your best girl (or a former Mrs. Noonan) on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon to instead convene an assembly of the Dunce Club and go trolling through the mushy marshes for stinky ol’ plastic bags.
Could this possibly be why God put you on this earth? If the answer is affirmative, let’s have an immediate ritual burning of all of my telephone numbers.
There is great literature to be imbibed, people. Nature is even more beautiful than going treasure shlepping for filthy plastic bags.
But banning plastic bags and styrofoam? No matter how dry your life is, you can’t stoop this far. Please, I am begging.
People pitch dead bodies into the ocean. At your next séance, why not ban dead bodies from the water? They definitely are bad for the health of the party of the first part and for the mental health of pedestrian shleppers like me who are just trying to get along.
