The last plastic straw for the state legislature?

The ocean breezes begat a smoke-free day in a famous West Coast city. There I was, cruising down the street in my trusty, rusty old Yugo. I could hear the crunch of discarded hypodermic syringes under my treadless tires when suddenly, blue and red flashing lights reflected in my delaminating rearview mirror.

I pulled over next to a light pole with a Che Guevara poster taped to it. A young police officer exited her electric vehicle.

“May I see your license, registration and proof of insurance?” she asked.

“Certainly,” was my reply, as I produced the required documents.

“Is there a problem, officer?” (doing my best Chris Rock impersonation.)

“Do you know why I stopped you?” she said.

I always hate that question! It’s pure entrapment. If I answer “no” she knows I’m lying and will treat me accordingly. If I answer “yes,” I’ve confessed to a infraction or misdemeanor, and now the charge becomes a slam dunk admission in court.

“Uh, is it because I was driving with a ‘Make America Great Again’ bumper sticker while on the streets of your fair city?”

“Step out of the car, sir!” (Apparently, that wasn’t the correct answer.)

She commanded I put my hands on the oxidized hood and not move. The officer then proceeded to search my Yugoslavian classic.

“Any drugs or alcohol in here?” she asked, as the investigation continued. “No ma’am.” “How about firearms?” “Not right now.” (It’s a good thing I accidentally left my Dirty Harry magnum back at the post office!)

“What’s this?” she angrily questioned while bumping her pony-tailed head on the roof of the Yugo. That caused flakes of rust to sprinkle through her midnight-colored hair.

“Hey! I don’t know where that item came from. It’s not mine!" I pleaded.

“Is this your car? Are you in possession of this vehicle? Are you responsible for its contents?” she inquired. (This cop would have made any prosecutor proud.)

What could I say? I simply went silent. Handcuffs were placed around my wrists.

“Don’t you know what this old plastic straw I found in your car can do to our environment?” she asked, as the confiscated item was waved in front of my face. “It’s people like you who are destroying the planet, and don’t you know…!”

“Yes, but wait! I really DO my part for the planet by taking old bacterial contaminated shopping bags to the grocery score!” I curtly interrupted. (Now, I really did it!)

“You have the right to remain silent, sir. Anything you say can and will… etc.”

She spoke my Miranda warning, as I was marched to the backseat of a tiny patrol car.

“What can I get for possession of a plastic sipping straw?” I asked with knees in my chin.

“Probably six months and a $1,000 fine. You’d better get yourself a good lawyer. You’re going to need one!”

I just never dreamed a quick trip to this methamphetamine metropolis would turn me into a callous criminal!

So take heed from this sad tale, my friends. Rumor has it that the state legislature is on the verge of making the act of plastic straw possession a felony, along with spit-wad, paper ammunition.

Therefore, please don’t let any of my described traumatic experience become part of your peaceful and law-abiding life. Better to drink from a dirty glass than sip through a straw.

Oh, and by the way, while I’m thinking about it: Can any of you suggest where I might find a good defense lawyer who specializes in soda straw subversion?