Where do these boobs find the time?

Posted: March 13, 2013

IF YOU ever hear me say I work for fun, that's a lie. I work because lazy husbands come home to Dear John letters and empty houses. The husband's clothing is usually still there when the family leaves. It's just outside on the sidewalk, and it's been doused with gasoline.

I work to avoid that fate, and while I like fun as much as the next guy, there's a limit to what I'll do for enjoyment, because frankly, I don't have time for foolishness. In fact, most of the people I know don't have time for it either. That's why I'm baffled by what I've seen in the news lately. There's apparently a whole class of people who have lots of time on their hands.

For those of you who don't watch the evening news (and I don't blame you, since most newscasts are gorier than a "Saw" movie), I'll recount the latest shenanigans of these time-wasters. I'll even divide them into categories.

The Front-End Loader

Last week, someone stole a front-end loader from a construction site in Westville, Gloucester County, and rammed it into the side of a diner.

When I heard about it, I began constructing a profile of the perpetrator. I pictured him as a Homer Simpson type who uses the word "Doh!" much more than he should. He'd be somewhat of a dimwit but well-trained in the operation of heavy equipment. In my estimation, that would make him an unemployed construction worker, because construction workers with jobs drive front-end loaders only when they're given $200 an hour and lots of breaks to ogle the women passing by.

But, as I constructed my profile, I started to think: Why would an out-of-work construction worker randomly drive a front-end loader into a diner? That's when it hit me. Not only was this guy Homer Simpson. He was Homer Simpson with a motive.

My theory is that it all started when Homer's wife, we'll call her Marge, fell in love with the Kwik-E-Mart owner - named Apu, of course. It was just one of those things. Neither of them meant for it to happen.

Homer found out, and when Apu opened his new diner, Homer plotted his revenge. He'd also get drunk in the front-end loader, leave behind fingerprint-laden beer bottles and wait for the police to arrest him.

When they did, he'd make a full confession, and during his mandatory perp walk, Homer would look into the cameras, pledge his undying love for Marge and tell her that he'd see her in five-to-10.

You know, because unlike the rest of us, Homer Simpson's got time for that.

The Boobs

Shayna Sykes and Blake Bills are the latest media darlings to allegedly embark on a days-long crime spree. The twentysomethings appear to have the same characteristics as the original Bonnie and Clyde: The woman is attractive, the dude is skinny, and they have allegedly committed lots of stupid crimes.

In case you've been under a rock for the last week, the couple is accused of stealing two police cars and running over a cop. They were described in the Daily News as "boobs," in part because of a photo of the couple that emphasized Sykes' unique, um, attributes.

But the description goes beyond the physical. And Sykes and Bills aren't just boobs because they travel in pairs. They're boobs because, in the tradition of Janet Jackson's infamous Super Bowl snafu, they popped out at exactly the wrong moment.

If these two boobs weren't hanging around, they wouldn't have been near Camden police headquarters when an officer got out of his cruiser for a car stop, and the pair were allegedly brazen enough to steal it. They would've never had the chance to allegedly run down that police officer before heading across the Ben Franklin Bridge into Philly, where Sykes allegedly snared a Philly police car for another brief joyride.

But despite the fact that they had lots of spare time and apparently used it to engage in a bunch of illicit activities, I think they'll eventually be all right, because boobs have an incredible capacity for bouncing back.

Rand Paul

I understand politics. What I don't understand is Sen. Rand Paul, R-Ky., taking the Senate floor for 13 hours to delay a confirmation vote on John Brennan, whom Paul knew would be confirmed as CIA director anyway.

If I had 13 hours to waste every day, do you know what I'd do? I'd wake my kids at midnight and make them clean the disaster areas they call bedrooms. I'd go to work twice a day and get paid twice as much. I'd write a book a month instead of a book a year.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd take a little vacation.

Solomon Jones is the author of 10 books, including his latest novel, The Dead Man's Wife.

His column appears Tuesdays. More at Solomonjones.com.

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