One of my ongoing unrealized wishes is the Power To Be There. I’ve always wanted to be able to travel time and witness the great events of history. And when that gets old, I’d like To Be There for Life’s lesser events. Like the time several years ago when a German bus driver screamed the following at a passenger: “Your cleavage is distracting me every time I look into my mirror and I can’t concentrate on the traffic. If you don’t sit somewhere else, I’m going to have to throw you off the bus.”

(CAPTION: An unidentified and possibly local SCV bus driver, in the name of Homeland Security, offers a chestal exam to female passengers. Has the City gone too far? How can we stop the madness?)

On the bright side, I don’t have cleavage. Never asked for it for Christmas. Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it.

But there are people out there — women, I believe they are called — who do have cleavage, and one of them was nearly thrown off a German bus for having — what’s the phrase for which I am searching — playful whales frolicking in the morning surf?

I remember smiling when I read this account. A woman known only as Debora C. confessed to the popular Bild newspaper that the Ralph Cramden of the Third Reich slammed on the brakes, pulled his big diesel to the curb, opened the door, ran back to her seat and threatened to throw Debbie off der bus because she possessed one of the Liberally Biased Media’s absolute most favorite clichés in all of journalism: a “plunging neckline.”

Hee-bee-bee-bee. Geez boy howdy.

I’ve got to start riding buses more often, if not in Germany, than at least in Santa Clarita.

This gets crazier. Representatives for Berlin’s deroscarayerweinermobilepublictransportationpassengervehicle (German for “bus”) defended the red-faced teamster.

“The bus driver is allowed to do that, and he did the right thing,” a bus company spokesman said. “A bus driver cannot be distracted because it’s a danger to the safety of all the passengers.”

Counterpoint from der Debbie:

“He humiliated me in front of the whole bus and made me look like a slut.”

Now if I were the judge in this case, I’d purse my lips understandingly and say, “Now there there.” And then I’d drop a pencil and ask her to pick it up while she repeated, very slowly, in an innocent Betty Boop voice: “He humiliated me in front of der whole bus and made me look like a slut.”

I worry that this may set a dangerous precedent with the city of Santa Clarita.

Actually, let me be honest.

I don’t worry at all. When I say, “I worry,” it’s just a literary device the media uses to inflate some completely inane statement into planet-threatening status.

Still.

What happens if local municipal employees for SClarita start a work slowdown?

One hot summer day, there’s city councilman Frank Ferry, sweating like he’s in an old Paul Newman prison movie. A lusty Valencia soccer mom jogs by and Frank cuts off his big carbon footprint leaf blower, wipes his brow and sighs longingly.

“I can’t mow the meridian,” Frank tells his fellow workers. “That soccer mom with the plunging neckline so distracted me, I could end up endangering the public with my power tools or by dedicating the wrong soft serve ice cream emporium.”

Three dozen of his fellow workers take a deep breath and watch the retreating figure growing smaller in the distance.

“Si, Frankie,” they say with simpatico.

All 37 of them sit helplessly in the deadly September noonday sun.

Can our government — federal, state or local — arrest someone for being too sexy? With Obama and the rest of the Democratic nutballs in office, I’m confident they could find a way to at least tax it. Foof. One can never have enough federal limousines.

Let’s say you’re employed by the Santa Clarita Sheriff’s Deptment. Let’s further say you’re Artie Thompson, because it’s been eons since we’ve picked on him and, frankly, the guy’s getting a free pass. You pull over a speeding Aston Martin and it’s driven by someone straight out of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue wearing a tank top made of of an ounce of flimsy cotton, and she’s so sexy she’d make Halle Berry look like Rosie O’Donnell at a Michael Vick dog-beating party.

Artie is so smitten by the hubba-hubba law breaker with the long tan legs, flat little brown tummy and…

Dear Mr. Santa Clarita Valley:

Stop it. Just stop it. I’ll have you know that as a loyal West Ranch Beacon reader that I take personal umbrage at these infantile attempts to make fun of a growing problem in the community and workplace: Overly sexy people distracting you while you’re trying to work.

Why, just the other day, I had to fire my two pool boys, Eric Harnish and John Green, because the sunlight was bouncing off them lusciously on their middle-aged, oiled, muscular bodies by my private Olympic-size pool that the grateful taxpayers gave me from one of those recent state bond measures.

Grow up.

Sincerely,

Dianne van Hook,

Queen, College of the Canyons

P.S. We’re working on an epic COC pyramid next to welcome my immortal body into the Afterlife.

Thank you, Di-Di.

Anyway. Where were we?

Oh yes.

Artie Thompson trying to give a ticket to a Playboy bunny en route to a tummy staple photo shoot. Artie is so smitten, he can’t write the ticket. In fact, like Frank Ferry, Artie nearly faints, but not before calling for backup, which doesn’t work because the first deputy to arrive is gay and she, too, is smitten by the hubba-hubba insensitive work stopper.

The growing problem of public employees being distracted from their cushy, overpaid public-sector jobs by knuckle-bitingly blessed women in low-cut blouses with breasts so full they could knock themselves out if they, for some reason known only to them, were to start doing jumping jacks in a public place is serious.

Worse, we cannot expect local firemen (who now can retire with triple salary and bennies at the age of 23) to fight blazes when a soap opera starlet from Canyon Country is standing on a ridge, in pigtails and nursing a lollipop.

The Assistant Fire Chief (a position now by recent bond measure is now capitalized) clears his throat, forms a T with his hands and calls a time-out. Obediently, 1,000 firefighters turn off their hoses and stop shoveling as county fire impresario Bill Niccum, 22, marches the 300 yards to the offending woman in the tank top.

“Ma’am. I’m sorry,” says Niccum, taking off his big rubber bathrobe and placing it over the offending cupcake. “You can’t dress that way while we’re fighting a brush fire. I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie you up and maybe buy you a big color TV set.” He giggles.

In Santa Clarita, like Berlin, with every other person working for the city, it’s clear that we cannot go on with such a threat of distraction. From dog catchers to bus drivers, the city is growing, and I mean that in a nice way.

Perhaps what is needed is to add another layer of useless bureaucratic management to the troughs of City Hall. Perhaps what we need is an O.S.C.F.B.I.

An Official Santa Clarita Female Body Inspector.

Knowing that all jobs start in the mid-six-figure range and come with staff, car and boffo bennies, I humbly offer my services as administrator.

That is, unless City Manager Ken Pulskamp with the Sheepish Grin is planning to doubledip and has already applied for the position…

John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net