Alright, everybody, which one of y’all did it? Show of hands? Anyone? Bueller?

In case you haven’t heard: this past Sunday, French police were able to apprehend a few suspects in relation to the Louvre heist in which France’s crown jewels–including an 1,170-piece diamond and emerald necklace set owned by Napoleon’s second wife–were seized in a “brazen daylight raid”, as per CNN reporting.

Obviously, this robbery is downright awful and kudos to the authorities for catching the bad guys (one of whom actually was dumb enough to try to fly out the country with some of the jewels in tow) BUT one has to admit just how impressive the whole scheme was, and marvel at the fact that such a Hollywood-esque plot was able to be pulled off during a regular business day.

Speaking for myself, I couldn’t even be accused of such a thing; my friend group can barely plan a Saturday afternoon coffee run, much less any sort of criminal shenanigan.

Maybe some other columnist at the WSJ or wherever can use me as an example on how Gen Z’s laziness is killing the criminal heist industry, just as millennials before us killed chain restaurants, fabric softener, and milk from cows.

Moral of the story: Reject modernity (online sports betting), embrace tradition (old-school heists)!

Poem of the week: American History by Jennifer Elise Foerster 

We laid our leather boats in a stream, steered north for bream and bank martin, fattish brooks and honeyed roots.

We followed the scent of pitcher plants cast across the river, past plumes of bees in orange blooms, emerald streamers, hanging moss where storks at rest, secure in their nests, tossed upon us tassels of gold, what appeared to be various species of Gordonia, what the inhabitants call the White Lily of the Swamp.

After we came to the land of the inhabitants themselves, holding their jugs in the water-drum of clouds, waist-high, patient, in fields of floating plants where trout passed freely, rainbowed by the force of fresh water, we removed their phlox-like entrails, placed their carcasses in forked roads of trees, so they appeared as mere stems, killed by winter frost.

A gift, we thought, from our benevolent god, the sheen of wet grass in early morning light, like the minds of those inhabitants, which we had wanted for our own. As long as this was our dream, no one would know what was lost.

Andrea Gutierrez is the managing editor of the Bryan County News.