'A tour bus driver is driving with a bus load of seniors down a highway when he is tapped on his shoulder by a little old lady. She offers him a handful of peanuts, which he gratefully munches up. After about 15 minutes, she taps him on his shoulder again and she hands him another handful of peanuts. She repeats this gesture about five more times. When she is about to hand him another batch again he asks the little old lady, 'Why don't you eat the peanuts yourself?' 'We can't chew them because we've no teeth', she replied. The puzzled driver asks, 'Why do you buy them then?' The old lady replied, 'We just love the chocolate around them.''
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It is my belief that the writer, the free-lance author, should be and must be a critic of the society in which he lives. It is easy enough, and always profitable, to rail away at national enemies beyond the sea, at foreign powers beyond our borders who question the prevailing order. But the moral duty of the free writer is to begin his work at home; to be a critic of his own community, his own country, his own culture. If the writer is unwilling to fill this part, then the writer should abandon pretense and find another line of work: become a shoe repairman, a brain surgeon, a janitor, a cowboy, a nuclear physicist, a bus driver.
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'A tour bus driver is driving with a bus load of seniors down a highway when he is tapped on his shoulder by a little old lady. She offers him a handful of peanuts, which he gratefully munches up. After about 15 minutes, she taps him on his shoulder again and she hands him another handful of peanuts. She repeats this gesture about five more times. When she is about to hand him another batch again he asks the little old lady, 'Why don't you eat the peanuts yourself?' 'We can't chew them because we've no teeth', she replied. The puzzled driver asks, 'Why do you buy them then?' The old lady replied, 'We just love the chocolate around them.''
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Everyone is in awe of the lion tamer in a cage with half a dozen lions -- everyone but a school bus driver
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