In a way it is even humiliating to watch coal miners working. It raises in you a momentary doubt about your own status as an ‘intellectual’ and a superior person generally. For it is brought home to you, at least while you are watching, that it is only because miners sweat their guts out that superior persons can remain superior. You and I and the editor of the Times Lit. Supp., and the poets and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Comrade X, author of Marxism for Infants—all of us really owe the comparative decency of our lives to poor drudges underground, blackened to the eyes, with their throats full of coal dust, driving their shovels forward with arms and belly muscles of steel.
—George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier
hazy.
A bird came in my house today
A Gem
Homer: Well, there’s not a bear in sight. The Bear Patrol is sure doing its job.
Lisa: That’s specious reasoning, Dad.
Homer: Thank you, sweetie.
Lisa: Dad, what if I were to tell you that this rock keeps away tigers.
Homer: Uh-huh, and how does it work?
Lisa: It doesn’t work. It’s just a stupid rock.
Homer: I see.
Lisa: But you don’t see any tigers around, do you?
Homer: Lisa, I’d like to buy your rock.