The technical examination of bus drivers proves to be insufficient

At the foot of the Saint-Denis gate, the policeman in charge of traffic control was smoothing his very long moustache with a superiorly abstract air. Firmly embedded in the middle of the stationary vehicles stood a bus whose driver was showing signs of the most lively consternation. Professional duty urging us on, we approached the ephebe, who was reeling off without apparent weariness an interminable string of curses, of which he seemed to possess an inexhaustible and remarkably varied stock.
"Never, sir," this young citizen told us, "never, since the world began, have people been seen to make fun of someone as they made fun of me! Imagine that since this morning I have been a driver at the T. C. R. P. Before they accepted me, they made me pass a devilishly complicated examination, psychotechnical, as they call it. It consists of sitting on a stool, as I am here on my seat, and watching a movie while pretending to drive. You see a street, passers-by, lots of things passing in front of the moving bus, as if it were real. It's to learn how to maneuver. I held out for an hour and three quarters of the movie, which is an honorable performance. Afterwards, they made me set off firecrackers under my buttocks, to get used to the noise of the tires bursting. They made eighteen horns and thirty-two horns work together to harden my ears. After that, the entire jury, that is to say twelve taxi drivers, eight greengrocers, and Mr. Léon Daudet himself, spent twenty minutes berating me as I wouldn't dare treat my father. I didn't flinch. So, they found me fit for duty, and here I am. - In that case, you're happy, everything's fine.
- What do you mean! You don't understand that, in all the stuff they made me do, there wasn't just one exercise to show me how to behave when the bus is stopped! And it's there all the time, stopped, much more often and for longer than when it's moving! That means that three and a half quarters of the time, I'm there like an idiot, not knowing what to do, since they didn't teach me, and I'm probably going to get f... on foot!
Having finished smoothing his long moustache, the police officer in charge of traffic control was now busy pointing the provocative tips towards the sky.

SAINT-JASSIS.