My Daughter relates an experience that makes me chuckle and, thinking of its metaphorical extension, grimace. Amy belongs to the Mountaineers, which recently held a work party to prep the Meany Lodge on Stampede Pass for its upcoming winter activities. For some reason, it was decided to relocate a a large boulder; apparently it was in violation of someone’s sense of what precise route would be ideal for a drainage ditch. Now, a rock’s whole life, as it were, its very raison d’etre, is to remain in one and only one spot. This particular stone—apparently idolizing the ungrammaticality of Sammy Davis, Jr.—determined to defy and disdain (or at least disregard) the intentions of both hell and high water—not to mention unclued humanity. In the event, all manual attempts to dislodge it were frustrated. A Bobcat was brought in to do the honors; it proceeded to become mired in the mud. Wary of sinking even deeper into the quagmire with nothing to show for the collective troubles but more and messier vexation, the group’s leader declared, “Forget it. Let’s go get a beer.”

My thought is this: If our national leaders could only assimilate this lesson, or even acknowledge the practicality and instructiveness of its conclusion, I would be ecstatic to buy the first round.