Trump is right about Afghanistan

Like many thousands of American children, I once spent an entire evening running around a forest in my underwear, covered from head to toe in flour. I remember solemnly assuring my father that I had almost caught a “snipe” before he patiently explained that this was impossible, for the not very complicated reason that my quarry did not exist. Rather than accept humiliation, I insisted for weeks that I really had seen some kind of creature out there in the dark.

Snipe hunting is a practical joke, a fool’s errand, like being asked to find a left-handed screwdriver.


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