Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go
Hey, Mr. Custer, please don’t make me go
— “Mr. Custer,” Larry Verne, 1960
You are on the front lines, in a very hard place. It’s fraught with danger. You’re tired. You’ve had enough. You just want to go home. But that’s not a palatable option. Folks will get very very angry with you. You may not survive the consequences.
What do you do?
If you’re a fighter in Syria, and you’ve come to realize you’re not a heroic jihadi fighting to get into heaven, and no virgins will be waiting for you there anyway, that you’re no more than cannon fodder, that if you quit your recruiters will kill you, if you’re lucky—you shoot yourself in the foot.
If you’re the American Secretary of State in Washington, and you’re facing an Congressional inquiry for a misfeasance that cost four Americans their lives, and you’re turned a Middle Eastern country into a failed state, and you’ve allowed deadly weapons to fall into the hands of Islamic terrorists—you fall down the stairs and get yourself diagnosed with a concussion, and take a rest for 6 months.
If you’re the successor American Secretary of State, and you’re in Switzerland, in the midst of a failing negotiation with Dr. Evil who’s a whole lot smarter than you, and you’re just an inch away from total defeat in a battle where the prize is all of Western Civilization, and your key negotiator has just announced she’s quitting—you take a fall off your bicycle and break your leg. You get sent home for an indefinite period of time because… well… there are no good doctors in Switzerland.
Let me ask my readers: Anyone out there ever break a leg or an arm? How long were you off work?
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