Bureaucrats in London Draw Line Through Desert, Call it “Diplomacy”

Radcliffe Partition Plan Proves You Can Split a Subcontinent But Can’t Split the Bill

By Winston P. Gallagher, Foreign Affairs Desk

The British Empire, in what may be its final grand gesture before retiring to tend gardens and write memoirs, has decided that the best way to leave India is to saw it in half like a music hall magician—except nobody’s volunteering to get in the box.

Sir Cyril Radcliffe, a London barrister who had never set foot in India before this summer, was given five weeks to draw a border separating 400 million people. One imagines His Majesty’s government chose Radcliffe using the same method they use to select committee chairmen: close their eyes and point.

The Radcliffe Line, as it’s being called, appears to have been drawn with all the precision of a dinner guest who’s had three too many sherries trying to slice a roast. Villages are split down the middle. Irrigation systems are bisected. One fellow reportedly will have breakfast in India and supper in Pakistan, assuming he survives the commute.

But let’s consider the bright side, as Washington bureaucrats surely are. If a man in London can successfully reorganize the lives of hundreds of millions of people he’s never met using only a map and a ruler, imagine what our own expanding federal government could accomplish! Perhaps they’ll redraw the Mason-Dixon line next, or reorganize the Great Lakes into a more aesthetically pleasing configuration.

The theory, as we understand it, is that Muslims and Hindus simply cannot live together peacefully, and therefore must be separated by government decree. This is the same logic used by schoolmarms everywhere: if children can’t share nicely, they must sit in separate corners. The fact that these “children” have coexisted for centuries is apparently irrelevant to modern administrative thinking.

Lord Mountbatten, the departing Viceroy, appears to have handled the independence negotiations with the same haste one uses to exit a poorly ventilated room. The original timeline was moved up by nearly a year, presumably so everyone involved could make it home for tea. When pressed about the rushed nature of the partition, officials in London reportedly responded that drawing borders through densely populated regions is “quite straightforward, really” and requires only “a steady hand and clear thinking.”

Clear thinking, mind you, from men who’ve spent the past two centuries ruling a country they understood about as well as this columnist understands his wife’s hat collection.

What strikes this observer most forcefully is the supreme confidence with which distant governments believe they can rearrange the lives of strangers. Central planning works splendidly, they tell us, until you ask it to plan something central—like where millions of people should live, work, and raise their families.

The partition proves once again that the greatest danger to human happiness isn’t malice, but rather well-educated men with good intentions, sharp pencils, and insufficient information making irreversible decisions about other people’s lives.

As India and Pakistan emerge as independent nations, we wish them well. They’ll need all the luck they can muster, having inherited not just independence from Britain, but also the British confidence that complicated human problems can be solved by drawing lines on maps.

One can only hope that our own government officials, watching this grand experiment from Washington, don’t get any ideas about improving America through similar administrative efficiency.

New “National Security Act” Promises to Keep Everything Secure Except Your Privacy

CIA to Protect Americans From Foreign Threats by Reading Their Mail, Just to Be Safe

By Theodore K. Winchester, Washington Bureau

President Truman put pen to paper last week and created the Central Intelligence Agency, the Department of Defense, and the National Security Council—proving once again that the surest way to make Americans less secure is to create a government agency promising to make them more secure.

The National Security Act, we’re told, will “coordinate” our national defense. In Washington parlance, “coordinate” means “create seventeen new bureaucracies that will spend the next decade arguing about who’s in charge of what.” Already the brass are measuring offices in the new Pentagon building, which was only recently completed and apparently wasn’t quite big enough.

The Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA, represents a novel concept: a peacetime organization dedicated to the collection of “intelligence.” This is rather like creating a peacetime organization for the collection of taxes—oh, wait, we already have one of those, and it’s working out splendidly.

Supporters insist the CIA will only spy on foreigners. They promise this with the same earnest sincerity that prohibitionists once promised you could still use alcohol for “medicinal purposes.” History suggests that organizations created to watch other people eventually develop an interest in watching everyone, particularly the sort of people who ask uncomfortable questions about what the organization is doing.

The reorganization also abolishes the War Department in favor of a “Department of Defense.” This is branding genius: who could oppose defense? It’s rather like renaming the Tax Collection Agency the “Department of Helping You Keep Your Money.” The function remains the same; only the letterhead improves.

We’re also getting a National Security Council, which will advise the President on security matters. Previously, the President had to make security decisions using only his Cabinet, military advisors, intelligence services, congressional committees, and his own judgment. Clearly, this was insufficient. Now he’ll have another committee. Problem solved.

The Act creates what officials call “coordination” between military branches. Until now, apparently, the Army, Navy, and Air Force operated like siblings who refuse to speak at Thanksgiving dinner. The new arrangement will force them to get along, presumably by creating a parent organization to mediate their disputes. This columnist eagerly awaits the first inter-service memorandum reminding everyone to share their toys.

Proponents argue we need these new agencies because the world has become more dangerous. This is certainly true. The world became substantially more dangerous on July 16, 1945, when we tested an atomic bomb in New Mexico, and approximately five minutes later when Moscow decided it needed atomic bombs too. Whether creating more bureaucracies in Washington will make us safer from atomic bombs remains an open question, though it will certainly make us safer from having too much money in the Treasury.

The most troubling aspect isn’t what the Act creates, but what it assumes: that permanent, peacetime intelligence and security agencies are compatible with a free society. The Founders gave us a Constitution limiting government power. We’ve given ourselves agencies that consider the Constitution more of a suggestion than a rule.

One imagines Franklin, Jefferson, and Madison reading this Act from whatever celestial perch they occupy. “We gave them checks and balances,” they’re probably saying. “They’ve given themselves secret agencies that check everyone’s mail and balance their budgets by taking other people’s money.”

Still, we mustn’t be too cynical. Perhaps these new agencies will operate with restraint, respect civil liberties, and never exceed their mandates. Perhaps dogs will learn to play poker and Congress will learn to read legislation before voting on it.

In the meantime, Americans can rest easy knowing that their government is working tirelessly to protect them—from foreign enemies, domestic threats, and increasingly, from the inconvenience of privacy itself.

The Art of Pretending Your Garden Isn’t Dead

A Suburban Survival Guide

By Margaret E. Holloway

Every spring, millions of Americans are seized by the delusion that they can grow vegetables. By August, these same Americans are standing in their backyards, staring at what appears to be a crime scene, wondering if tomato plants can be revived through prayer.

The trouble begins in March, when seed catalogs arrive featuring photographs so beautiful they should be illegal. Those pictures show tomatoes the size of softballs, cucumbers as straight as rulers, and lettuce so green it practically glows. What the catalogs don’t show is your neighbor’s cat using your carrot patch as a personal facility, or the Biblical plague of aphids that arrived on your roses like Sherman marching through Georgia.

By Independence Day, the optimistic gardener realizes that something has gone terribly wrong. The tomatoes are the size of marbles. The cucumbers have developed a twist that would make a pretzel jealous. And the lettuce has bolted faster than a horse at the Kentucky Derby.

This is when the true art begins: pretending your garden isn’t dying while your neighbors’ gardens overflow with bounty. Mrs. Henderson next door is already canning her third batch of tomatoes while you’re trying to figure out if that brown thing in the corner was supposed to be a zucchini or a squash.

The first rule of failed gardening is strategic weeding. Don’t pull all the weeds—that makes the dead plants more visible. Leave some weeds, preferably the tall ones, which create a “natural” look that suggests you’re trying something avant-garde rather than simply incompetent.

Second, develop plausible excuses. “I’m letting this section go to seed for next year” works well, as does “I’m testing how plants respond to benign neglect” or “I’m creating a habitat for beneficial insects.” The fact that the only insects you’re attracting could strip a field in twenty minutes is beside the point.

Third, invest in decorative elements. A nice birdbath draws the eye away from your deceased tomatoes. Garden gnomes provide focal points that aren’t withered and brown. Strategically placed lawn chairs suggest you spend time “enjoying” your garden rather than mourning it.

Fourth, master the art of the garden tour redirect. When neighbors ask about your vegetables, immediately pivot to your flowers. If your flowers are also dead, pivot to your lawn. If your lawn looks like the Western Front after an artillery barrage, suddenly remember you left something in the oven and excuse yourself immediately.

Fifth, never, under any circumstances, accept vegetables from successful neighbors. This is an implicit admission of defeat. Instead, politely decline, explaining that you have “plenty” from your own garden. Then visit the farmers’ market at dawn and purchase enough produce to maintain the illusion.

Finally, consider the strategic placement of the garden hose. A hose running across the yard creates the impression that you’re “about to water” rather than “have been neglecting your plants since June.” Position it thoughtfully, perhaps coiled near the vegetables like a snake preparing to strike. This suggests intention, even if the only thing you intend is to leave the hose there until October.

Remember, gardening isn’t about growing vegetables. It’s about maintaining the fiction that you’re the sort of person who can grow vegetables. And really, isn’t maintaining useful fictions what civilization is all about?

Your Dog Is Not a Person, Despite What Your Dog Thinks

An Appeal to Reason from the Pet-Weary

By Harrison P. Matthews

There exists in America today a growing movement that threatens the very fabric of rational thought: the belief that dogs are people. Not like people. Not honorary people. But actual people who simply happen to walk on four legs and lick themselves in public.

Visit any park on a Saturday afternoon and you’ll hear it: “Buster, would you like to go on the swing?” “Princess, do you want some ice cream?” “Mr. Whiskers, what’s your opinion on the Taft-Hartley Act?” (That last one may be a slight exaggeration, but give it time.)

The evidence of this mass delusion is everywhere. People throw birthday parties for dogs. Not small affairs, mind you, but elaborate productions with cakes, party hats, and guest lists. The dog, for his part, would be equally happy eating garbage from an alley, but we’ve convinced ourselves he appreciates the effort.

Then there’s the photography. Families are now including dogs in formal portraits. Future generations will look at these photographs and wonder why Great-Grandfather posed with what appears to be a hairy ottoman wearing a bow tie.

Dog clothing represents perhaps the pinnacle of this absurdity. Dogs have fur. Fur is nature’s clothing. Yet America’s pet owners have decided that what Rover really needs is a raincoat, a sweater, and tiny boots for his paws. A dog does not want a raincoat. A dog wants to be a dog, which involves getting wet and then shaking enthusiastically next to your new sofa.

The latest trend involves dog “counseling.” That’s correct: people are now paying other people to provide emotional support to their dogs. This is a racket that would make P.T. Barnum weep with envy. “Your dog seems anxious,” the counselor will say gravely, pocketing thirty dollars. Of course the dog is anxious—he’s been dressed like a tiny businessman and driven to an appointment he doesn’t understand.

We’ve created special menus for dogs. Not dog food, mind you, but specialized cuisine. Chicken breast, never chicken parts. Beef tenderloin, not beef byproduct. Meanwhile, the family dog’s ancestors ate whatever they could catch, kill, or find rotting behind a tree, and they managed just fine.

Perhaps most troubling is the baby talk. Grown adults, educated adults, adults who operate heavy machinery and vote in elections, will look at a seventy-pound German Shepherd and say, “Who’s a widdle snoogums? Who’s a pwecious baby?” The dog, having more dignity than his owner, typically responds by licking his own hindquarters.

Dogs are wonderful animals. They’re loyal, affectionate, and infinitely patient with human foolishness. But they are not people. They do not want birthday parties. They do not need formal portraits. They certainly don’t require emotional counseling or designer wardrobes.

What dogs want is simple: food, water, exercise, and someone to throw a stick repeatedly for reasons no human can quite explain. That’s it. Everything else is projection—humans attributing their own desires, anxieties, and need for validation onto animals who would be perfectly content sleeping eighteen hours a day.

So by all means, love your dog. Take care of your dog. Throw the stick as many times as canine enthusiasm demands. But please, for the sake of everyone’s sanity, stop pretending your dog is a short, furry person who happens to enjoy fire hydrants.

Your dog will thank you. Probably by eating something inadvisable and then looking pleased with himself.

The Office Refrigerator: A Study in Human Depravity

What Your Lunch Says About the Collapse of Civilization

By Chester R. Blackwood

If you want to understand the true nature of humanity, forget philosophy. Forget religion. Simply open the office refrigerator on a Friday afternoon and observe what people do when they think no one is watching.

The office refrigerator is where civilization goes to die. It’s Lord of the Flies in appliance form, a white enameled box proving that given the slightest opportunity, humans will abandon every social norm they claim to hold dear.

Consider the Lunch Thief. This creature—and several exist in every office—operates under the remarkable assumption that other people’s sandwiches are communal property. The Lunch Thief doesn’t steal because he’s hungry. He steals because deep in his reptilian brain, he believes the rules governing personal property don’t apply to him. He is, in miniature, every tyrant who ever lived.

Then there’s the Optimist, who places a container of leftover meatloaf in the refrigerator and genuinely believes she’ll eat it for lunch “tomorrow.” Tomorrow never comes. The meatloaf sits there for weeks, developing a civilization of its own, until finally someone throws it away—container and all—because opening it would violate the Geneva Conventions.

We cannot overlook the Passive-Aggressive Note Writer. This individual, upon discovering their stolen lunch, responds not with confrontation but with signage: “To whoever took my egg salad sandwich: I hope you enjoyed it. That was my LUNCH. Some of us PAY for our FOOD.” The capitals and underlining suggest a rage barely contained. One suspects these notes are therapeutic exercises rather than actual communication.

The Hoarder believes the office refrigerator is personal storage. She brings in a week’s worth of food on Monday and colonizes an entire shelf. Never mind that thirty other people also need space. Never mind that half her food will spoil before she eats it. The Hoarder operates on feudal principles: first come, first served, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.

Then we have the Mysterious Container. Every office refrigerator contains at least one Tupperware dish that has been there since the Coolidge administration. Nobody knows what’s inside. Nobody wants to know what’s inside. It sits there, accumulating frost, a monument to collective cowardice and the human tendency to assume someone else will eventually deal with problems.

The Condiment Collector maintains a shelf full of half-used bottles: mustard, ketchup, three kinds of hot sauce, mayonnaise that expired during the war. These bottles multiply mysteriously, suggesting either spontaneous generation or an illicit condiment breeding program.

Perhaps most fascinating is the Milk Situation. Every office has someone who uses milk and never replaces it. This person—let’s call him Gerald, because he looks like a Gerald—will use the last drop of milk in his coffee, then carefully return the empty container to the refrigerator. When confronted, Gerald will express surprise: “Was that the last of it? I didn’t notice!” Gerald notices. Gerald always notices. Gerald simply doesn’t care.

The refrigerator also serves as archaeology. Want to know what the office looked like five years ago? Check the back of the bottom shelf. You’ll find lunch containers from employees who have since retired, moved away, or possibly died. These artifacts remain because cleaning the refrigerator requires a volunteer, and volunteering violates the sacred office principle of “not my job.”

What does this teach us? That humans, given a shared resource, will immediately begin treating it like a garbage dump they don’t have to clean. That property rights collapse the moment someone thinks they can get away with violating them. That most people will tolerate intolerable situations rather than confront the person creating them.

The office refrigerator is democracy in miniature: messy, frustrating, and periodically requiring someone to throw everything out and start over.

In Defense of Doing Nothing

Why Leisure Is Not a Four-Letter Word

By Pembroke Harrison III

America has developed a peculiar pathology: the belief that every moment must be productive. We’ve become a nation of self-improving, goal-setting, efficiency-maximizing automatons who view relaxation with the same suspicion our Puritan ancestors reserved for dancing.

Suggest to the average American that you spent Saturday doing nothing, and watch the confusion spread across his face. “Nothing?” he’ll say. “But what did you DO?” As if existence requires constant justification through activity.

The modern American divides his time between working and feeling guilty about not working. Sundays were once sacred—a day of rest mandated by both religion and common sense. Now Sunday is merely Saturday’s annoying younger sibling, a day for catching up on everything you failed to accomplish during the week.

We’ve created “hobbies,” which is just work you don’t get paid for. People speak of their hobbies the way generals discuss military campaigns: with strategy, dedication, and a vague sense of obligation. “I’m taking up woodworking,” they announce grimly, as if sentenced to it by a judge. Whatever happened to doing things because they’re pleasant?

The self-improvement industry has convinced millions of Americans that they’re somehow inadequate in their current form and require constant upgrading. Learn a language! Master the piano! Take up painting! Improve your mind! The assumption is that your mind, in its natural state, is insufficient and possibly embarrassing.

This columnist recently made the mistake of mentioning to a neighbor that I spent Saturday afternoon sitting on my porch. The neighbor looked concerned. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. “Should I call someone?” The notion that a healthy person might voluntarily do nothing for several hours was, to her, evidence of either illness or moral failing.

The ancient Greeks understood leisure. They had a word for it: “scholé,” which meant free time devoted to learning and culture. The Romans called it “otium”—time spent in reflection and creative pursuits. These weren’t signs of laziness but markers of civilization. Only slaves worked constantly. Free men had time to think.

We’ve reversed this entirely. Now the busy person is admired, the relaxed person suspected. “I’m so busy!” has become a boast, a way of signaling importance. The busier you are, the more valuable you must be. Never mind that most of what keeps us busy is neither important nor particularly useful.

Consider the average weekend. Saturday morning: yard work. Saturday afternoon: errands. Saturday evening: social obligations. Sunday morning: church (which has itself become less about spiritual reflection and more about social networking). Sunday afternoon: preparing for Monday. When, exactly, does one simply exist?

We’ve forgotten that human beings are not machines requiring constant operation, but animals requiring occasional hibernation. The brain needs downtime. The body needs rest. The soul needs moments when it’s not being improved, optimized, or scheduled.

Doing nothing is not the same as being lazy. Laziness is the unwillingness to do necessary things. Doing nothing is the willingness to let unnecessary things remain undone. There’s a difference, and it’s important.

This isn’t an argument for complete indolence. Work is necessary. Productivity has its place. But so does the afternoon spent watching clouds, the evening devoted to aimless reading, the Sunday morning when the most strenuous activity is deciding whether to make coffee or go back to sleep.

So here’s a revolutionary suggestion: this weekend, do nothing. Not “nothing productive.” Actually nothing. Sit. Think. Nap. Watch birds. Let your mind wander like a dog off its leash.

If anyone asks what you did with your weekend, tell them the truth: you spent it being human instead of doing human. They won’t understand, but that’s their problem, not yours.