Whack-a-mole. I am in an arcade in my hometown. I have a large padded mallet in my right hand, and I am playing the game where small woodland creatures made of plastic resin pop out of little holes, and it is my job is to send them back into their holes one by one. In a moment of ingenuity, I discover that rather than predicting out of which hole the next rodent will pop, a thankless and impossible task, I can more efficiently cover all the holes at once with my chest. And as I do so, a man comes over, seizes my arm, and whispers in my ear: "If I catch you doing that again, I'm going to break your little wrists."