Three years ago everyone agreed that Vietnam had cured us of any itch to intervene in the affairs of distant lands. You could count us out of the global policeman act. Henceforth we were going to cultivate our own cabbage patch. Just to make sure, we threw out our Imperial President and chose a softspoken born-again country boy to keep us on the straight and narrow.
Lo and behold, here we are at it again, dancing blithely down one primrose path after another, at the moment up to our knees in southern Africa.
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