[W]hy shouldn’t we think that the Iraq war has increased terrorism in the world, or at least the risk of it? The hornet’s nest analogy is apt, albeit clichéd. We were stung — and stung badly — well before the Iraq war. And after the multiple stings of 9/11 we decided to take the fight to nests. If my backyard is festooned with hornet nests, I will likely be safer from a sting on any given day if I do nothing than I will be on the day or days I begin destroying them. Since when is any large, important, task required to show positive results at every stage? — Jonah Goldberg

The doorbell rang, and for a moment, I was worried that Vice President Cheney had returned. My relief was short-lived, though: it was Donald Rumsfeld.

“I’ve just about repaired the damage to the back yard,” I said. “We braced the supports for the house, and replaced the soil. And we never found a single snake.”

“Do I care about snakes? Oh, my goodness, no,” said the Secretary of Defense, managing to smile despite his lack of lips. “Now, am I concerned about the hornets in your yard? Heavens to Betsy, yes indeed.”

“Hornets.” I said, dumbly.

“Hornets,” he said, and turned and gave a signal.

A troop of gardeners went into the backyard, each holding a rake. One of them approached a small hornet’s nest hanging from a live oak. I’d never noticed it before.

“Some people doubt the existence of hornets,” said Rumsfeld, with a look of triumph. “And we can’t afford that kind of defeatism in the face of such an enemy.”

“Okay, that’s a hornet’s nest,” I said. “No question. But, Secretary Rumsfeld, they’ve never bothered — ”

One of the gardeners, with Rumsfeld urging him on, whacked the hornets nest with a rake. Unsurprisingly, a swarm of insects emerged from the nest and began attacking the gardeners, who writhed and screamed in pain.

“Goodness,” said the Secretary of Defense. “Lawn care can be untidy sometimes.”

He urged the workers on, and grimly, they each began whacking the nest in turn. Many of them fainted from the pain, lying still on the ground. Or at least, I hope they had fainted. The SecDef and I ran inside and slammed the door shut, as thousands of hornets banged against the glass windows.

“Where are they all coming from?” I said.

“They don’t like it when we stir them up,” said Rumsfeld. “Of course they don’t. That’s why it’s so important to do it.”

My yard was flooded with stinging insects. It’s as if they were coming from all over the neighborhood, out of some sense of entomological solidarity.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” I said. “Why the hell can’t you do this to Jonah Goldberg? It’s his damned metaphor.”

Rumsfeld polished his rimless glasses and smiled. “Jonah lives in a Manhattan apartment,” he said. “But I’m sure that if he had a backyard, he’d kick its ass.”