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One of my early childhood memories involves my father, hunched over his dinner, sawing away at some substance and complaining about more senseless and mind-numbing rules. He spit out each syllable as if it were a piece of insect that had flown into his mouth. Then he sighed, said the government was nothing more than pencil-pushing slave drivers, and carried on eating. Clearly, from Dad’s mournful body language and indigestion, anyone could infer that rules were bad. I reflected on this. Eventually, I decided that all these new rules had to mean toiling on some kind of contraption ...