There is a growing belief among educated people that life can be improved by turning it into an algorithm. They have algorithms for finding a wife, choosing a breakfast cereal, managing money, and determining whether a fellow ought to get out of bed on Monday. I expect they will soon develop one for breathing, though I suspect the government will charge extra for the oxygen.

Now, I have never trusted an algorithm. It has no sense of humor, no experience with bad decisions, and apparently has never married into a family with opinions.

Life is not an algorithm. If it were, I would have been eliminated somewhere around the age of twenty-three for repeatedly making decisions that defied every known principle of common sense. Instead, I was permitted to continue, apparently as an experiment in human stubbornness.

An algorithm expects you to follow instructions. Life, on the other hand, will hand you a flat tire, a leaking roof, a barking dog, and a tax bill, all before breakfast, then ask why you are behind schedule.

You may carefully plan your day, organize your appointments, and calculate every possible outcome. Then somebody says, “We need to talk,” and suddenly your entire operating system crashes.

The trouble with algorithms is that they assume people are predictable. I have known people for sixty-five years who remain a mystery to themselves.

No, life is not an algorithm. It is a practical joke written by an intoxicated committee, administered by nature, and paid for by the taxpayer.

And the punchline, apparently, is that we are all expected to figure it out before we die.