WASHINGTON — When my neighbor gleefully reported that Bill Maher had dedicated a searing monologue to me for a column about the Donald Sterling/Cliven Bundy rants, my first thought was: Nah. If I tussled with everybody who tossed a brick through the window, I’d never get the draperies hung. My second thought was about something my father said to a drunk who was looking for a fight: “I’m too old to fight,” my dad said, peering over his half-moon glasses.