Sippican Cottage



A Man Who Has Nothing In Particular To Recommend Him Discusses All Sorts of Subjects at Random as Though He Knew Everything

Hope Street


Can you tell me the way to Hope Street?

They tell me the road to hope is long, and fraught with peril, sir.

(Stunned silence. A moment of recognition. Wry smile.)

Yes, but at least it’s paved now.

The cobbles are made from the hearts of damp policemen, sir. They are only mortared loosely with good intentions.

You have the gun, so I defer to your judgment. The way?

Go back up the hill and turn right, if you want to find Hope. Abandon hope, all ye who stand here in the middle of the street with a policeman in the sleet.

Would you like a cup of coffee, officer?

What I would like is a gold-plated Republican job and a roast turkey with a side order of another roast turkey, and a whiskey and an upholstered woman with a fireplace and access to more whiskey, thank you. But I’ll settle for a cup of coffee, if that’s what you meant.

I’ll need to cross the street to get it. Will you stop the traffic?

Sir, I’ll hold them here until the ammo runs out, then go hand to hand with the stragglers, if you’ll bring a sinker with the joe.

Done, and done.

Are those your lawyers, sir?

Spring is coming, officer, if we keep this up.

Go! I’ll cover you.

11 Responses

  1. Happy Thanksgiving, Greg, to you and yours.

    And no matter what happens in that asylum on the Potomac, there's always hope. And laways Hope Street.

  2. Poignant. And a donut, to boot.

    Lovely stuff you write, my friend. Well beyond lovely.

    Happy Thanksgiving, Gergory.

  3. Happy Thanksgiving to all my Intertunnel friends. I love you all more than my folks.

    Don't tell them that, though. They'll be here shortly.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *