I love to go to Washington - if only to be near my money.

Host: The city glowed beneath a pale dawn, its monuments rising like proud ghosts from a fog that smelled faintly of marble, politics, and exhaust fumes. Washington, D.C. — that strange intersection of power and pretense — was just waking up, stretching its bureaucratic limbs under the hum of ambition.

Host: Inside a dimly lit hotel bar, where the night’s final conversation was still trying to end, Jack sat hunched over a glass of bourbon, his tie undone, his eyes reflecting the white glow of the Capitol dome visible through the window. Jeeny sat across from him, stirring her coffee with lazy precision, her gaze fixed on the reflection of the nation’s heart — equal parts awe and irony.

Host: Between them, on a napkin damp with condensation, were the words of Bob Hope:
“I love to go to Washington — if only to be near my money.”

Host: The joke sparkled, but beneath it, a deeper truth shimmered — laughter with the sting of accuracy.

Jack: “You know, Hope said that seventy years ago — and it’s still perfect. Nothing ages better than cynicism when it’s true.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe nothing changes faster than the system he mocked. Only the suits and the slogans do. The money stays.”

Jack: “That’s the genius of it. He made humor out of hypocrisy — pointed at the rot but smiled while doing it. The man understood America better than any economist ever could.”

Jeeny: “Because he knew the real religion wasn’t freedom — it was finance.”

Jack: “Exactly. Washington’s the new Vatican, and the almighty dollar’s the god everyone prays to.”

Jeeny: “That’s unfair. Not everyone prays to it.”

Jack: “No, but everyone kneels.”

Host: The bartender switched off the neon “OPEN” sign, though the door remained unlocked — this late hour wasn’t about business anymore, it was about truth-telling. The television behind the bar played a muted political news segment — lips moving, eyes confident, hands cutting the air with conviction.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a comedy club for greed.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Senators as stand-ups, lobbyists as hecklers, and we, the audience, laugh while they rob us blind. It’s vaudeville for vampires.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still come here.”

Jack: “Because, like Hope, I like to see where my taxes go. It’s like visiting a zoo, but the animals wear suits and vote on ethics.”

Jeeny: “You say that as if you’re not one of them.”

Jack: “I’m not. I’m just a cynic with a front-row seat to the apocalypse.”

Jeeny: “And I’m guessing the apocalypse has a committee meeting first?”

Jack: “And a catered lunch.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside — not heavy, just enough to make the streets shimmer, turning the Capitol’s reflection into something fluid, uncertain.

Jeeny: “You know, what’s brilliant about Hope’s joke is that it’s timeless. It doesn’t need to change — just like the system it mocks. Every generation discovers it anew and laughs, thinking it’s original outrage.”

Jack: “Because comedy’s the only history lesson we repeat willingly.”

Jeeny: “But Hope wasn’t just mocking greed. He was mocking proximity — how power hoards everything: money, morality, meaning. You get close to it, and it changes you.”

Jack: “So, Washington’s a contagion now?”

Jeeny: “No, a mirror. It doesn’t infect you — it reveals you. If you come here for money, you’ll find greed. If you come for change, you’ll find bureaucracy. If you come for hope…”

Jack: “You’ll find irony.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking like an old conscience. He took a long sip from his glass and let the silence settle before he spoke again.

Jack: “You know, I think Hope said that line not as a punchline, but as a prophecy. He knew what was coming — that one day the world would be run not by leaders, but by accountants.”

Jeeny: “Leaders still exist.”

Jack: “Sure — on paper. But they take orders from spreadsheets.”

Jeeny: “That’s not leadership, that’s logistics.”

Jack: “Exactly. Washington’s not a city anymore. It’s a transaction.”

Jeeny: “And we’re all the collateral.”

Jack: “You always know how to make capitalism sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s tragic romance — love unrequited by conscience.”

Host: The television cut to footage of protestors — umbrellas and signs glowing under streetlights. The sound was muted, but the message was clear. The bartender turned it off, shaking his head.

Jack: “You see that? Every generation still believes the fight is new. They think they’re the first to notice the system’s broken.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s faith — the belief that it’s still worth fixing.”

Jack: “Or delusion.”

Jeeny: “Those two are closer than you think.”

Jack: “You think Hope would still make jokes if he were alive today?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because laughter’s rebellion in polite disguise.”

Jack: “Or anesthesia.”

Jeeny: “That depends on whether you laugh to escape or to endure.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking the windows, the outside world blurring into abstraction. Jeeny’s reflection in the glass merged with the Capitol’s glow, a fusion of faith and fatigue.

Jeeny: “You know, when Hope said that, he wasn’t condemning Washington. He was confessing something about himself — that even the honest are tempted by power. That no one, not even the comic, is innocent.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying irony’s just guilt with good timing?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every joke about power is an admission — that we want it, that we envy it, that we secretly respect it even as we ridicule it.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “That’s human.”

Jack: “So, if Hope were here, standing in this bar, what do you think he’d say about Washington now?”

Jeeny: “He’d probably look around, smile, and say, ‘Well, at least I got the punchline right.’”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “He’d tip his hat to the irony — that the city still runs on jokes disguised as policy.”

Host: The storm began to fade. The first light of morning crept across the marble skyline. The world outside glowed like a freshly minted coin.

Jack finished his drink, set the glass down softly, and stood.

Jack: “You know, I think I finally get it. Hope wasn’t mocking Washington — he was reminding us that comedy is the only currency left with real value.”

Jeeny: “And what’s that worth these days?”

Jack: “Depends on who’s laughing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the richest man is the one who still can.”

Jack: “Or the one who laughs while crying.”

Jeeny: “That’s closer to truth than finance.”

Host: The camera pulled back through the window, into the wet streets of the city. Cars moved like arteries of ambition, lights flickering, people hurrying — all of them part of the grand machinery called progress.

Host: And through it all, Bob Hope’s line lingered, faint but immortal, like a neon sign above the nation’s conscience:

“I love to go to Washington — if only to be near my money.”

Host: The joke, as always, was funny because it was prophecy.

Host: And as the sunlight spilled across the Capitol dome, the city gleamed — not with righteousness, but with reflection. The laughter of ghosts, the hum of power, and the quiet truth that in Washington, everyone’s currency is belief — even if it’s borrowed.