"I have too much money invested in sweaters"

Bob Hope turns the language of finance into a wardrobe gag, smuggling a small philosophy of show business inside one brisk line. “Invested” carries a double load: the Wall Street sense of capital allocation and the old, literal sense of being “clothed in.” He’s both financially tied up and sartorially wrapped up, a comedian’s way of saying his assets are as cozy, and as illiquid, as a closet full of knitwear.

The joke’s self-deprecation works on class and status. A star acknowledging wealth risks sounding aloof; by claiming his resources are trapped in sweaters, he lowers the stakes, converting privilege into something comfortingly ordinary and faintly ridiculous. The item itself is perfect: useful but unfashionable, a practical hedge against cold studios, drafty stages, golf mornings, and USO hangars. It’s also the opposite of a glamorous investment. No one brags about a sweater portfolio. That contrast makes the line disarmingly human.

There’s a wink at the economics of celebrity. Performers spend heavily to maintain a brand, costumes, signature looks, the texture of familiarity. A Bob Hope sweater becomes part of the persona, like a prop you wear. Calling it an “investment” nods to the reality that wardrobe can be a business deduction while lampooning the idea that such spending builds real equity. If the market crashes, sweaters won’t bail you out; at best, they’ll keep you warm.

The line also gestures at risk and diversification. Overexposure, too much in one sector, invites trouble. Fashion dates, tastes shift, climates change. He’s joking about portfolio management while admitting the artist’s trap: when a bit works, you buy it in bulk and hope audiences stay cold enough to need it.

Finally, it’s a compact lesson in tone. By choosing the homeliest object to carry the weight of financial anxiety, he defuses worry with warmth, making the laugh itself the safest investment of all.