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

A wry, economical joke compresses a whole civics lecture into a single punchline. Washington stands in for the federal government, the place where taxes flow, and the gag hinges on the idea that so much of the speaker’s wealth has migrated there that traveling to the capital is the closest he can get to possessing it. Humor masks grievance: what sounds like affection for a city is really affection for personal resources no longer under personal control.

The line plays with distance, geographical and psychological. Citizens send money away and receive abstractions in return: policies, programs, promises. That distance breeds unease. To be “near” the money is to reclaim a sense of agency, even if only symbolically. It is also a sly nod to influence. Proximity to Washington is often a proxy for power; lobbyists and insiders shape how public funds are allocated. The joke hints that those who stand closest have the best shot at steering the river of tax dollars.

There’s a historical bite, too. During much of Bob Hope’s career, top marginal tax rates were high, and entertainers with substantial earnings felt the transfer acutely. The quip thus carries class-specific sting while expressing a broader American tension: pride in collective projects matched with suspicion about government appetite and efficiency. The affection-tinged phrasing softens the complaint, transforming resentment into camaraderie with the audience, many of whom feel similarly estranged from the fate of their contributions.

Underlying the laugh is an ethical puzzle. Taxes fund shared goods, yet transparency and stewardship determine whether people feel robbed or represented. By pretending the solution is simply to show up in Washington, the line exposes a deeper wish: not merely to see where the money goes, but to have a say in it. The joke endures because that wish remains unresolved, and because humor is often the safest way to voice it.