A funny thing about Wild Geese: they’re very hard to catch! I have been hunting them for years. Still no luck. It isn’t healthy. The Great Goose has become my Moby Dick. I am obsessed.
My friends, the only way to succeed on this mad quest is to keep an open heart and to make sure one’s wits and reflexes remain razor sharp.
But the quest is so discouraging it is all but impossible to stop one’s heart from being poisoned with bile and bitterness. What use is the memory of a glorious village parade when one is knee deep in the muck and being heckled by one’s Enemies? How can one possibly maintain the necessary discipline amidst the onslaught of outrageous fortune’s slings and arrows? Furthermore, one is no longer a spring chicken. Indeed, one is not. The chicken has long since sprung, the bird has flown, and still one’s goose is not cooked. It is truly beyond fowl.
My friends, despite all good reasons to the contrary, I ask you even now to support us on our quest. Perhaps we can find the Great Goose together? My Enemies and I are taking the hunt up and down the East Coast of the United States. We shan’t stop until we achieve satisfaction.
Please join us! Our spring expedition takes us to New York City, Ithaca, Philmont, Boston, Burlington, Portland, Virginia and North Carolina. You can even follow us to Philadelphia.
And what a night we shall have! Of course, it won’t be pretty. It never was. But there is still yet some deranged kind of glory in this adventure, isn’t there? Please don’t come to one of our extravaganzas hoping to witness a horrible accident like gawkers rubber-necking at a doomed Reality Show. Come instead with admiration. And with love.
For is not our vain quest a little like your own? Beautiful, pathetic and hopeless. Let us sing together and let us give thanks that, though always beyond our reach, there are still dreams out there that can tantalize and inspire us.
Bring a shotgun.
