Oh, poor McMounty. [affects Canadian accent] Hey, so have you seen any, like, moose and stuff up there? Hey, where's your buddy Claude. Isn't that your friendly St. Bernard with a little barrel of whiskey under his chin?!
I've been up here playing Dudley Do-Right for two weeks, all right? It's September and there's snow on the ground, could you at least give me a little compassion here?
And what would that be for? Did you forget to take off your toque when you entered a room? You're going to get in trouble up there, hanging with the bluenecks, throwing back a two-four of pale ale.
Just because I was alone, manning the fort, handling Gibbs solo, while you've been strolling around South Beach dancing to the rhythm of the night, why would I feel the need to say anything negative?
Did I ever tell you about the first case that Jethro and I worked? Two sailors capsized a recreational skiff one summer's eve; panic ensued. When they were finally located, one sailor was dead and the other severely hypothermic.
No. Rather than watch his friend slowly expire, one sailor stabbed the other, claiming that it was more humane. He was convinced that his actions were justified.
In 1940 Winston Churchill sat in his bunker smoking one of those majestic cigars, waiting for news that the first German bombs were decimating London. "Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty," he said over the radio, "and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years, men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.'" The hour is upon us, Abby. All we can do is wait and see.
