In an unprecedented move that has left local residents scratching their heads, the town of Everhope City proudly announced its latest initiative: a grand residents’ consultation titled “Hope and Hopes: A Residents’ Consultation on How to Fix What We Definitely Didn’t Break.” The event promises to bring the community together to discuss issues that no one seems to remember ever existing, much like the mythical wumpus. Mayor Bluster McGrieve, addressing the town in an overly enthusiastic tone reminiscent of a used car salesman, eloquently stated, “This consultation is a shining opportunity to gather input from the very people who have never had a problem with anything we’ve done. We are committed to fixing issues that no one realized were issues in the first place!” The initiative comes in the wake of numerous complaints—largely from the town hall’s echoing chambers—asserting that citizens weren’t sufficiently vocal about problems they didn’t know existed. After an intense brainstorming session, city officials crafted a list of supposed “concerns,” including the lack of enough “rainy day” dumpsters, which have perplexed residents since they’ve historically only ever needed one for actual rainy days. The consultation meeting will take place at the ironically named “Hope Plaza,” a building the residents voted against five years ago. The fierce rejection did little to stop its construction; hence the name, as officials insisted it represents the “ever-present hope that one day, they’ll listen.” Residents are encouraged to bring forth their ideas for improvement—particularly to address the enormous grasshopper statue at the entrance, which is rumored to be the real cause of the town’s latest supposed “crisis.” Local citizen and self-proclaimed community watchdog Petunia Grumbleton expressed her skepticism, stating, “Why fix what’s not broken? I mean, sure, our potholes could use some ... um, inspirational wallpaper, but is that really a crisis? If we’re consulting about things we didn’t break, then I’d suggest we start by looking into their questionable funding sources.” Residents are also invited to share “hopeful” ideas on pressing matters like the local pigeon population and whether or not the epic showdown between cats and dogs at the last spring festival should be an annual event. The program includes enlightening workshops on “Overthinking Simple Solutions” and an engaging seminar titled “What is That Smell?”—focusing exclusively on the inexplicable odor emanating from the old mill that locals affectionately refer to as “the Root of All Problems.” Of course, no event of this caliber would be complete without refreshments. Town planners have arranged for a magnificent buffet of air sandwiches and hope-flavored Kool-Aid, all served on biodegradable plates to ensure they disappear as quickly as the community’s faith in local governance. As the date approaches, residents are buzzing about the consultation, with many betting on how long it will take for them to realize they are simply trapped in another cycle of bureaucratic make-believe. The invitation instructs everyone to bring an open mind and a healthy sense of skepticism—though it remains to be seen if that translates to actual change or just another round of endless discussions about fixing what nobody knows is broken. To ensure broad participation, the town is also offering a “No Register, No Problem” option, encouraging residents to simply show up and be part of the “we totally care” crowd. In a final desperate push for engagement, officials released a heartwarming mascot—an anthropomorphized pothole named “Paddy”—who will guide residents through the consultation. As Hope and Hopes draws closer, it’s clear one thing is certain: Everhope City will continue to flourish in its unique blend of unfiltered optimism and absolute denial, boldly tackling imaginary issues and leaving real problems to fester quietly in their shadow.