“Christopher Nolan says The Odyssey’s modern English dialogue ‘was a no-brainer’ even if ‘it might bite me on the ass.'”—Variety

Let’s say I’m Odysseus. Say I just won the Trojan War, which, by the way, nobody said thank you for. Ten years I’m over there fighting bozos in bronze helmets so some king can get his lady back, and now all I want is to go home to Dot Ave, see my wife, see my kid, get a large iced regulah from Dunks. But not just a Dunkin’. My Dunkin’. The one where my guy sees me come in and it’s already poured and the crullahs are placed beside it in a little wax bag just the way I like.

But no. Poseidon’s still bent out of shape because I blinded Polyphemus, like that whole thing wasn’t self-defense. Now I’m stuck drifting around on this friggin’ ocean while Athena’s whisperin’ wisdom and Hermes is giving me guidance and all my guys are looking at me like I’m supposed to know where we are. Buddy, I don’t even trust Waze in Somerville.

So, yeah, I’m standing there in a sleeveless Pats hoodie, squinting into an absolutely classic nor’easter, and I say, “Anybody see the damn Citgo sign?” But nobody does, because apparently they took it down for “servicing,” which is exactly the kind of thing City Hall says before holing up in that concrete eyesore of a bunker at Government Center like a bunch of away-game Yankees fans creepin’ up in the Monstah seats.

Then come the lotus-eaters, offering my crew some flower that makes you forget your home, your wife, your destiny, and every Dunkin’ between Quincy and Braintree, which should not even be possible since you can always see from one to the other and on to the next. You forget your regulah and next thing you know you’re wandering around on the wrong side of the Charles in Cambridge saying “cold brew” or some other nonsense like you got tenure at Hahvahd.

Next, Aeolus gives me a leather sack full of wind, and my guys open it because they think it’s a Market Basket bag full of Munchkins. Honestly, I can’t fault ‘em. Zeus couldn’t fault ‘em. That’s just instinct at this point. But now we’re blown clear to Hades, which in Boston terms is like getting stuck out of Logan during the annual overnight roadwork cluster in the Ted Williams Tunnel. I ask Tiresias, the blind prophet, “Hey, brother, how do we get home?” and he says, “Take a left where the old Papa Gino’s used to be.”

And, I kid you not, I stare at his blind, stupid mug and say, “Which one?”

Then, the Sirens start wailing about glory, immortality, and a limited-time Dunkin’ butter pecan or one of those little dirty soda situations for the Gen Zs rowing in the back, where they’re preening for clout on their TikToks. So I tell my men, tie me to the mast. No matter what I say, don’t let me go. Even if I say I can finally see my Dunkin’. Especially then. “Leave me pahked on that pole!” I scream like I haven’t screamed since the 28-3 comeback started midway through the third quarter.

Later Circe turns my men into pigs, which is barely news because three of them had already been eating North Shore roast beef three-way like the spell started before she even got there. That’s followed by Calypso, who keeps me trapped seven years in a lux Seaport one-bed, squawkin’ all the while: “You’ll love it here. It’s basically Southie.” Which it is not. The Seaport will never be Southie. It’s a damn marina for people who say “summer Fridays” while sippin’ Sun Cruisers in circle swings at the Lawn on D, may those made-for-Tinder hunks of glowing plastic forever rest in peace.

Shortly thereafter Scylla eats six men, and Charybdis charges tolls and makes everyone zipper merge at the last second like they’re coming in hot off 93. So you tell me which of those monsters is worse—which I admit is a wicked trick on my part, because the answer is always Storrow Drive on September 1.

By year ten, the Boston.com comment section’s gone apeshit: “Why does Ancient Greece sound like a Wahlburgers patio?” and “Odysseus has the accent of a guy explaining crypto at a B’s game” and “Shouldn’t he be speaking Mycenaean Greek?” Historically, yeah, pal, and historically I should’ve been home already.

When I do finally get there, my house is full of suitors drinking my Sams, touching the thermostat, saying they prefer Honey Dew, claiming they’re basically from Boston because they all went to BC.

Naturally, I string the bow at all that chicanery. I look at Penelope. I look at the suitors. And I tell ’em, “Say Dunkin’ doesn’t count as dinner one more time.”

I let that arrow fly, and the suitors flee, and I take that first sip of regulah in what feels like forevah, because it was, and I say, “worth it.” Because, at home, the Dunks always is. Tom Brady.