Big business never pays a nickel in taxes, according to Ralph

Host: The city skyline pulsed with its usual midnight bravado — towers of glass and light reflecting on the river below, each one pretending it owned the stars. A soft rain had started, not enough to drive people indoors, just enough to make the sidewalks gleam like wet coins under the streetlamps.

Inside a sleek, half-empty downtown bar, the sound of ice clinking in glasses mixed with jazz humming from hidden speakers. Jack sat at the counter, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, watching the bubbles rise in his drink like they were trying to escape. Jeeny entered moments later, umbrella in hand, a thin smile crossing her lips as she spotted him — the kind of smile that carried both recognition and amusement.

Jeeny: (sliding onto the bar stool next to him) “Dave Barry once said, ‘Big business never pays a nickel in taxes, according to Ralph Nader, who represents a big consumer organization that never pays a nickel in taxes.’”

Jack: (chuckling dryly) “Ah, satire — America’s last honest language.”

Jeeny: “Cynicism disguised as humor, you mean?”

Jack: “Or truth wrapped in laughter. Sometimes it’s the only way we can swallow it.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink nearby, the ice crackling like punctuation to their conversation. The lights above the bar flickered in warm gold, catching in the mirror behind them — two reflections, two philosophies.

Jeeny: “It’s funny, though. Barry’s joke cuts both ways. Everyone’s playing the same game — just on different teams.”

Jack: “Exactly. Corporations preach ‘responsibility,’ activists preach ‘accountability,’ and both file their taxes in the Cayman Islands.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been burned by both.”

Jack: “I’ve worked for both. Trust me — the moral high ground has a great view of the same offshore account.”

Host: The rain tapped harder on the windows now, soft but insistent, like applause for their cynicism. A few other patrons chuckled quietly at the television above the bar — the evening news scrolling headlines about corporate mergers and tax loopholes.

Jeeny: “You really think there’s no difference? Between a billionaire dodging taxes and an activist trying to keep a movement alive?”

Jack: “Oh, there’s a difference in language. Not much in practice. Money doesn’t care about ideology — it just migrates to where it’s least bothered.”

Jeeny: “So what’s your solution, Mr. Realist?”

Jack: “There isn’t one. Just awareness. Maybe honesty. But honesty doesn’t trend well.”

Host: Jeeny swirled her drink, the liquid catching the light like molten amber. Her voice softened — less defensive, more thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Barry’s joke works because it exposes the hypocrisy of both sides. But maybe that’s what we are — a society addicted to calling out contradictions instead of fixing them.”

Jack: “You can’t fix what you profit from. Everyone complains about the system while paying for faster Wi-Fi to keep scrolling through it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You make despair sound eloquent.”

Jack: “Practice.”

Host: A faint thunder rumbled outside, and the bar’s neon sign flickered red across the window. Jack glanced at it — the reflection of the word “OPEN” bleeding backwards, as if mocking them both.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Barry wasn’t really attacking either side. He was laughing at the absurdity that both claim to be the moral ones — when morality and money share the same accountant.”

Jack: “That’s what makes satire divine. It’s the only mirror that shows everyone’s flaws equally.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe laughter is the only tax we can all afford.”

Jack: (grinning) “And the only one they can’t deduct.”

Host: Their laughter broke the tension — brief, genuine, a rare moment of shared understanding in a world too tangled to fix. Outside, the rain softened again, as if the city itself exhaled.

Jeeny: “Still, I don’t think all activism is hypocrisy. Some people genuinely fight the system because they want change.”

Jack: “Sure. And some CEOs genuinely start nonprofits because they feel guilty. Doesn’t mean they stop exploiting loopholes.”

Jeeny: “You really don’t believe in purity, do you?”

Jack: “Purity’s a luxury for people who can afford to be naïve.”

Host: A silence settled between them, punctuated only by the faint jazz and the steady clink of glass against wood. Outside, a taxi passed through a puddle, scattering water like a restless metaphor.

Jeeny: “So what do you believe in, then?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Transparency. Not goodness — just transparency. At least lies that admit they’re lies.”

Jeeny: “That’s bleak.”

Jack: “That’s realistic.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s resignation disguised as wisdom.”

Jack: (turning to her) “And what’s your alternative?”

Jeeny: “Faith. Not in systems — in individuals. I’ve seen corporations do harm, yes. But I’ve also seen people inside them fight quietly to make a difference.”

Jack: “Unsung heroes in expensive suits.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But change always starts from within hypocrisy — because that’s where truth has to fight hardest to breathe.”

Host: Her words lingered like smoke, curling through the dim light. Jack stared into his drink, then raised it in a small, ironic salute.

Jack: “To hypocrisy, then — the real fuel of civilization.”

Jeeny: (raising hers) “To laughter — the only honest reaction left.”

Host: They clinked glasses. The sound was sharp, clean, almost musical. Outside, the city lights shimmered against the wet streets, their reflections rippling like currency in motion.

Jack: “You know, Barry had a point. Every cause, every corporation, every crusade — it’s all just people justifying their own survival.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the best we can do is laugh at ourselves before someone else does.”

Jack: “Or before the taxman finally catches on.”

Host: The bartender turned up the jazz, an old trumpet sighing through the speakers like a man too wise to be angry anymore. The rain outside had turned to mist — a veil over the city’s glittering face.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack, if satire’s the only truth left, what does that make us?”

Jack: “Comic relief in a tragic economy.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then let’s make it a good performance.”

Host: And as their laughter mingled with the music and the hum of the sleeping city, Dave Barry’s irony crystallized into a timeless truth —

That hypocrisy isn’t the disease, it’s the diagnosis;
that every crusade hides a profit margin,
and every profit hides a story of belief.

But amid all the satire and self-interest,
if two people can still laugh honestly together —
perhaps there’s hope yet in the economy of humanity.

Host: The rain stopped completely, leaving only the glow of the streetlights and the faint reflection of their laughter in the glass — fleeting, imperfect, and profoundly real.