Bill Clinton's foreign policy experience stems mainly from having

Host: The diner was half-empty, the kind of late-night refuge where neon light hummed against windows smudged by time and weather. Outside, the rain came down steady, washing the world in streaks of blue and red reflections from a flickering sign: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, the air was thick with coffee steam, fried butter, and the familiar melancholy of 2 a.m.

Jack sat in a cracked leather booth, nursing his third cup of coffee — the strong, burnt kind that doesn’t wake you up so much as dare you to keep going. Jeeny sat across from him, her elbows resting on the table, a notebook open but ignored. Between them sat a half-eaten plate of pancakes — cold, syrup congealing like amber.

Jeeny: “Pat Buchanan once said, ‘Bill Clinton’s foreign policy experience stems mainly from having breakfast at the International House of Pancakes.’”

Host: Her voice carried that soft edge of irony — the kind that cuts deeper the quieter it’s delivered. Jack smirked, swirling the coffee in his cup.

Jack: “Ah, the man never missed a chance to turn sarcasm into an art form.”

Jeeny: “It’s funny — but also cruel.”

Jack: “That’s politics. Comedy disguised as judgment. Or maybe judgment disguised as comedy.”

Jeeny: “You think he meant it as a joke?”

Jack: “Oh, definitely. But every joke’s just truth with makeup on.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their mugs with that half-smile of someone who’s seen every kind of exhaustion. The sound of the rain outside filled the pauses — rhythmic, hypnotic.

Jeeny: “So what truth was he pointing at?”

Jack: “That experience is overrated. Or that it’s underplayed. Depends on your bias.”

Jeeny: “Or that people in power are often faking it until they make it.”

Jack: (smirking) “That’s everyone, Jeeny. Presidents, waiters, dreamers — all running on instinct and caffeine.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in expertise?”

Jack: “I believe in confidence. It just looks like expertise until the world collapses.”

Host: Her laugh broke through the tension — light, melodic, but carrying that quiet disappointment of someone who still believes people should do better.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying experience doesn’t matter?”

Jack: “No, I’m saying it’s a luxury. Half the world doesn’t have the time to get experienced before it has to act. Clinton, Musk, Gandhi — everyone’s bluffing through the first draft.”

Jeeny: “That’s a dangerous philosophy.”

Jack: “It’s the truth of survival.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the glass. A passing truck’s headlights spilled across their booth, briefly lighting their faces like a camera flash in a moment never meant to be captured.

Jeeny: “You know what’s interesting, though? Buchanan mocked him for inexperience, but maybe that’s what made Clinton human. People like leaders who don’t start as experts — they start as learners.”

Jack: “And sometimes crash as students.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But learning publicly — failing publicly — that’s courage.”

Jack: “Or desperation.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s democracy. You try, you fail, you learn in front of everyone. That’s what makes it real.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the leather of the booth creaking under him. His eyes followed the slow slide of rain down the window — liquid lines crossing and merging, an accidental map of the world.

Jack: “Funny, though. Buchanan was sneering, but he wasn’t wrong. Most leaders act like they’re running IHOPs — trying to keep everyone fed, no matter what country they come from, while the kitchen’s on fire.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “You’re not giving Clinton much credit.”

Jack: “I’m giving him humanity. Which might be worse.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we should stop expecting politicians to be saints. The world’s run by improvisers, not prophets.”

Jack: “Improvisers with nukes.”

Jeeny: “Better than cynics with none.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked loudly — 2:47 a.m. A couple of truckers laughed at something in the corner booth. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan sizzled — the familiar sound of life continuing despite philosophy.

Jeeny: “You know, that quote — it’s cruel, but it’s also a mirror. It says more about us than about Clinton.”

Jack: “How so?”

Jeeny: “Because we still equate experience with virtue. We think knowing how to do something makes a person moral.”

Jack: “And you think it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “No. I think morality starts with empathy, not expertise. You can learn how to negotiate a treaty — but you can’t fake the will to care.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, then smiled — not with amusement, but with quiet recognition.

Jack: “You really think compassion can hold up against competence?”

Jeeny: “I think without compassion, competence just builds smarter cruelty.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like the smoke curling from the coffee steam — soft, slow, undeniable. Jack turned back to his mug, watching his reflection ripple on the surface.

Jack: “Maybe Buchanan was mocking the wrong thing. Maybe he thought policy came from books, not breakfast.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes wisdom comes over pancakes at 2 a.m., not from the lecture hall.”

Jack: “You think Clinton learned more at the diner than the White House?”

Jeeny: “Maybe we all do. You listen better when you’re not pretending to know everything.”

Host: Outside, a flash of lightning illuminated the street — bright enough to show the cracked pavement, the dripping awning, the small neon sign that buzzed: International House of Pancakes.

Jack followed Jeeny’s gaze to it, both of them caught for a moment in the strange irony of the universe’s sense of humor.

Jack: (smiling) “Maybe Buchanan was right in a way. Maybe it is about breakfast. About starting somewhere small, simple, and real — before you try to feed the world.”

Jeeny: “That’s the best kind of diplomacy — the kind that starts with conversation, not conquest.”

Jack: “And coffee.”

Jeeny: “Definitely coffee.”

Host: They both laughed, quietly. The rain softened, easing into a rhythm that sounded almost like applause.

In the window’s reflection, the two of them sat beneath the neon glow — small figures in a big, imperfect world, still talking, still questioning, still human.

Host: Because in the end, maybe Buchanan’s sarcasm was just prophecy in disguise — that wisdom often begins where arrogance ends.

And sometimes, the first step toward understanding the world
is simply sitting down to breakfast in it.