Go for a business that any idiot can run - because sooner or

Host: The office was quiet after hours, save for the low hum of the air conditioner and the glow of the city lights spilling through the glass walls. Desks lay empty, screens dark, coffee mugs abandoned like forgotten promises.

Jack sat at the conference table, a stack of reports spread before him, his grey eyes sharp with fatigue. Jeeny leaned against the window, her reflection split by the skyline—half dreamer, half critic.

A storm was brewing outside; the thunder rolled faintly in the distance, a warning or a metaphor, depending on who you asked.

Jeeny: “Peter Lynch once said, ‘Go for a business that any idiot can run—because sooner or later, any idiot probably is going to run it.’”

Her voice carried a touch of irony, a faint smile forming. “You’d like that one, wouldn’t you?”

Jack: “Like it? I live by it.”
He smirked, tapping his pen on the table. “It’s the only honest line in capitalism.”

Jeeny: “Honest—or cynical?”

Jack: “Both. The best truths are.”

Host: The lightning flashed, painting the office walls in brief white scars. Outside, the rain started, tracing lines down the windows like tears from a tired god.

Jeeny: “So that’s your philosophy now? Build something idiot-proof, assume incompetence, and hope for profit?”

Jack: “That’s not philosophy. That’s risk management.”

Jeeny: “It’s also despair disguised as pragmatism.”

Jack: “No—it’s survival. Look around, Jeeny. The world’s run by people who read half the memo and sign the check anyway. You want to build an empire? Build one sturdy enough to outlast its own stupidity.”

Jeeny: “That’s a grim kind of faith.”

Jack: “It’s the only kind that keeps the lights on.”

Host: She walked toward him, heels clicking softly on the tile, her shadow stretching across the table. The stormlight glowed on her face, highlighting her eyes—sharp, full of conviction, like someone still foolish enough to believe in integrity.

Jeeny: “But what about meaning, Jack? What about pride in creation? Shouldn’t business be about building something worth more than a dividend report?”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay salaries.”

Jeeny: “No, but it builds loyalty, innovation, legacy.”

Jack: “Legacy?” He laughed, bitter, low. “Legacy is just a word executives use when they realize their retirement plan won’t make them immortal.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe that.”

Jack: “I believe systems outlive souls. That’s why you build systems that run themselves.”

Host: The rain hammered harder now, drumming against the glass like a restless audience. The lights in the city flickered, each skyscraper a pulse, a heart beating with artificial life.

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, Jack. You talk like a man who’s replaced his heart with a spreadsheet.”

Jack: “And yet the spreadsheet’s never lied to me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s never loved you either.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t scale.”

Jeeny: “Neither does conscience—but you still need one.”

Jack: “Conscience doesn’t keep a company afloat.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps it from sinking the world with it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy as the storm outside. Jack leaned back, exhaling, his hands rubbing his temples. The silence that followed wasn’t peace—it was the kind of silence that asked questions without mercy.

Jack: “You think business should be noble. That’s cute. But business is just organized necessity. People don’t build empires to save the world—they do it to survive it.”

Jeeny: “No, they do it to control it.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Survival is desperate; control is arrogant. You’ve convinced yourself they’re identical because you’re afraid of admitting you’ve stopped dreaming.”

Jack: “Dreams are expensive liabilities.”

Jeeny: “And cynicism is cheap courage.”

Host: The thunder cracked, shaking the glass. The office lights flickered, the city flashing like a dying signal. For a moment, the only illumination came from the lightning, their faces frozen in chiaroscuro—two philosophies at war, two hearts still tethered by care and exhaustion.

Jeeny: “Tell me, Jack. Do you ever think about the people who run the things you build?”

Jack: “I build so they don’t have to think.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem.”

Jack: “That’s the point.”

Jeeny: “You think efficiency is virtue. I think it’s amnesia. You automate compassion until nothing human is left.”

Jack: “You call it compassion. I call it delay.”

Jeeny: “You call it progress. I call it decay.”

Jack: “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: The storm mellowed, the rain turning to a soft drizzle. The city lights reflected in the wet glass, blurring like tears that refused to fall.

Jack stood, closing his laptop, gathering his papers with mechanical precision. “You know,” he said, “Lynch wasn’t being cynical. He was being practical. He understood that every great idea eventually gets managed by mediocrity.”

Jeeny: “And you’re fine with that?”

Jack: “I’m realistic about it.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s already given up on greatness.”

Jack: “Maybe greatness isn’t about perfection. Maybe it’s about building something that survives imperfection.”

Jeeny: “And if survival costs you your soul?”

Jack: “Then maybe the soul was too fragile for the market.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the market was too hollow for the soul.”

Host: They stood in silence again, the air between them thick with the ghosts of every conversation they’d ever had—about ethics, ambition, and the thin, treacherous line between them.

Finally, Jeeny walked to the window, looking out at the city. The rain had stopped, but the pavement still glistened, mirroring the towers like dreams upside down.

Jeeny: “You know what scares me most, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That you’re right. That every good thing we build eventually ends up in the wrong hands. That the idiots always inherit the empire.”

Jack: “Then build one they can’t destroy.”

Jeeny: “And if they still do?”

Jack: “Then you build again.”

Jeeny: “And again?”

Jack: “Until the system’s smarter than the idiots running it.”

Jeeny: “And what if that system forgets the people it was built for?”

Jack: “Then it’s no longer business. It’s evolution.”

Host: A pause. A small smile crept across Jeeny’s face, the kind that meant sadness had found poetry.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack—that’s what separates us. You believe in endurance. I believe in renewal. You build for survival; I build for remembrance.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why the world needs both of us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe.”

Host: The storm clouds began to thin, a faint silver glow emerging over the horizon. The city, exhausted but unbroken, breathed beneath them.

Jeeny turned toward him, her voice soft, almost tender now.

Jeeny: “Lynch was right. You can’t stop the idiots from coming. But you can decide whether what you build will outlast their ignorance—or serve it.”

Jack: “So what would you build, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Something an idiot could run—
but only a human could create.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then—two figures framed against the glass, the city lights flickering, the storm fading into a calm that felt earned.

Outside, the streets glistened, alive again, and somewhere in the distance, a neon sign buzzed back to life—
its light stubborn, its hum steady,
as if even the city understood the wisdom in building something
strong enough for idiots,
and tender enough for dreamers.