Having George W. Bush giving a lecture on business ethics is like

Host: The city was loud with neon and memory. A late night, the kind where the air still smelled of coffee and exhaust, and the moonlight fought with the glow of billboards.

Inside a small 24-hour diner, the windows were fogged with steam and conversation. A jukebox hummed faintly in the corner — some old blues song that refused to die.

Jack sat in a red booth, his grey eyes fixed on a half-empty cup of black coffee. Jeeny sat across from him, stirring her tea slowly, as if time itself could dissolve in it.

Outside, rain slicked the pavement, reflecting the sign above: “OPEN ALL NIGHT.”

The world seemed both awake and tired, just like them.

Jeeny: “Robin Williams once said, ‘Having George W. Bush giving a lecture on business ethics is like having a leper give you a facial — it just doesn’t work.’”

Host: Her voice carried both amusement and sadness, the kind that hides beneath laughter.

Jack: (chuckling) “Classic Williams. Brutal and honest. He always knew how to slice through the nonsense with a joke.”

Jeeny: “Do you think it’s just a joke, Jack? Or was he trying to say something about hypocrisy — about how the world keeps letting the wrong people teach the right lessons?”

Jack: “Hypocrisy’s not new, Jeeny. It’s human nature. Power attracts the kind of people who think they’re immune to irony. You put a man in charge of a war, and then he talks about ethics — of course it’s absurd. But that’s politics. It’s theater with better lighting.”

Host: The waitress passed by, her shoes squeaking softly on the tile floor. She poured more coffee, her eyes glazed with routine. Outside, a car horn echoed like a stray thought.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think that’s the problem? We treat it like a joke — laugh, shrug, move on. And then we wonder why nothing changes. Why people who start wars, who wreck economies, get invited back to give lectures on morality.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “You think outrage fixes anything? The world forgives because it forgets — it has to. Otherwise it couldn’t function. You can’t stay angry forever.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can stay awake. You can remember. You can ask why we let people who fail upward keep writing the rules. That’s what Williams was mocking — the absurdity of moral authority without moral history.”

Host: Her hands trembled slightly as she spoke, the spoon clinking against the cup. Jack noticed, his eyes softening, though his voice remained rough.

Jack: “Look, I get the point. But we’ve always needed symbols more than saints. People don’t listen to the pure, they listen to the powerful. That’s why someone like Bush can talk about ethics — not because he’s clean, but because he’s visible.”

Jeeny: “That’s a tragedy, not a truth. When the visible replace the virtuous, everything starts to rot from the inside. Remember the banking crisis? CEOs who crashed the system were giving keynote speeches a year later. That’s not visibility — that’s amnesia dressed as prestige.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, becoming a curtain of silver noise. The neon sign flickered, sputtering like an exhausted pulse. Jack leaned back, smoke curling from his freshly lit cigarette.

Jack: “You know, maybe Williams was right — it doesn’t work. But the irony’s what keeps us alive, isn’t it? We laugh at the monsters because otherwise, they’d break us. Humor’s the last line of resistance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But laughter without accountability turns into apathy. It becomes a way of coping, not changing. Williams could make us laugh, but he was also holding up a mirror. He made us face the ugly truth — that we live in a world where failure gets a microphone.”

Jack: “And what would you rather have? Silence? At least the clowns keep the stage warm. Maybe one day, someone honest will walk up and take the mic.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And until then, the circus goes on.”

Host: The diner’s light flickered again, casting both of their faces in alternating shadow and glow. The rain outside softened, becoming almost musical.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to have ethics in business? Real ethics, not slogans?”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop mistaking success for goodness. Business has always been about profit, not principle. But maybe — just maybe — if enough people stop buying the illusion, it’ll have to change.”

Jack: “You mean a moral market? Good luck with that. The last time morality and money shared a room, one walked out in handcuffs.”

Jeeny: “You’re such a cynic.”

Jack: “Realist.”

Jeeny: “No. Cynicism is just realism with its heart amputated.”

Host: That line hit him like a quiet strike. Jack didn’t answer. He just stared at the window, watching the reflections slide down the glass — red, blue, gold — like melting masks.

Jack: “You know, when Williams said that line… he wasn’t just mocking Bush. He was mocking all of us — our need to be taught by the ones who broke us. Maybe we like hypocrisy because it reminds us that no one’s clean. It makes our own mess easier to live with.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think he wanted us to wake up, not to forgive ourselves for sleeping.”

Host: The jukebox changed songs. A slow piano, melancholy and tender, filled the space. Jack leaned forward now, elbows on the table, smoke curling between them.

Jack: “So what do you do, Jeeny? You think every corrupt politician, every billionaire with a conscience PR campaign — you think they should all just disappear?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they should have to listen. Sit in the back for once. Let the nurses, the teachers, the refugees, the laid-off workers — let them teach the ethics class. They’ve paid the cost. They know the weight of consequence.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “That’s fair. But the problem is — no one buys tickets to that lecture.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we stop selling the seats.”

Host: The rain paused. A strange stillness filled the diner, the kind that follows revelation. Even the clock seemed to hesitate.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You ever think maybe Williams said that line out of pain? Like he couldn’t bear how ridiculous everything had become?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s what makes it beautiful. Comedy was his way of bleeding without leaving stains.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, the faint smell of tobacco and regret lingering in the air. He smiled, but it was a tired, human smile — the kind that comes when you realize you’re part of the joke too.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real lesson. The only thing more dangerous than hypocrisy… is pretending you’re above it.”

Jeeny: “And the only thing more tragic than laughter… is forgetting what it tried to teach you.”

Host: Outside, the first light of dawn began to touch the sky, dissolving the neon, softening the edges of the night. The rain stopped completely, leaving the streets slick with reflection.

The two of them sat there — silent, awake, and somehow lighter — as the world exhaled.

The sun rose behind the buildings, and for a brief, fragile moment, the light caught the window just right, turning their faces gold — like truth momentarily visible between two lies.

And the city, absurd and magnificent, began to move again.