I am thankful that all the people in the world who absolutely

Host:
The rain came down in sheets — the kind that made the city lights smear into streaks of gold and crimson, like the whole world had been turned into a watercolor of regret. The sidewalks glistened under the blur of passing headlights, and the air carried the metallic tang of thunder waiting to strike again.

Inside a small diner, the windows fogged with warmth and silence. Neon signs hummed faintly, bleeding red and blue across the empty booths. The only sounds were the clink of ceramic, the low static of a radio tuned between stations, and the soft sigh of the coffee machine exhaling steam.

At the corner table, Jack stirred his coffee, watching the swirl of milk become a galaxy of muted color. His grey eyes were tired — not from the day, but from the weight of a world that never seemed to learn.

Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, her brown eyes reflecting both the storm outside and the quiet ache within. Her black hair, damp from the rain, framed her face in soft, dark waves.

Host:
Between the distant roll of thunder and the soft hum of the diner’s neon, Elayne Boosler’s words seemed to rise like smoke from a philosophical fire that had been burning since the dawn of humanity:

"I am thankful that all the people in the world who absolutely, positively, know what God wants, usually kill mostly each other."

Jeeny:
(sighs, with a wry smile)
That’s brutal… and brilliant.

Jack:
(laughs dryly)
Yeah. A little too honest, maybe. Truth always sounds like blasphemy to someone.

Jeeny:
That’s the thing — she’s not mocking faith. She’s mocking certainty.

Jack:
(leans back)
Exactly. The kind of certainty that makes people stop listening. The “I’ve got God on my side, so I don’t have to think” kind.

Jeeny:
(nods slowly)
You can almost hear the exhaustion behind her humor. Like she’s saying — if God’s voice sounds exactly like your anger, maybe you’re not praying, you’re projecting.

Host:
The lights flickered as thunder rolled again, deeper this time. The sound rattled the windowpanes, blurring their reflections into one another — Jack’s, Jeeny’s, and the faint neon glow that painted the room in shades of irony and melancholy.

Jack:
You ever notice how people who claim to know exactly what God wants always seem to want the same things? Power. Control. Obedience.

Jeeny:
(smiling softly)
And everyone else’s surrender.

Jack:
Yeah. As if certainty gives them a license to erase.

Jeeny:
That’s what’s terrifying — not faith itself, but what happens when people turn faith into a weapon.

Jack:
(nods)
It’s like humanity keeps reenacting the same argument — each side convinced they’re the voice of the divine, shouting over everyone else until all that’s left is the echo.

Jeeny:
And the echo sounds a lot like gunfire.

Host:
A heavy pause filled the air — not silence, but that tense, living stillness that follows a truth too sharp to sit comfortably. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, its sound bending through the rain like a question that never gets answered.

Jeeny:
You know, I think her gratitude is the only sane response left. It’s dark, but it’s honest — to be thankful that fanaticism eats itself before it devours everyone else.

Jack:
(grimly)
It’s a bitter kind of hope, isn’t it? Hoping that destruction collapses under its own arrogance before it spreads too far.

Jeeny:
Maybe it’s not hope at all. Maybe it’s just relief — that for once, the chaos spares the innocent.

Jack:
(pauses, staring into his coffee)
You think humans will ever outgrow that? The need to feel right at all costs?

Jeeny:
(smiling sadly)
We’re wired for meaning, Jack. That’s the curse and the blessing. When we can’t find it, we invent it — even if it means burning everything to prove it’s real.

Host:
Her words cut through the hum of the diner like a quiet prophecy. The radio flickered again, catching a few seconds of an old song — Sinatra, maybe — before dissolving back into static.

Jack:
You think faith can survive without certainty?

Jeeny:
Absolutely. Real faith starts where certainty ends. It’s not about knowing. It’s about trusting — even when you don’t know.

Jack:
But people hate not knowing.

Jeeny:
Exactly. That’s why they trade mystery for dogma. Mystery asks you to live in humility. Dogma lets you hide in arrogance.

Jack:
And arrogance always needs an enemy.

Jeeny:
Always. Because if everyone believed differently but peacefully, you’d have to admit belief isn’t proof.

Host:
The rain softened now, turning to mist against the window. The neon sign outside blinked — EAT… EAT… EAT — until even that word felt absurdly sacred.

Jack smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting with quiet irony.

Jack:
Maybe that’s why humor like hers matters. It keeps us from worshipping our own seriousness.

Jeeny:
(laughs softly)
Yeah. It’s like laughter is the last weapon that doesn’t draw blood.

Jack:
Or the last prayer that doesn’t beg for an answer.

Jeeny:
Exactly. You can’t kill someone you can still laugh with.

Host:
The thunder had passed. The storm was gone now, leaving only the sound of tires hissing across wet asphalt. Inside, the diner felt lighter — still quiet, but touched by something that almost resembled grace.

Jack:
You think Boosler was thankful because she believed people eventually destroy their own fanaticism?

Jeeny:
Maybe. Or maybe she was just tired of waiting for peace to come from above. Maybe she realized it has to come from below — from us, from mercy, from humor, from restraint.

Jack:
And from knowing that “I don’t know” can be the most faithful sentence of all.

Host:
A waitress approached with the check, leaving it on the table without a word. Jack slid a few crumpled bills beneath the mug, his eyes thoughtful, softened.

They stood, grabbing their coats. Jeeny paused at the door, looking back at the rain-slick city.

Jeeny:
You know, I think gratitude like hers — the sarcastic kind — it’s not cynicism. It’s survival. When the world keeps warring over certainty, humor becomes the only form of prayer that still works.

Jack:
(quietly)
Yeah. A prayer disguised as a punchline.

Host:
They stepped out into the wet night, the streetlights glowing soft against the glistening pavement. The storm had rinsed the air clean, but the world still smelled faintly of smoke — the kind that never quite goes away.

And as they walked into the quiet dark, Elayne Boosler’s words trailed behind them — wry, weary, wise — a reminder that faith and folly often share the same roof:

That those who claim to know the mind of God
too often forget the heart of humanity,

and that perhaps the holiest gratitude
is not for the absence of doubt,
but for the mercy
that the truly certain
mostly destroy themselves
before they can destroy the rest of us.

The rain began again, softer this time,
washing the neon light into color,
leaving behind only reflection —
and a quiet kind of thankfulness
for all the mysteries
we may never solve,
but still survive.