I'm running for Congress to reverse Obama's big government

Host: The Capitol dome glimmered under a storm-streaked sky, its marble curves lit by flashes of lightning that rippled across the clouds like veins of anger. The rain had just begun, slicing through the humid air of a Washington evening. Inside a dim whiskey bar tucked between old brick alleys, the air was thick with the smell of oak, smoke, and unspoken philosophy.

Host: Jack sat by the window, his coat damp, his hands folded like a man too used to debating the world and too tired to win. Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella dripping, her hair clinging to her face in damp strands. She carried an energy that seemed to cut through the static of the storm — soft, yet charged.

Jeeny: “Ron DeSantis once said, ‘I’m running for Congress to reverse Obama’s big government policies, to be faithful to the principles on which our nation was founded, and to make members of Congress play by the same rules as the rest of us.’ You ever think about what that means, Jack — ‘the same rules as the rest of us’?”

Jack: “It’s political theater, Jeeny. A neat little slogan wrapped in righteousness. Every politician says they’ll fight for the ‘common man,’ but the truth is, they don’t live like him. Never did. Never will.”

Host: The bartender set down two glasses, the amber liquid inside catching the flicker of lightning like trapped fire. Jack took a sip, the bite of the whiskey matching the edge of his tone.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there some truth in it? The idea that government has grown too big, too detached, too self-serving? You can feel it — in the bureaucracy, the red tape, the rules that only apply to ordinary people.”

Jack: “You sound like a campaign ad yourself,” he said, a hint of a smile twisting at his lips. “The ‘big government’ argument’s been around since Jefferson fought Hamilton. One side calls it freedom, the other calls it structure. But in the real world, you need both. You tear down too much government, and you end up with chaos. You let it grow unchecked, you get tyranny.”

Jeeny: “But Jack, what if the tyranny is already here — not in the form of a king, but in rules written by men who never have to live by them? You know what DeSantis meant — that power corrupts when it stops being accountable.”

Jack: “Accountability’s a myth in politics. The system was never built to make them live like us. They make the rules because someone has to, and we keep voting for the same kinds of people. You can’t fix hypocrisy by campaigning against it — it’s baked into the game.”

Host: The rain tightened, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes dark with conviction, her voice steady but sharp.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that cynicism dangerous, Jack? If we just accept that everyone in power is corrupt, then we stop trying. The whole point of the American experiment was to believe in self-correction — that when leaders forget who they serve, the people can remind them.”

Jack: “That’s the ideal, sure. But the Founders also built safeguards because they knew men weren’t angels. Every generation promises to return to the ‘principles we were founded on,’ but no one ever agrees what those principles really are. Liberty for whom? Equality for whom? The original principles left entire groups outside the circle.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty of it — that we’ve kept expanding the circle. Every movement that’s changed this country — civil rights, women’s suffrage, labor reform — came from people who believed those principles were real, even when they weren’t applied to them. That’s what faith in founding ideals means, Jack. Not nostalgia, but correction.”

Host: Her words seemed to warm the air between them, even as the storm outside raged harder. Jack studied her, the corner of his mouth tightening, not in anger, but in recognition.

Jack: “You make it sound like a sermon, Jeeny. But faith in a system doesn’t make it work. The machine runs on power, not hope. And power’s like water — it finds the lowest point, always leaking into the cracks we pretend don’t exist.”

Jeeny: “Then fix the cracks, not the belief that the house can stand. DeSantis might have been partisan, but the sentiment — that those who govern should play by the same rules — that’s not Republican or Democrat. That’s moral.”

Jack: “Moral?” he snorted, his eyes flashing. “Since when is politics about morality? You think Jefferson was a saint while he wrote about freedom with a slave in his house? Or that FDR didn’t bend the rules to stay in power? The system’s always been about strategy, not saints.”

Host: The candle between them quivered, its flame stretching under a gust from the door. A pair of lobbyists entered, their voices loud and careless, their laughter filling the room like the sound of coins clinking. Jeeny watched them — the way they ordered, the way the bartender deferred.

Jeeny: “That’s what I mean, Jack. They live in a different reality. And if no one calls them out, if no one believes they should live by the same rules, that reality becomes normal.”

Jack: “And if we keep pretending they’re different from us, we’ll never see the truth — that we made them. We built the ladder they climbed. Every time we vote for a promise, we’re buying a dream we know is fake, just because we can’t stand the truth — that real change isn’t romantic. It’s ugly. It’s slow.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, this time closer, shaking the bottles on the shelf. Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her glass. Her voice, when it came, was softer, almost pleading.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people like him run — not because they’re perfect, but because they still think change is worth chasing. Even if the storm never ends.”

Jack: “Or maybe they run because they like the thunder. Because power is its own kind of music. The trick is convincing the crowd it’s a battle hymn instead of just noise.”

Host: The rain began to ease, tapering into a light drizzle. The city lights outside blurred, turning the streets into rivers of gold. Jeeny leaned back, her expression gentler now — not defeated, but tempered.

Jeeny: “You always think in absolutes, Jack. Maybe that’s your curse. You can’t believe someone can want power and still want to do good.”

Jack: “And you can’t believe someone can do good without wanting power.”

Host: They both laughed, quiet, exhausted laughter — the kind that acknowledges the truth inside the paradox. The storm had broken, but its echo still lingered in their voices.

Jeeny: “Maybe the real principle this country was founded on isn’t just freedom, or faith, or even law. Maybe it’s the argument itself — the right to keep questioning what we were founded on.”

Jack: “And the responsibility to never stop arguing for it.”

Host: The bartender turned off the radio, and the room fell into a heavy silence, save for the faint trickle of rain outside. Jack and Jeeny sat there, two souls caught between idealism and realism, hope and cynicism — the eternal debate of the Republic.

Host: As they rose to leave, the clouds parted, and a faint beam of moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating the Constitution quote etched above the bar: “We the People.”

Host: They both stopped, their eyes lingering on it. Jack smiled, just barely.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the one rule they should never forget.”

Jeeny: “Or the one we should never stop reminding them of.”

Host: Outside, the Capitol stood silent — wet, glimmering, and unmoved — but above it, the clouds were finally breaking, as if even the storm had learned to listen.