In order to understand why George W. Bush doesn't get it, you

Host: The bar was quiet except for the low hum of a neon sign buzzing against the rain-streaked window. The air smelled of whiskey, old wood, and the ghost of political arguments that had outlasted their decade. A small television above the counter played muted news footage — endless panels, endless pundits, endless certainty.

Host: Jack sat at the bar, a half-empty glass before him, his collar unbuttoned, his eyes shadowed with that peculiar blend of cynicism and grief reserved for those who think too much about power. Across from him, in a booth bathed in half-light, Jeeny sat with her arms crossed, her expression sharp but weary, the kind of weariness born not of fatigue, but of long, principled frustration.

Host: Between them, on the counter, lay a folded newspaper with a highlighted quote scrawled in the margin — words from the ever-fearless Molly Ivins:

“In order to understand why George W. Bush doesn't get it, you have to take several strands of common Texas attitude, then add an impressive degree of class-based obliviousness. What you end up with is a guy who sees himself as a perfectly nice fellow — and who is genuinely disconnected from the impact of his decisions on people.”

Host: The words sat there like an open wound — honest, fearless, and still relevant.

Jack: “She had a way of saying it,” he said, swirling his drink. “Not cruel, not sanctimonious — just surgical. She didn’t hate Bush; she understood him too well.”

Jeeny: “That’s what made her dangerous,” she said. “She could humanize power while still indicting it. Most critics either demonize or worship. Ivins dissected.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said, leaning back. “She saw that certain men think goodness is enough. That being nice absolves them from consequence.”

Jeeny: “That’s the heart of it,” she said. “The idea that moral character — or the illusion of it — can outweigh moral responsibility. He wasn’t evil. He was insulated. And insulation breeds indifference.”

Host: The neon flickered, spilling red light across their faces. A few barflies down the counter muttered about the economy, the game, the next election — fragments of America overheard.

Jack: “It’s that phrase,” he said, tapping the quote. “‘Class-based obliviousness.’ She nailed it. He’s not the villain. He’s the product.”

Jeeny: “Of comfort,” she said. “Of inherited innocence. The kind of upbringing where consequences are abstract, not lived. When you’ve never felt hunger, or humiliation, or fear — empathy becomes theoretical.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, “he thought he was doing good.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it tragic,” she said softly. “Because believing you’re righteous makes you unstoppable. Especially when you’ve never learned how your decisions land on the powerless.”

Host: A pause — the kind of silence that comes after truth. The bartender wiped a glass without looking up. The muted TV played a war documentary now — soldiers in desert light, faces young and uncertain.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “Ivins wasn’t just talking about Bush. She was talking about America. About how our privilege blinds us — personally, politically, spiritually. We still think being ‘good people’ excuses what we ignore.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “We mistake decency for justice. Politeness for compassion. And we confuse accountability with cruelty.”

Jack: “So the cycle continues,” he said. “The nice ones break things they don’t understand. The cynical ones clean up the mess.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “And the journalists document it, hoping someone will read it before the next disaster.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, smearing the neon reflections into streaks of red and gold across the window.

Jack: “You think there’s any hope?” he asked quietly. “That leaders can learn empathy before catastrophe teaches it?”

Jeeny: “Only if they leave the palace,” she said. “Ivins knew that. She believed democracy dies of distance — not dictatorship. When leaders stop knowing the smell of poverty, or the sound of despair, they stop leading. They just manage.”

Jack: “And they think their kindness covers the wound.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “But power without proximity is blindness. You can’t fix what you refuse to touch.”

Host: The television cut to static for a moment — white noise filling the bar like the sound of ghosts arguing through time.

Jack: “It’s strange,” he said, “how Ivins could write about Texas — its swagger, its humor, its contradictions — and somehow make it the perfect mirror for America.”

Jeeny: “Because Texas is America,” she said. “Big-hearted, self-mythologizing, half-blind to its own privilege, but capable of immense kindness — when it chooses to see.”

Jack: “And Bush,” he said, “was Texas personified. A man of faith who mistook certainty for vision.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “And Ivins, the conscience whispering from the back row: Remember the people beneath the policy.”

Host: The storm outside began to ease. The sound of rain softened into a rhythm like distant applause — or forgiveness.

Jack: “You think she’d still write like that today?” he asked.

Jeeny: “She’d have to,” Jeeny said. “Truth doesn’t expire. She’d call out the same blindness — different faces, same disease. The inability of comfort to see consequence.”

Jack: “And she’d still make us laugh while she did it,” he said.

Jeeny: “Of course,” she said. “Because laughter disarms arrogance. She didn’t mock to destroy — she mocked to awaken.”

Host: The camera pulled back, revealing the two of them sitting in the dim red light, surrounded by the hum of neon and the whisper of old storms. The newspaper lay open between them — the ink of Ivins’ words bleeding slightly into the paper, as if alive, as if refusing to fade.

“In order to understand why George W. Bush doesn't get it, you have to take several strands of common Texas attitude, then add an impressive degree of class-based obliviousness. What you end up with is a guy who sees himself as a perfectly nice fellow — and who is genuinely disconnected from the impact of his decisions on people.”

Host: And as the light flickered one last time, the truth of it lingered — not as condemnation, but as caution:

Host: Because tyranny doesn’t always arrive in cruelty — sometimes it wears a smile. And the greatest danger isn’t malice, but blindness: the blindness of good people who never feel the pain of those living beneath their kindness.