It's a good thing we don't get all the government we pay for.

Host: The night was warm, and the city was alive in that peculiar way only late hours know — a kind of weary hum, part laughter, part loneliness. Neon signs flickered above cracked pavement, their light painting everything with tired color. Inside a small, nearly empty diner, the air smelled of burnt coffee and old stories.

Host: Jack sat in a corner booth, a cigarette burning between his fingers, its smoke coiling lazily upward like an old memory. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her eyes lost in the steam. The clock above them ticked with mechanical certainty, every second a reminder that time, unlike government, keeps perfect records.

Jeeny: “Will Rogers once said, ‘It’s a good thing we don’t get all the government we pay for.’” She smiled faintly, setting the cup down. “You’d like that one, wouldn’t you?”

Jack: “Like it?” he said, his voice low, rough around the edges. “I think it’s the smartest joke anyone ever told. Every year they take more, promise more, deliver less — and we call it progress.”

Host: The fluorescent light above them buzzed faintly, then steadied. A lonely truck rumbled past outside, its headlights slicing through the window like a brief truth.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather we just… didn’t have government? No taxes, no programs, no laws? You’d rather live in the wild west again?”

Jack: “I’m not saying burn it all down,” he said, tapping ash into the tray. “I’m saying if government were a business, it’d be bankrupt. If it were a doctor, we’d have sued it for malpractice. And yet, people keep lining up for treatment.”

Jeeny: “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one relying on the treatment. For a lot of people, that ‘malpractice’ is the only thing keeping them alive.”

Jack: “Then that’s the real tragedy,” he said, leaning forward. “That we’ve built a system so bloated, so inefficient, that people think they’d die without it. Rogers was right — it’s a good thing we don’t get all the government we pay for. Because if we did, Jeeny, it’d drown us.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed — dark, alive, full of feeling. She leaned in too, her voice quiet but sharp, like a blade drawn from silk.

Jeeny: “You talk like cynicism is wisdom, Jack. But that’s just laziness disguised as truth. Maybe government’s messy, maybe it fails — but it’s still us. We are the system, the flaws, the waste, the hope. You can’t sit outside it and sneer while pretending you’re untouched.”

Jack: “I’m not untouched,” he said softly. “I’ve just stopped believing the salesman when he says the car’s running fine while it’s missing two wheels.”

Jeeny: “So what do you want? Less government? Smaller government? Or no government at all?”

Jack: “No,” he said, “just one that earns what it costs. One that remembers it works for us — not the other way around. You know how much they took from me last year in taxes? Enough to rebuild a bridge. You know what I got for it? A pothole and an apology.”

Host: The waitress, an older woman with tired hands, walked by and refilled their cups without a word. The steam rose between them like a fragile veil.

Jeeny: “You ever think about why Rogers said that, though?” she asked. “He wasn’t angry. He was laughing. He knew the government was ridiculous, but he still loved the country enough to make a joke of it. That’s what makes it American — we can mock it and still believe it can do better.”

Jack: “Maybe. But somewhere between the laughter and the lobbyists, we stopped expecting it to.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we stopped trying to.”

Host: The rain began to fall, slow and rhythmic, tapping against the window like an old jazz tune. The diners who remained spoke in low tones; the cook behind the counter flipped burgers to the beat of the rain.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “Will Rogers lived through a time when people actually trusted their neighbors more than their government. They helped each other, fixed their own fences, took care of their own. Now, people wait for a program instead of a person.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. Not everyone has neighbors who can fix a fence. The world’s bigger now — more complicated. Sometimes you need the system.”

Jack: “Maybe. But it’s a strange kind of help that costs more every year and delivers less every time.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, the kind of smile that came not from amusement, but recognition.

Jeeny: “You sound like an accountant at the end of the world. You measure justice in dollars, duty in receipts.”

Jack: “And you sound like a poet who’s never read a bill.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poetry’s what bills are missing.”

Host: They both laughed, a quiet, tired laughter that seemed to lighten the air between them. The waitress smiled faintly as she passed, as though the sound itself was a rare currency.

Jeeny: “Let me tell you something, Jack. If we really got all the government we paid for, it might not be a good thing — but maybe we’d finally learn to hold it accountable. Maybe the problem isn’t that it’s too big, but that we’ve stopped demanding it be better.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he said, exhaling a long breath. “But we’ve built a government like a buffet — everyone piling on what they want, nobody paying the full bill.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, we still come back for seconds.”

Host: The rain began to fade, the streets outside glistening like mirrors reflecting the streetlights. A cab splashed through a puddle, scattering the image into ripples. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, two silhouettes framed by the dying glow of a neon sign that read OPEN.

Jack: “Maybe Rogers wasn’t being funny after all,” Jack murmured. “Maybe he was warning us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was — but maybe he was also saying there’s still something worth laughing at, even in the mess. That’s what keeps us from becoming cynical like you.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why you’re still the optimist.”

Jeeny: “And you’re still the skeptic.”

Host: Their eyes met, and for a moment, the debate faded. Only the sound of distant thunder remained — soft, fading, like applause for a conversation neither had truly won.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight. Jeeny reached for her coat, Jack for his wallet.

Jeeny: “So,” she said, smiling. “You gonna tip the waitress, or complain about government taxes again?”

Jack: “Maybe I’ll just call it a private donation.”

Host: She laughed, and he smiled, the kind of quiet truce that only comes when both sides finally understand the other’s truth.

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped completely, leaving the street wet, shining, alive — a reflection of both their worlds: one critical, one hopeful, both forever caught between laughter and doubt.

Host: And as they stepped out into the cool air, the neon sign above the diner flickered once more, as if to wink at them, whispering Will Rogers’s immortal truth to the night:

“It’s a good thing we don’t get all the government we pay for.”

Host: Because maybe — just maybe — the only thing worse than too little government… would be getting exactly the one we’ve bought.