I've had enough of the blowhards on cable TV and the

Host: The bar was dim, the kind of place that felt like a confession booth for the weary and the disillusioned. A faint buzz from the old television in the corner filled the room — another late-night cable debate, the panelists arguing louder than the volume deserved. Rain drummed steadily on the window outside, blurring the neon reflection of a sign that read Open Till Dawn.

Jack sat in his usual booth, a glass of whiskey sweating between his hands, his eyes sharp, reflecting the screen like twin mirrors of skepticism. Jeeny sat across from him, arms folded, the warm glow from the hanging light tracing the curve of her cheek. On the TV, a pundit was mid-rant — red-faced, righteous, and utterly convinced of his own brilliance.

And then, cutting through the static like a knife, came the quote that silenced even the bar’s hum:
"I've had enough of the blowhards on cable TV and the self-righteous anger I hear from people whose only accomplishment in life is their ability to turn the dial on an AM radio." — James Carville

Jack let out a low laugh, bitter and knowing.

Jack: “He said what everyone’s been thinking. Finally.”

Jeeny: (arching a brow) “You mean what you’ve been thinking. You love this kind of cynicism — it justifies your contempt.”

Jack: “Contempt’s just realism, Jeeny. The world’s loud now — louder than ever — and the people screaming the hardest are the ones doing the least.”

Jeeny: “You think silence is virtue? That not speaking makes you wise?”

Jack: “No. But maybe shouting doesn’t make you right either.”

Host: The bartender turned up the TV slightly, as if inviting the room to join the outrage. One commentator interrupted another, voices clashing like steel, words stripped of meaning, reduced to noise. Jack gestured toward the screen.

Jack: “There — that’s what I mean. Every channel’s a coliseum now. They don’t feed you facts; they feed you fury.”

Jeeny: “Fury has its place. People are angry for a reason.”

Jack: “Sure. But anger without action? That’s just theatre. Everyone’s performing outrage like it’s a badge of identity.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that performance is the only way they feel seen. You sit here with your drink and your cynicism, but at least they’re trying to speak.”

Jack: “Speak? They’re echoing. Every opinion’s a copy of a copy, distorted by a microphone. No thought survives the algorithm anymore.”

Host: A woman at the bar laughed too loudly. Someone dropped a coin in the jukebox — an old Springsteen song hummed softly beneath the noise of the debate. The mixture of sound — rage and nostalgia — felt almost poetic in its contradiction.

Jeeny leaned forward, her voice low but alive.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s given up on people.”

Jack: “I haven’t given up. I’ve just stopped expecting them to listen before they shout.”

Jeeny: “Maybe shouting is the only way to be heard over the silence of power.”

Jack: “Or maybe the shouting is the power now. Anger sells, outrage trends, noise rules. The world’s not run by reason anymore, it’s run by reaction.”

Jeeny: “Reaction is human, Jack. It means people still feel something.”

Jack: “Feeling isn’t the problem. Weaponizing it is.”

Host: The light flickered above them. Jack’s face was a portrait of exhaustion — not physical, but moral. Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice sharpened like the rain on the glass.

Jeeny: “So what? You’d rather people stay quiet while the world burns? History didn’t change because polite men whispered.”

Jack: “No. But it didn’t change because of endless noise either. It changed when someone acted. When words became courage, not content.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like they’re the same.”

Jack: “They used to be. Now everyone’s addicted to the sound of their own virtue.”

Host: The TV’s glow flickered across their faces — pale blue, hollow. The pundits were still arguing, their hands cutting the air, their voices climbing to impossible heights. Jack turned the volume down until their mouths moved in silence.

The absence of noise was almost violent.

Jeeny: “You think they’re all hypocrites, don’t you?”

Jack: “Not all. But most. Everyone’s selling righteousness now. It’s a market — outrage packaged and monetized.”

Jeeny: “And yet we tune in. We feed it. Even you.”

Jack: “Yeah, because it’s human nature. We watch the fire we claim to hate.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it reminds us we’re still flammable.”

Jack: (pauses) “That’s poetic. Dangerous. But true.”

Host: Outside, the rain softened into mist. The bar seemed smaller now — a pocket of stillness in a world shouting itself hoarse.

Jack pushed his glass aside.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father used to listen to AM radio every morning — old talk shows. He’d curse, argue back at the hosts, like they could hear him. That was before social media gave everyone their own mic. Now everyone’s their own station. Broadcasting 24/7. No filters. No pause. Just… noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s democracy in its rawest form — the chaos of voices.”

Jack: “Democracy dies in chaos, Jeeny. Not in silence.”

Jeeny: “No. It dies when the loudest voices drown the kindest ones.”

Jack: “Then we’re already halfway buried.”

Host: A long silence followed. The jukebox played another old song, something slow, filled with ache. The kind of song that reminded you that once, people wrote to be heard — not to be seen.

Jeeny looked up, her eyes reflecting both the TV’s cold light and the soft burn of the hanging bulb above.

Jeeny: “So what’s the answer, Jack? Do we mute the world? Stop caring? Stop arguing?”

Jack: “No. We argue smarter. Softer. Less for winning, more for understanding.”

Jeeny: “That sounds like a prayer for a world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time we rebuild it. Start with one honest conversation at a time.”

Jeeny: “And if no one listens?”

Jack: “Then at least we didn’t become them.”

Host: The TV went black. Power flickered. The bar lights dimmed to the pulse of the generator — breathing light in slow, uncertain waves. In that dim glow, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, the sound of rain replacing the sound of rage.

Jeeny: “You know… maybe Carville wasn’t just tired of blowhards. Maybe he was mourning something — the loss of decency, of humility.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe he just missed when truth could whisper and still be heard.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what real heroism is now — not shouting louder, but daring to stay human in a room full of microphones.”

Jack: “That’s harder than it sounds.”

Jeeny: “So is listening.”

Host: The rain outside stopped completely, leaving the air washed and clean. The neon sign flickered once, then steadied. Jack glanced at Jeeny, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through the cynicism.

Jack: “You ever think we’re part of the noise too?”

Jeeny: “Probably. But tonight, at least, we’re trying not to be.”

Jack: “Trying’s the first step toward quiet.”

Jeeny: “And quiet’s where truth grows back.”

Host: They sat there in the soft after-rain silence, two people refusing to shout in a shouting world. The TV stayed dark. The whiskey glass empty. The city outside hummed in its restless sleep.

And for a fleeting moment, the noise died — not because someone won the argument, but because someone finally stopped talking.

In that pause, the world felt like it could listen again.