Let me tell you, sisters, seeing dried egg on a plate in the

Host:
The morning sun slanted through the window blinds, cutting the diner into gold and shadow. The smell of coffee and fried bacon hung thick in the air — the kind of aroma that feels like a promise to working people and a curse to the weary.

A jukebox in the corner hummed out a faint, scratchy tune from the seventies, while the waitress shuffled between tables, her shoes whispering against the linoleum floor.

At a booth near the window, Jack sat in his usual armor — a pressed shirt, a cynical stare, and a tie that looked one conversation away from being undone. Across from him, Jeeny nursed a cup of black coffee, her hair pinned back, her eyes alive with that fire that always appeared when the subject turned to the world and its follies.

Between them lay a newspaper, folded open to an old quote that Jeeny had just read aloud, her voice carrying both amusement and admiration:

“Let me tell you, sisters, seeing dried egg on a plate in the morning is a lot dirtier than anything I've had to deal with in politics.” — Ann Richards

Jeeny:
(grinning) “You have to love her for that. Ann Richards could slice a man’s ego cleaner than a razor, and she’d still make him laugh while she did it.”

Jack:
(raising an eyebrow) “Yeah, well, it’s a hell of a line. But let’s be honest — she’s comparing dried eggs to politics. That’s not optimism; that’s sarcasm in heels.”

Jeeny:
(laughing) “Of course it’s sarcasm! That’s what makes it brilliant. She wasn’t denying the filth in politics — she was just saying, ‘Honey, I’ve seen worse at breakfast.’ That’s confidence. That’s the kind of humor that survives the fire.”

Jack:
(smirking) “Or it’s deflection. Politicians use jokes the way priests use incense — to hide the smell of something burning.”

Jeeny:
“Not her. Humor was her weapon, not her disguise. Ann Richards didn’t laugh to hide; she laughed to lead. She took a world built by men and cracked it open with wit.”

Host:
The light caught Jeeny’s face just then, turning her eyes into molten amber, alive with the kind of conviction that could melt any argument into humility. Jack, however, looked away — into his coffee — as though seeking reason in the bottom of a cup.

Jack:
(gruffly) “You make her sound like a saint.”

Jeeny:
“No, Jack. Saints preach. Ann Richards spoke. She was human — loud, sharp, proud, flawed — but she made you listen. And she made you laugh while you did. That’s harder than sainthood.”

Jack:
“Still, you can’t charm your way through corruption. Politics isn’t funny. It’s war in neckties.”

Jeeny:
(leaning forward) “That’s exactly why she used humor. Because you can’t fight monsters by becoming one. Sometimes, you win by reminding people they’re being ridiculous.”

Jack:
(quietly, almost amused) “So, laughter as strategy.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly. Humor breaks tension. It’s rebellion wrapped in charm. When she said that line about eggs — she was taking all the filth, all the muck of politics, and reducing it to something ordinary, something manageable. She was saying, ‘I’ve dealt with worse at the breakfast table.’ That’s power.”

Host:
The waitress passed by, setting down a plate of scrambled eggs, a little too overcooked, and Jeeny laughed quietly, glancing down at the plate like it was part of the conversation itself.

Jack:
(grinning) “So, what — humor redeems the system now?”

Jeeny:
“No. Humor redeems the human in the system. It’s the one tool that lets you stay clean without stepping out of the mud.”

Jack:
“Sounds nice in theory. But I’ve seen what happens when people try to joke their way through a mess. You laugh, they twist your words. You stay serious, they call you cold. There’s no winning.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “There’s grace. That’s what Richards understood. You can’t win the world — but you can outlast its bitterness. You can stand in the filth and still smell like wit.”

Jack:
(quietly) “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny:
“It’s survival.”

Host:
A brief silence settled, filled only by the murmur of coffee cups, the clang of plates, and the lazy hum of the jukebox. The diner felt like a sanctuary for contradictions — grease, light, and wisdom all living under the same neon sign.

Jack:
(after a pause) “You know… I think she was saying something deeper too. About perspective. Maybe she wasn’t just comparing eggs to politics — maybe she was reminding everyone that nothing’s clean, and that’s okay.”

Jeeny:
(smiling softly) “Yes. That’s the genius of it. She wasn’t pretending to be above the dirt. She was laughing from within it. That’s where real leadership lives — not in purity, but in the ability to laugh at how impossible purity really is.”

Jack:
“And you admire that?”

Jeeny:
“Of course I do. Because it’s real. Because she showed women that you don’t have to be perfect to be powerful — just honest, clever, and unapologetically human.”

Jack:
(leaning back) “You’d have gotten along with her.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “Or argued until sunrise. Either way, she’d have made me laugh.”

Host:
The sunlight shifted, washing over the table like a benediction. The steam rose from the coffee cups in small, ghostly curls, curling upward, fading into the air — like thought itself.

Jack:
(quietly) “You know what I envy about people like her?”

Jeeny:
“What?”

Jack:
“They make the ordinary feel like rebellion. They turn a line about breakfast into a statement about life. I can’t even finish a sentence about the weather without doubting it halfway through.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “That’s because people like her lived from the gut. You live from the mind. And the mind’s a harder crowd to please.”

Jack:
(smiling faintly) “Maybe I need a better scriptwriter.”

Jeeny:
“Or just a messier breakfast.”

Host:
Her laughter rang through the diner — warm, low, and utterly alive. Even the waitress smiled as she passed, as though she knew the joke was bigger than the words themselves.

The camera lingered on the table — the crumbs, the spilled salt, the empty plates — the aftermath of ordinary life, messy but honest.

Jack:
(raising his cup in a small toast) “To Ann Richards.”

Jeeny:
(raising hers) “To every woman who cleaned up the world’s mess and still had time to joke about it.”

Host:
They drank. The light grew brighter. The day, with all its politics, its problems, its quiet absurdities, waited outside the diner door.

And as they stood to leave, the quote seemed to follow them, echoing with humor and quiet defiance — a whisper from a woman who knew how to turn the grime of reality into the gleam of wit:

“There’s dirt everywhere — but only some of us know how to laugh while sweeping it up.”

The doorbell jingled as they stepped into the daylight, two figures walking into the world’s chaos — carrying nothing but laughter, and maybe that was enough.