'Liberal Fascism' is less an expose of left-wing hypocrisy than a

Host: The television studio hummed with electric tension, the kind that lives in the air before debate — a storm disguised as civility. The lights glared, too bright, too clean. Rows of empty audience seats stared silently toward the stage, their red velvet fabric catching stray reflections from the LED screens.

The city outside was slick with rain, neon bleeding down the glass like truth trying to escape polish.

Jack sat under the lights — tie loosened, jaw tense, eyes sharp and unreadable. Across from him, Jeeny adjusted her earpiece, her dark hair glimmering under the blue haze of the overhead lamps. They weren’t on the air yet, but their silence felt broadcast-worthy.

On the screen behind them, bold white letters flashed the segment title:
“Culture Wars: Intelligence or Insult?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “David Oshinsky once wrote, ‘“Liberal Fascism” is less an expose of left-wing hypocrisy than a chance to exact political revenge. Yet, the title of his book aside, what distinguishes Goldberg from the Sean Hannitys and Michael Savages is a witty intelligence that deals in ideas as well as insults — no mean feat in the nasty world of the culture wars.’”

Jack: (smirking) “Ah, yes. The holy war of opinion — where wit passes for wisdom, and cleverness masquerades as conscience.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Oshinsky’s right. Intelligence doesn’t always sanctify intent, but it redeems the conversation. Goldberg wasn’t just shouting — he was thinking, even if the thinking hurt.”

Jack: “Thinking’s not the problem, Jeeny. Weaponizing it is. Intelligence without empathy becomes just another form of dominance.”

Host: The light technician coughed, adjusting dials, the studio clock ticking toward airtime. But the real show had already begun — not for cameras, but for conscience.

Jeeny: “Still, in a time where noise wins, don’t we need sharp minds — even the cynical ones — to cut through the madness?”

Jack: “Sharp minds can slice the truth just as easily as they reveal it. You call it intelligence; I call it intellectual vengeance.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward) “You sound like you’re afraid of disagreement.”

Jack: “No. I’m afraid of disingenuousness. Look around — everyone’s building an argument like a weapon factory. Every idea gets fitted with barbed wire.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, rattling faintly against the wide studio glass. Their reflections overlapped on the window — two figures framed by light, shadow, and the trembling question of sincerity.

Jeeny: “But what do you want, Jack? Politeness instead of progress? We’re living in a fractured world. Passion’s messy, but it’s honest. The culture war — it’s ugly, yes — but it’s alive.”

Jack: “Alive doesn’t mean healthy. A wound is alive too.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes you have to bleed to heal.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Tell that to history. The French Revolution bled itself to exhaustion. McCarthyism fed on fear until it starved on its own hypocrisy. You call it passion. I call it infection.”

Host: The camera light flicked red, testing. The glow washed their faces in crimson, as if the debate had already drawn ideological blood.

Jeeny: “Oshinsky was pointing out something deeper — that intellect can humanize conflict. That even when we’re angry, we can still think. And maybe, if we think together, we stop screaming.”

Jack: “Maybe. But lately, it feels like thought’s just the prelude to cruelty. The smarter we get, the meaner we become.”

Jeeny: “That’s not intelligence’s fault. That’s ego’s.”

Jack: “Ego wears intelligence. Like armor.”

Jeeny: “Or like art.”

Host: The sound engineer raised a hand — one minute to air. The set glowed brighter. But the conversation had turned personal, raw — the kind of dialogue that wouldn’t fit neatly between commercials.

Jack: (quietly) “Do you remember when ideas used to feel like discovery? When people debated to learn, not to win?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they never did. Maybe we just romanticized it. Plato had students, not equals. Even the Socratic method had hierarchy built into it.”

Jack: “You think all thought’s power play?”

Jeeny: “No. But all power pretends to be thought.”

Host: Her eyes caught the reflection of the rain, each drop streaking across the window like a tear she refused to shed. Jack’s jaw tightened — his silence was sharper than any retort.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Oshinsky was really saying? That Goldberg’s brilliance wasn’t in being right — it was in being articulate. And articulation, even when angry, matters. Because rage without words becomes violence.”

Jack: “And rage with words becomes politics.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only way revolutions stay human.”

Jack: (dryly) “You mean televised.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Remembered.”

Host: The red light blinked again. Cameras were rolling now, silently capturing what wasn’t part of the program — the truth beneath the talking points.

Jack: “You really believe articulation redeems cruelty?”

Jeeny: “No. But it refines it. It makes you accountable for it. There’s a difference between shouting ‘you’re wrong’ and explaining why you believe someone’s wrong. Thought tempers rage — even when it can’t erase it.”

Jack: “And yet, people like Goldberg still profit from the anger they intellectualize.”

Jeeny: “So did Socrates, in his way. So did Orwell. Every truth-teller gets accused of turning pain into product.”

Jack: “Some truths are just better lies.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And some lies are just truths people aren’t ready to face.”

Host: The studio lights buzzed, the heat rising between them like static. Somewhere offstage, the producer signaled, but neither moved. They were no longer performing — they were confessing.

Jeeny: “You hate the culture wars because they expose something you can’t fix — people’s need to be certain. But certainty’s the only comfort most have left.”

Jack: “Certainty’s a narcotic. It numbs humility.”

Jeeny: “And without it, we’d crumble under doubt.”

Jack: “Maybe we need to crumble.”

Jeeny: “Then what? Live in rubble and call it honesty?”

Jack: “Yes — if that rubble’s real. Better ruin than illusion.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming almost tender. The city lights outside blurred, reflecting like fading constellations. In the glass, their mirrored faces seemed to merge — anger and empathy indistinguishable.

Jeeny: (quietly) “So what would you rather have — insult without intelligence, or intelligence without compassion?”

Jack: (after a pause) “Neither. I’d rather silence than both.”

Jeeny: “Silence isn’t neutral. It sides with whoever speaks louder.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time we stop talking altogether and start listening.”

Jeeny: “Listening’s harder than shouting.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s why no one does it.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, and for a long, trembling moment, even the studio felt like it was listening — the air heavy with the unspoken, the unsaid, the almost understood.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Oshinsky was trying to remind us. That intellect can be a bridge, not a blade — if we let it. That even in the ‘nasty world of culture wars,’ some people are still trying to build meaning instead of walls.”

Jack: (softly) “And others are decorating the walls with clever graffiti.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Sometimes art is rebellion.”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s camouflage.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both.”

Host: The producer gestured again, impatient now. But the energy between them had shifted — no longer combative, just raw, human, awake.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Do you ever think intelligence and kindness could coexist again?”

Jack: “Only if we stop treating one as weakness and the other as strategy.”

Jeeny: “And what would that take?”

Jack: “Humility. And a little silence.”

Jeeny: “The kind that listens?”

Jack: “The kind that heals.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the crew reset for the next segment. Outside, the clouds broke open, revealing thin strips of moonlight across the wet city.

Host: And as they sat there — two minds shaped by conflict, bound by exhaustion —
something unspoken passed between them: a fragile agreement that neither intelligence nor outrage could save a world that had forgotten how to listen.

Perhaps Oshinsky had been right —
wit could still live in the same breath as decency,
and intelligence, even weaponized,
could still flicker toward grace.

The studio lights cooled, the air thick with reflection.

And somewhere in the distance,
beyond headlines and arguments,
the night whispered its quiet verdict —

that ideas, like people,
become dangerous
only when they stop listening
to what they’re meant to heal.