Politics is the art of choosing between the disastrous and the

Host: The rain fell hard that night — the kind of relentless downpour that blurred the streetlights and turned the city into a watercolor of exhaustion and neon. Inside a dimly lit bar, tucked between two forgotten office buildings, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, low conversation, and the faint hum of an old jazz record spinning somewhere near the counter.

Jack sat in a corner booth, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him, his coat damp and his tie loosened. His eyes, pale and tired, watched the television mounted above the bar — a political debate, all sharp suits and rehearsed outrage. Across from him, Jeeny sipped red wine, the candlelight soft against her face, her expression a mix of sadness and defiance.

Between them, on a folded napkin, Jack had scrawled a single quote in black ink:
“Politics is the art of choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable.” — John Kenneth Galbraith.

Jeeny: “It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? The way he says it — like politics isn’t hope, but damage control.”

Jack: “That’s because it is damage control. You don’t run a country on ideals. You run it on compromise.”

Host: His voice was low, gravelly, the tone of a man who’d seen too much of power to believe in purity anymore. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes narrowing slightly, her hands cupping the wineglass as if to steady her thoughts.

Jeeny: “So you think compromise justifies everything? That the lesser evil is somehow good because it’s not the worst?”

Jack: “It’s not about good, Jeeny. It’s about survival. Politics isn’t morality; it’s maintenance. You keep the lights on, you prevent collapse — even if that means getting your hands dirty.”

Jeeny: “And when do you wash them?”

Jack: “You don’t. You just pray the stains don’t show under the next administration.”

Host: The bartender glanced their way — two silhouettes in the half-light, their words heavier than the music. Outside, a police siren wailed, echoing off the wet concrete. It sounded almost like punctuation.

Jeeny: “That’s the problem, Jack. You treat cynicism like it’s wisdom. Galbraith said that line to expose the absurdity of power, not to celebrate it.”

Jack: “Absurdity is power. Look at history. Every leader, every revolution — it all ends the same way: corruption in new clothes. You think democracy is purity? It’s just managed decay.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Jack: “Really? Tell that to anyone who voted with hope and got heartbreak instead.”

Host: The candles flickered, throwing brief shadows across their faces. Jeeny set her glass down with quiet precision, her voice steady but charged with emotion.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the cost of caring — heartbreak. But that doesn’t mean we stop choosing. Politics isn’t just about leaders. It’s about people. About us.”

Jack: “People don’t want responsibility. They want comfort. They vote for whoever promises the easiest lie.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair.”

Jack: “It’s true. Look at them.”

Host: He gestured toward the television — two candidates arguing on split screen, both smiling like saints while their eyes betrayed exhaustion and calculation. The crowd applauded on cue, unaware of how choreographed it all was.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up.”

Jack: “I haven’t given up. I’ve grown up. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “You think realism is maturity. I think it’s cowardice disguised as wisdom.”

Jack: “And I think idealism is arrogance dressed as hope.”

Host: The tension snapped like the sound of breaking glass — silent but sharp. The bartender turned up the volume on the TV slightly, as if to drown out the quiet war at the back of the room.

Jeeny: “When I was in college, I believed politics could heal people. That if we cared enough, spoke enough truth, we could fix the rot. I volunteered, protested, believed. And then I watched good people lose elections because they refused to lie.”

Jack: “Exactly. Honesty doesn’t win. Strategy does.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left of the human soul in all of this? Are we supposed to applaud deceit because it’s effective?”

Jack: “We applaud survival because it’s necessary.”

Host: A soft silence followed, not empty but full — the kind of silence where everything unsaid is louder than words. The rain outside turned heavier, smearing the windowpane into streaks of gray light.

Jeeny: “You know what frightens me?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That maybe you’re right. That maybe there’s no pure choice left. Just trade-offs between harm and hypocrisy. But if that’s true, what’s the point of believing in anything?”

Jack: “Belief is a luxury. Governance isn’t.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather manage the disease than cure it?”

Jack: “Because sometimes the cure is the disease.”

Host: Her eyes hardened. She leaned back, crossing her arms, the candle’s glow trembling on her cheek. There was something in her expression — anger, yes, but beneath it, sorrow.

Jeeny: “You sound like everyone who ever made an excuse for corruption. ‘It’s complicated.’ ‘It’s nuanced.’ Those phrases always come right before someone sells their conscience.”

Jack: “And your conscience doesn’t pay the electricity bill. Or keep a country from tearing itself apart.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But at least it doesn’t rot from the inside out.”

Host: The wind howled against the windows, making the entire bar shudder. The television flickered briefly before cutting to a commercial — an ad for pharmaceuticals, smiling faces over soft piano music.

The irony was too perfect. Jack laughed quietly — not in joy, but in disbelief.

Jack: “You want to talk about rot? It’s everywhere — in policy, in media, in the applause of people too tired to think. We don’t choose leaders anymore, Jeeny. We choose brands.”

Jeeny: “Then change the market.”

Jack: “You can’t. Not when people buy comfort over conscience.”

Jeeny: “Then at least remind them that they still have a choice, even if both choices hurt. That’s what Galbraith meant — politics isn’t the art of winning. It’s the art of enduring the imperfect.”

Host: Her voice was trembling now, not from fear but conviction. Jack met her gaze, the edge of his cynicism faltering under her fire. The bar light caught the faint sheen of tears she refused to let fall.

Jack: “You really think endurance is enough?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because endurance is what keeps us human when the system tries to turn us into statistics.”

Jack: “And what if endurance breaks you?”

Jeeny: “Then someone else takes your place. That’s politics too — the relay of resilience.”

Host: The jazz record ended, the needle spinning in soft static. The bartender wiped a glass slowly, pretending not to listen, though his eyes flicked toward them every so often.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But it’s still a choice between bad and worse.”

Jeeny: “That’s life. Every meaningful choice hurts someone. The art is in choosing consciously — knowing the cost and carrying it anyway.”

Jack: “Like a necessary cruelty.”

Jeeny: “Like a necessary compassion.”

Host: The words landed like a final chord — not resolution, but balance. Jack leaned back, the tension draining slowly from his face. Jeeny took a long sip of her wine, eyes softening as the storm outside began to calm.

Jack: “You know, maybe Galbraith was being honest — not cynical. Maybe he meant that politics isn’t about finding the right answer. It’s about staying human while facing impossible ones.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because in the end, politics isn’t just the art of choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable. It’s the courage to keep choosing, even when neither choice feels right.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning to mist. The neon sign outside flickered one last time before finally steadying into light. Jack looked down at the napkin between them — the ink slightly smudged, the quote still visible.

He smiled faintly and raised his glass.

Jack: “To the disastrous and the unpalatable.”

Jeeny: “And to the fools brave enough to keep choosing.”

Host: Their glasses clinked — a fragile sound against the night. The camera would pull back slowly, revealing the two figures framed in the amber glow of the bar, small against the vast indifference of the world.

And above them, Galbraith’s truth lingered like smoke in the air — bitter, elegant, enduring:

Politics is the art of choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable.

Because the measure of humanity is not in avoiding the storm —
but in standing inside it, and choosing anyway.