The other day the President said, I know you've had some rough

Host: The television in the bar flickered between static and news anchors, their faces glowing pale in the dim light. It was one of those cheap bars tucked behind an industrial alley, where ceiling fans spun without purpose and dreams came to die slowly between sips of beer and denial. The smell of fried onions and old wood hung thick, and the rain outside pressed against the windows like an impatient ghost.

Jack sat at the counter, elbows planted, eyes fixed on the screen. His jawline was cut from fatigue, his shirt still creased from the day’s work. Beside him, Jeeny nursed a glass of whiskey, her hair tucked behind one ear, her eyes carrying that familiar glow of someone who still believes — perhaps against her better judgment.

The TV voice broke through the hum of the bar — an old soundbite of a smiling President:
“I know you’ve had some rough times,” he said warmly. “And I want to do something to show the nation what faith I have in your maturity and sense of responsibility.”
He paused, grinned, and added — “Would you like a puppy?”

A few patrons laughed, but Jack didn’t. He just shook his head slowly, exhaling a tired kind of anger.

Jack: “That right there — that’s politics in a nutshell, Jeeny. The President thinks a puppy can fix poverty.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t being serious, Jack. It was a joke.”

Jack: “Yeah, but that’s the problem. The powerful get to joke. The rest of us live the punchline.”

Host: The bartender turned down the volume, leaving the room in a low hum of conversation and clinking glasses. A neon sign buzzed overhead, half-lit, spelling “FAI” where “FAITH” had once been whole.

Jeeny: “You’re always so cynical. Not everything said by a politician is meant to be taken as truth. Sometimes they’re just trying to be human.”

Jack: “Human? You think a man who signs bills from a gold-plated desk gets to play human for five minutes on TV? That line — ‘would you like a puppy?’ — that’s the perfect metaphor. They throw you something cute when you ask for justice.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. But humor has its place, Jack. Sometimes the world is too broken to face without a joke.”

Jack: “Humor’s fine when it comes from pain. But not when it comes from privilege.”

Host: The light from the TV flickered across their faces — blue and white, like waves hitting stone. The rain outside drummed harder. A bus roared past, splashing the pavement.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather they stay silent? That everyone up there should speak in tragedy?”

Jack: “No. I just want them to listen before they laugh. You ever see how a politician laughs when people protest? It’s like they’re watching a play, not a plea.”

Jeeny: “You think I don’t see it too? I do. But what do you want — revolution? You can’t tear down a whole system overnight.”

Jack: “I don’t want to tear it down. I just want it to mean something. I want a world where a President doesn’t hand out puppies when people can’t feed their kids.”

Host: Jack’s voice rose, catching the attention of a few drunk regulars, who turned briefly before returning to their drinks. Jeeny watched him, her expression shifting from frustration to something softer — pain, maybe, or understanding.

Jeeny: “You know, Dan Quayle said that back in the ‘80s — a lifetime ago. People laughed then too. But some jokes don’t age; they just echo. You can still hear that kind of laughter today — in every press conference, every corporate email that says ‘We care about you’ while they cut jobs.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s what I mean. It’s all a performance — a well-lit apology dressed as compassion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe compassion doesn’t need to be pure to exist, Jack. Maybe it’s enough that someone tries.”

Jack: “Tries? That’s what we tell kids when they lose a spelling bee. You don’t get to run a nation on ‘at least we tried’.”

Jeeny: “But the world runs on it anyway, doesn’t it? Half the people you admire — comedians, writers, artists — they’re all just trying to make sense of the nonsense.”

Jack: “They earn that right. They bleed for it. They don’t hide behind press releases and smiles.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a light mist that tapped gently against the window. The music from the jukebox shifted to something older — a blues track that sounded like it had been waiting fifty years to be heard again.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s why Pryor, Carlin, and Lenny Bruce hit so hard. They joked, but it wasn’t to mock pain — it was to reveal it.”

Jack: “Exactly. Comedy as truth, not as deflection.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t that the President offered a puppy. Maybe it’s that we’ve all stopped expecting anything real.”

Host: Her voice was steady, but her eyes flickered — a flash of defiance, the kind that made Jack both respect and fear her. He leaned back, folding his arms, staring at the reflection of the TV in the mirror behind the bar.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ve traded truth for comfort. We get entertainment instead of leadership. A puppy instead of a plan.”

Jeeny: “So what do we do, Jack? Sit here and complain? Or start being better than the punchline?”

Jack: “You think that’s easy?”

Jeeny: “Nothing worth doing ever is. But at least we can refuse to laugh when they expect us to.”

Host: The bartender refilled their glasses, the amber liquid catching the light like trapped fire. For a while, they didn’t speak. The world outside hummed — cars, sirens, the rain’s whisper, the heartbeat of survival.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe the joke’s on us — the workers, the believers, the ones who still think dignity matters?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. But that’s why we have to keep talking, keep arguing, keep waking up. Because silence is what they’re really counting on.”

Jack: “You mean — as long as we’re angry, we’re alive?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And as long as we still want more than a puppy, there’s hope.”

Host: Their eyes met — tired, raw, but full of a strange, unspoken alliance. The bar’s lights dimmed as the TV clicked off, leaving only the faint glow from the neon sign. “FAI” still blinked, buzzing weakly — like a promise missing its last letter.

Jack smirked, raising his glass.

Jack: “To faith, then — even if it’s broken.”

Jeeny: “To responsibility — even when it’s mocked.”

Jack: “And to the joke — until it stops being funny.”

Host: They drank, the whiskey burning down like truth dressed as fire. Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The pavement shone like a mirror, reflecting the neon word that once meant faith — still flickering, still trying to shine, even with a letter missing.

And in that soft, uncertain light, two souls who refused to assimilate into the joke sat quietly — not laughing, not broken — just awake.