There's no trick to being a humorist when you have the whole

Host: The rain had a strange rhythm that night — not quite a storm, not quite a drizzle, just a persistent, cynical kind of weather, like the world sighing through its teeth.
The city was half-asleep: neon signs flickering, potholes filling with light, and somewhere, a late-night news anchor was laughing about something that wasn’t funny.

Inside a small diner, two figures sat in the far booth — Jack and Jeeny — with coffee cups cooling and headlines sprawled across the table.
The TV above the counter hummed with political comedy reruns, the kind where clowns wore ties and truth wore makeup.

A grainy clip of Will Rogers appeared for a moment — that wry, timeless grin — as his quote scrolled beneath:
“There’s no trick to being a humorist when you have the whole government working for you.”

Jeeny: chuckling softly “He wasn’t wrong, was he? The world’s biggest comedy troupe wears suits and takes oaths.”

Jack: deadpan, eyes on his coffee “Except the jokes cost trillions and the punchlines hurt.”

Host: The fluorescent light buzzed above them, a thin hum that felt almost sarcastic. A waitress passed, dragging her tired feet, humming a tune from another era. Jack’s reflection in the window looked older than his years — sharp eyes, too awake for midnight. Jeeny, meanwhile, was smiling, though there was no mirth in it.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Rogers? He laughed with the people, not at them. His humor was rebellion — soft, but precise. He called out hypocrisy by making it funny enough for people to listen.”

Jack: “Yeah. And now comedy’s just therapy for the helpless. Everyone laughs about corruption so they don’t have to fix it.”

Jeeny: tilts her head “That’s not fair. Satire still exposes truth — it gives people language for frustration. When you can laugh at power, you’re not completely owned by it.”

Jack: smirking faintly “And when power learns to laugh at itself, you’re already lost. The moment politicians appear on talk shows, crack jokes, drop memes — they’ve disarmed satire. Rogers mocked the system from outside. Now, the system writes the script.”

Host: A truck roared by outside, spraying a wave of rainwater against the window. It ran down in streaks, distorting the neon reflections into grotesque smears of color — red, white, and blue melting together.

Jeeny: “You think humor’s dead?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s been domesticated. Once it lived in smoky bars and whispered revolutions; now it’s hosted by cable networks and sponsored by soda brands.”

Jeeny: “But people still listen, Jack. John Oliver, Jon Stewart — even Colbert in his old days — they changed the conversation. They made people question, think.”

Jack: “Sure. But questioning isn’t rebellion. It’s entertainment. People tune in, laugh at the absurdity, feel morally superior for half an hour, and then scroll past another scandal. The laughter relieves pressure — it keeps revolution polite.”

Host: The waitress refilled their cups, steam curling upward, fogging the window like a veil. Beyond the glass, the Capitol dome loomed faintly through the drizzle — a distant lantern of bureaucracy.

Jeeny: gazing toward it “But that’s what Rogers understood too — that humor’s a weapon, even when dulled. He didn’t hate government; he mocked it because he loved what it was supposed to be. The laughter was affection twisted through disappointment.”

Jack: “Affection’s a luxury. Rogers lived in a world where government was a circus of incompetence. Ours is a machine of profit. Hard to laugh when the clowns have drones.”

Jeeny: smiles sadly “You still sound like him — cynical, sharp, but not immune. You wouldn’t be angry if you didn’t still expect better.”

Jack: after a pause “I don’t expect better. I just hate how easily people settle for worse — as long as it’s funny.”

Host: The television flickered again — a politician’s soundbite, cut with laughter. The audience roared; the laugh track was mechanical, relentless.
Jack flinched, almost imperceptibly. Jeeny watched him, then turned back to the window, where the rain had slowed, leaving streaks like tears down the glass.

Jeeny: “You know what laughter really does, Jack? It gives people back control — even if it’s for a second. When you laugh at something terrifying, you shrink its power.”

Jack: quietly “Until the monster starts telling jokes too.”

Jeeny: leans forward, eyes fierce now “That’s why we keep laughing — not at their jokes, but at their lies. That’s the difference between humor and mockery. Humor heals. Mockery hides. Will Rogers didn’t mock — he humanized. He made politics small enough to fit inside a joke, so people could carry it without breaking.”

Host: The diner clock ticked — loud, rhythmic, steady. A neon sign outside buzzed out the word “OPEN,” though no one had entered in hours. The air smelled of coffee, wet wool, and something like old hope.

Jack: half-smile, faint but real “You always find the poetry in dysfunction.”

Jeeny: “Because dysfunction is human, Jack. That’s what humor reminds us of. Governments fail because they’re made of people pretending they’re not.”

Jack: staring out the window, voice low “Maybe that’s the real joke — that we keep electing humans expecting gods.”

Jeeny: “Or that we keep demanding miracles from mortals who can’t even keep promises.”

Host: Lightning flared somewhere in the distance — not close, but bright enough to reflect in their eyes. For a brief second, both looked like statues carved from conviction and exhaustion.

Jack: “You think Rogers would laugh today?”

Jeeny: “He’d have to. It’s the only way he’d survive it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Maybe you’re right. Maybe laughter isn’t surrender — maybe it’s rebellion’s lullaby.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every time we laugh at corruption, we remind it it’s mortal. The trick, Jack, isn’t to stop laughing — it’s to remember why we started.”

Host: The rain stopped. The silence that followed was tender, almost cinematic. Outside, the streetlights gleamed on wet asphalt; inside, their reflections danced on the diner window like faint ghosts of an old America — one still arguing with itself, still dreaming, still laughing through the pain.

Jack finished his coffee and stood, slipping his hands into his coat pockets.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why humor lasts longer than governments.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Because humor knows what government forgets — that truth, when it’s funny, is unstoppable.”

Host: They stepped out into the cool night, their footsteps echoing down the empty street. The Capitol gleamed distantly, half-shrouded by mist, half-reflected in puddles — a building both tragic and absurd.

And as they walked away, the neon sign above the diner flickered once more — as though Will Rogers himself were winking from the past, whispering through the hum of the lights:

There’s no trick to being a humorist
when the world keeps writing its own punchlines.