Washington's birthday is worthy of celebration - he is one of the

Host: The night hung still over the Capitol, the lights of the monument reflecting across the Potomac like trembling candles upon dark glass. It was Washington’s Birthday, and the city — for once — was quiet. No fireworks, no parades, just a soft chill in the air and the faint hum of distant conversations from bars filled with history students, pundits, and cynics alike.

Inside a small tavern tucked away on a cobblestone street, Jack sat at a wooden table near the window, a half-drunk bourbon in his hand. Jeeny sat across from him, her coat still buttoned, her eyes bright with the sharp curiosity that always preceded an argument.

The television above the bar murmured low — a talk show rerun debating whether modern politics had strayed too far from the vision of the founders.

Jeeny: leaning back, thoughtful “Ben Shapiro once said, ‘Washington’s birthday is worthy of celebration — he is one of the greatest men in history. But Washington himself would likely have seen celebration of the office of the presidency itself as monarchic in nature.’”
She nodded toward the screen. “And he’s right. Washington didn’t want worship — he wanted restraint.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Funny, isn’t it? The man who could have been king — and refused.”

Host: The bartender walked by, wiping down the counter, glancing briefly at the muted news feed where Washington’s portrait flickered across the screen — solemn, ageless, still watching.

Jeeny: “He was the first to say no to power. That’s what made him immortal.”

Jack: “Yeah. And now we’ve built a whole industry around saying yes to it. Presidents treated like celebrities. Politicians like brands. Washington would’ve hated Twitter.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “He probably wouldn’t have used it.”

Jack: “Exactly. He’d have seen all of this — the spectacle, the worship — and called it vanity in uniform.”

Host: The fireplace crackled, throwing orange light across their faces. Outside, the city’s monuments gleamed white and cold under the winter moon — elegant relics of ambition and humility intertwined.

Jeeny: “That’s the irony, isn’t it? We celebrate him as the ideal of leadership, but we ignore what he taught about it. Washington led by stepping away. Twice.”

Jack: “Yeah. The power to leave — that’s real strength. Most leaders cling to the throne until it eats them.”

Jeeny: “He was different. He understood that power’s only legitimate when it serves, not when it shines.”

Jack: raising his glass slightly “To the man who proved greatness doesn’t need a crown.”

Jeeny: clinking her glass against his “And to the world that keeps forgetting that.”

Host: Their glasses met softly — the sound small but resonant in the quiet tavern. The kind of toast that feels more like a prayer than a celebration.

Jack: “You know, Shapiro’s right — Washington wouldn’t have wanted a holiday for the office. The presidency, in his eyes, wasn’t an altar. It was a duty. Temporary. Conditional.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He’d have seen glorifying the title as a betrayal of the republic. The whole point was that no man was above it.”

Jack: “And yet here we are — twenty-first century — measuring leaders by how they brand themselves instead of how they bow to principle.”

Jeeny: “Because humility doesn’t trend.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, tapping softly against the glass, as if applauding their shared melancholy.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what he’d think of us now? The partisanship, the anger, the obsession with image?”

Jack: “He’d probably say, ‘I warned you.’”

Jeeny: “He did warn us. About parties, about ego, about the danger of loving power more than virtue.”

Jack: “We didn’t listen. We built a palace out of popularity and called it democracy.”

Jeeny: “And now, every election feels like a coronation.”

Host: Her voice dropped lower — almost a whisper. “You know what I think he feared most?” she said. “Not tyranny. Idolatry. The worship of man over principle.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly what celebration without context becomes. A monarchy of memory.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I like what Shapiro said. He reminded us — Washington would have seen this kind of blind adoration as dangerous. It’s not about the man; it’s about the measure.”

Jack: “And the measure was integrity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. He believed character was the only qualification for power.”

Jack: “So how did we lose that?”

Jeeny: “When we started confusing charisma for conscience.”

Host: The firelight dimmed, shadows dancing softly against the brick walls. Jack leaned forward, his elbows on the table, voice roughened with thought.

Jack: “You think we can ever get back to that? To leadership that refuses to be worshipped?”

Jeeny: after a long pause “Only if we learn to admire humility again.”

Jack: “And stop mistaking loudness for strength.”

Jeeny: “Or fame for greatness.”

Host: The bartender turned off the TV. Silence settled, full and thick. Outside, the rain slowed to a mist. The night had grown still enough that even the city seemed to be listening.

Jeeny: smiling softly “You know what’s beautiful, though? For all our noise, we still look back at Washington and call him great — not because he ruled, but because he refused to.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe that’s the proof of his success — that even in our chaos, we still remember what grace looks like.”

Host: He lifted his glass again, quietly, reverently. “To the man who gave us the hardest lesson: that freedom isn’t maintained by power — it’s maintained by restraint.”

Jeeny: “And by love of principle more than love of self.”

Host: Their glasses touched again, the sound barely audible, almost sacred. The camera lingered on them — two silhouettes framed by rain-streaked glass and flickering light. Outside, the monuments of marble and memory stood watch, silent, eternal.

And as the scene faded into that reflective stillness, Ben Shapiro’s words would echo — not political, but philosophical; not about celebration, but conscience:

“Washington’s birthday is worthy of celebration — he is one of the greatest men in history. But Washington himself would likely have seen celebration of the office of the presidency itself as monarchic in nature.”

Because true greatness does not seek applause —
it seeks balance.

Power is not made noble by ceremony,
but by self-restraint.

And freedom — fragile, luminous, enduring —
depends not on the man who holds the office,
but on the man who knows when to let it go.