By Brock Cravy

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So, like, okay... a Democrat, Republican, an Independent, a Hippie, and a Libertarian walk into this epic Gen Z bar. The Democrat's approaches the bar, "Can I get a Sustainable Spritzer?" The Republican's all, "I'll have a Freedom Fizz, no questions asked." The Independent's chill, "Something that stands the test of time, please." The Hippie's all about a "Peaceful Pineapple Smoothie, man." The Libertarian looks in both directions, "A Rebel Refreshment with a dash of Skepticism." Gen Z, the bartender, is like, "Sure thing, fam, let's vibe."

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As the night unfolds, the Democrat, Republican, and Independent dive deep into political chatter. Opinions are flying around like snaps on Snapchat. The Hippie's like, "Can't we just, like, heal the world with hugs?" The Libertarian, still paranoid, is all, ”Or maybe we can debate whether online privacy is a myth." Meanwhile, Gen Z's multitasking, serving drinks and dropping fire memes.

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Then, the Hippie starts talking about climate change, and the Republican jokes, "I recycle—old campaign posters make for groovy wall art, man." The Independent snorts, then suggests, "Let's volunteer at the local thrift store." The Democrat smirks, "As long as it's a blue thrift store." Gen Z behind the bar raises an eyebrow, "Yo, check your privilege."

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Suddenly, Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene walks in, and the bar's energy does the Macarena. The Democrat's blood pressure goes up, the Republican gives a nod like, "I'm tracking," and the Independent just rolls their eyes. The Hippie's like, "She probably thinks peace signs are government tracking devices." Gen Z's like, "Time for some epic debate, I guess."

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Amid the chatter, Gen X, the manager, steps in, "Alright, party people, let's keep it Dave Matthews up in here, up in here. We're here for a chill  time, not an episode of 'Political Survivor'." The Democrat, Republican, and Independent slow their roll.

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Over on the moody Libertarian stool, away from the crowd, it's all contemplative. Gen Z bartender shoots a nod, "You good, fam?" The Libertarian smirks, "Just wondering if taxes are a simulation glitch."

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The Independent suggests a dance-off, and the joint erupts with laughter and retro moves. Gen Z bartender shrugs, "If we can dance like it's TikTok, maybe world issues deserve a shuffle too." Just as the night's rhythm finds its beat, a new face walks in—a Baby Boomer with an air of authority and the deed to the bar.

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The Democrat grimaces as the Republican becomes aroused. The Independent shares a knowing glance with Gen X. "Ready Player One," sighs the manager.

The Boomer marches straight to the bar, demanding to speak to the manager. Gen X steps forward, unruffled, “What’s up?”

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The Baby Boomer leans in, "I've got a complaint—the music's too loud, the drinks are too fancy, and nobody's talking about Hunter Biden's laptop!"

The Democrat's face tightens, frustration clear in their eyes. They abruptly leave the bar, causing a momentary hush. Except for the Congresswoman, who is drunk, laughing at her own jokes in the mirror.

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But a short while later, the Democrat returns, a thoughtful look replacing their earlier frustration. They approach the Baby Boomer and offer a small nod, "Mind if I join the conversation?" The Baby Boomer seems surprised but nods in agreement.

 

 As the night winds down, the bar quiets, and the patrons seem to bond over shared laughter and dance moves. The atmosphere is light, the music's volume lowers, and it appears as though understanding has bridged generations and ideologies.

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However, just as the Baby Boomer reaches for their coat, the Gen Z bartender flicks on the news, which is showing live coverage of a heated political protest in the city. The are violent confrontations. The room falls silent, each face reflecting the flickering images of chaos on the screen.

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The Democrat stares at the broadcast, the earlier light in their eyes replaced by a grim shadow. "Looks like we aren't as together as we thought," they mutter, more to themselves than anyone else.

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The Hippie shakes their head, "Man, peace is harder than a hug, huh?"

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The Libertarian scoffs, standing up, "This is why I keep saying trust in big ideals always disappoints. Real life isn't a bar where you settle everything with a dance-off."

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The Independent, usually the mediator, looks genuinely troubled, "Maybe all this... was just a distraction?"

The Gen Z bartender, usually the epitome of chill, lets out a long, defeated sigh. "Maybe next time we don't just dance away the problems."

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As they all start to leave, the camaraderie feels hollow, overshadowed by the reality awaiting outside. The Republican stops at the door, turning to the others, "Maybe next time, we don't just talk within these walls. Real change, it seems, needs more than just understanding—it needs action.” Which is total bullshit because a Republican would never say that.

 

As the Gen Z bartender begins to lock up, Marjorie Taylor Greene suddenly cries out, dodging a strobe of light. "I knew it! Jewish space lasers!" she howls, ducking rapidly.

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Gen Z bartender, finally put out, "Nah, Marjorie, those are just our disco lights. But legit, if they were space lasers, they'd be way more into zapping tragic fashion than any political drama.”

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The crowd erupts into giggles as they sling the shade. As Marjorie exits, puzzled and still scanning the ceilings, the laughter slowly fades into a moment of reflection. The Gen Z bartender, leaning casually against the counter, looks out at the remaining patrons with a thoughtful expression. "So, tonight was kinda lit, right? We vibed, we spilled some tea, and yeah, things got a little salty. It's all chill in here, like our own little safe space. But outside," they nod toward the violence erupting in the streets. "The real tea’s waiting. This bar’s like the real world—full of mess, moods, and those little moments when we actually connect. Just remember, the road to actually getting each other? It's long and twisted, like, no cap, it's as complex as trying to trace a laser beam—from a disco ball.

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As the patrons nod, contemplating the night’s deeper truths, the Boomer grunts dismissively as he gathers his coat, "Sounds like a bunch of millennial homo jumbo to me. Back in my day, we just dealt with things without all this queer touchy-feely nonsense.”

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Gen X, overhearing the comment while wiping down the bar, rolls his eyes, “Dad, please, for the love of god, just shut the fuck up.”

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