Don’t Talk About Politics At The Dinner Table

Listen to a reading by Tim Foley:

Everything was going fine until Grandma brought out the roast Palestinian child for dinner.

“Who’s hungry?” she chirped, a small honey-glazed human corpse on a platter in her arms.

“I am!” said Grandpa.

“Oh boy!” said Tommy.

“OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??” Susan shrieked.

“Jesus, Sue, my ears,” said Ellen.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Grandma asked, frozen in shock.

“That’s a dead kid! Why the fuck is there a dead kid on that plate??” Susan yelled.

“Hey, you can’t talk to your mother like that,” Grandpa warned.

“Yeah, Sue, watch your mouth,” said Stanley, covering his daughter’s ears.

“It’s — oh my God! It’s a dead kid! Why is everyone acting like this is fine?? What the fuck is happening??”

“Oh, Susan, sweetie, are you a vegetarian? I’m sorry, I didn’t know!” said Grandma.

“Did — did you kill this kid??” Susan asked, struggling to catch her breath.

“Oh Christ, no!” said Grandpa. “Is that what this is about? No, it’s some Arab kid that got killed in that Israeli war. They started selling them by the pound at Costco last month.”

“YOU MEAN THE GENOCIDE IN GAZA??” Susan bellowed, falling to her knees and sobbing.

“Oh, here we go,” Tommy sighed.

“Can we please not get all political at the dinner table?” said Stanley.

“Yeah, no politics!” said Grandpa. “We’re all here together as a family, let’s just try to have a nice time.”

“Politics??” Susan screamed. “I’m staring at a dead Palestinian kid right in front of me and it freaks me out! How the fuck is that political??”

“I mean, calling it a ‘genocide’, Sue?” said Ellen.

“Look, we can sit here arguing about the war and who started it and whether Israel has a right to defend itself and whether Jews have a right to exist in their homeland, or we can all just take a deep breath, and relax, and enjoy this delicious meal Grandma spent hours in the kitchen preparing,” said Grandpa, reaching for the carving knife.

“I swear to God if any of you so much as touches that kid I will never speak to you for the rest of my life,” said Susan.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said Tommy.

“Tom!” said Stanley, putting down the knife to again cover his daughter’s ears.

“God, Sue why do you always gotta be such a hysterical drama queen?” said Ellen. “We’re just trying to have a nice meal together and you gotta come in playing Woke Police on everyone.”

“It’s a victim of genocide! You want to eat a human child who was killed in a genocide!” screamed Susan.

“You say it’s a genocide victim, I say it’s dinner,” said Tommy. “But nobody can be right except you, right Sue? Only Saint Susan gets to decide which opinions are valid.”

“I think we just need to have respect for one another’s different political opinions, Susan” said Grandma. “We’re not all going to agree on everything, and we need to be able to set that aside and get along together. This is a complicated issue. Who’s to say who’s right?”

“But this isn’t political!” wailed Susan. “How can you guys not see that?? There’s a DEAD KID on the dinner table! A dead kid!”

“I think they’re right, Aunt Susan,” said Morgan, taking off her headphones. “I didn’t want to say anything but a lot of the stuff you’ve been saying online about the war is really problematic and antisemitic, and actually kind of borderline fascist-adjacent. The kinds of things you’ve been saying about President Biden and Vice President Harris are going to land Trump back in the White House.”

“Alright, alright, what did we just say about politics at the dinner table?” said Grandpa. “This is what it leads to. A bunch of hurtful words and hurt feelings.”

“Fuck. Your. Feelings,” said Susan.

“Okay, well, dinner’s ruined,” said Stanley. “Morgan, Louise, come on, we’re getting McDonald’s. Thanks a lot, Sue.”

“Yeah, Sue,” said Tommy. “Selfish bitch.”

Everyone left, leaving Grandpa and Grandma alone with Susan — who was still crying on the floor.

“Susan,” said Grandpa. “Someday you’re going to have to learn that other people have feelings just like you, and that we all deserve to be treated as human beings, just like you do.”

“Really, sweetie, you’ve just got to learn to have a little compassion,” said Grandma, picking up the platter with the Palestinian child on it and carrying it into the kitchen.

“I guess we can use all these leftovers for sandwiches later,” she mumbled, shaking her head sadly.

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