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.”