A vegetarian is a person who won't eat anything that can have

Host: The restaurant was a contradiction — all glass, greenery, and carefully staged simplicity. Soft music drifted through the air, the kind that pretends to relax you while the city just outside seethes with traffic and ambition. The menu was handwritten in chalk, full of words like sustainability, locally sourced, and ethically harvested.

Host: Jack sat at a table by the window, a half-eaten steak cooling on his plate. Jeeny sat across from him, her salad untouched but vibrant — like a painter’s apology to the earth. Between them, a phone screen glowed with David Brenner’s line:
“A vegetarian is a person who won’t eat anything that can have children.”

Host: The quote hung in the space between them, both ridiculous and strangely profound — like a punchline whispered in a cathedral.

Jack: “You’ve got to hand it to Brenner — that’s one hell of a definition. Philosophical and sarcastic all at once. He turned biology into a punchline.”

Jeeny: “Or morality into one. He wasn’t just joking about food, Jack — he was joking about guilt. What we consume, what we kill, what we call kindness. Every bite’s an ethical decision disguised as appetite.”

Jack: “That’s the trouble with you idealists — you turn lunch into confession. It’s just food.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s identity. What we eat is how we choose to participate in the world. A vegetarian doesn’t just refuse meat — they refuse complicity in violence.”

Jack: “Violence? You make it sound like I stabbed this steak personally.”

Jeeny: “You paid for someone else to.”

Jack: “Ah. So morality’s now sold by proxy.”

Jeeny: “Always has been.”

Host: The waiter passed by, carrying a platter of sizzling tofu. The smell mingled with the earthy scent of herbs and smoke — a strange harmony of indulgence and restraint. Jack watched it go by, amused.

Jack: “You know, if you think about it, Brenner’s line is pure comedy because it’s absurdly true. People will eat plants, eggs, milk — anything that doesn’t scream when it dies. We draw the moral line at a cry, not at suffering.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the hypocrisy. Compassion, but only if it doesn’t inconvenience our palate. People want to feel moral without giving anything up.”

Jack: “And vegetarians are immune to that, right? Come on, Jeeny — plants are alive too. You’re just choosing victims that can’t protest.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m choosing to minimize harm. It’s not about purity; it’s about effort.”

Jack: “Effort’s overrated. The cow doesn’t care whether you feel guilty before you eat it.”

Jeeny: “But I care. That’s the point.”

Jack: “And that’s the comedy of it — humans moralizing their hunger. We’re animals pretending to be saints.”

Jeeny: “And some of us are trying not to pretend.”

Host: The rain began softly against the window — slow, rhythmic, a background percussion to their argument. The city lights outside blurred, every reflection a neon sermon on appetite.

Jack: “You ever think we’ve overthought this whole morality thing? Our ancestors hunted. Ate. Survived. No one wrote manifestos about lentils.”

Jeeny: “Because survival used to be the only religion. But now we have the luxury of choice — and choice breeds ethics.”

Jack: “Luxury breeds guilt, Jeeny. We’ve gone from gratitude to apology. Every meal’s a moral trial. Even this steak feels like it’s judging me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it should.”

Jack: “You ever get tired of moralizing your meals?”

Jeeny: “No. I get tired of pretending my comfort’s worth someone else’s life.”

Jack: “You know, that’s the problem with ethics — it ruins the appetite.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It refines it.”

Host: The waiter returned, offering dessert — vegan chocolate cake. Jack waved it off, Jeeny smiled faintly. The moment softened, the tension thinning into something almost affectionate.

Jack: “So, let me get this straight. You think vegetarianism is a kind of… mercy?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a kind of awareness. Mercy would mean saving lives. I just choose not to take part in ending them.”

Jack: “And yet you still drink milk, eat cheese. You’re still using the system, just politely.”

Jeeny: “Politeness is a start. So is discomfort.”

Jack: “You think guilt is noble?”

Jeeny: “No, I think it’s honest.”

Jack: “You’d make a great priest.”

Jeeny: “You’d make a terrible confessor.”

Jack: (grinning) “Probably. I like sin too much.”

Jeeny: “You like denial even more.”

Host: A small silence. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the glass, washing the city clean for the next round of compromises. Jeeny sipped her water, eyes calm but steady.

Jack: “You know what I think Brenner was really saying? That we’re ridiculous. We keep inventing reasons to feel superior for surviving. The vegetarian, the carnivore, the vegan — all of them spinning morality into marketing.”

Jeeny: “And maybe he’s right. But ridicule doesn’t cancel sincerity. We all want to be good, Jack — some of us just define ‘good’ differently.”

Jack: “You’re saying virtue’s relative.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying it’s expensive.”

Jack: “Then I’m rich in sin.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’re just overdrawn.”

Host: A burst of thunder. The lights flickered, briefly plunging the restaurant into shadow. In the dimness, Jack’s face seemed older — a man caught between appetite and conscience. Jeeny’s face was soft but illuminated, like a flame reflected in glass.

Jack: “So, tell me — does your compassion extend to the microbes in your salad?”

Jeeny: “Don’t mock the attempt just because it’s imperfect. Perfection’s the enemy of effort.”

Jack: “And effort’s the enemy of pleasure.”

Jeeny: “Only if your pleasure depends on ignorance.”

Jack: “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “And you’re predictable.”

Jack: “You know what’s predictable? Every moral argument ends with the same truth — we all eat something that used to be alive.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The difference is whether we learn to taste the consequence.”

Host: The rain eased. The waiter cleared their plates. The restaurant buzzed with quiet chatter — the low hum of comfort sustained by distant suffering.

Jack: “You think Brenner believed what he said? Or was he just joking?”

Jeeny: “Comedians tell the truth the way children do — by accident.”

Jack: “So he was laughing at us.”

Jeeny: “At all of us. Because we’re all ridiculous — trying to be moral in a world built on appetite.”

Jack: “And yet, here you are, eating lettuce like it’s a protest.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Like it’s a prayer.”

Jack: “And me?”

Jeeny: “You’re the sermon.”

Jack: (smiling) “At least I’m part of the service.”

Host: The rain stopped. Outside, the neon sign flickered again — EAT HERE glowing through the mist like both command and invitation.

Host: Jack and Jeeny rose, stepping out into the night — two silhouettes divided by philosophy but united by hunger. The city hummed around them, full of choices disguised as chance.

Host: And somewhere, in the echo of their footsteps and the fading laughter of Brenner’s old joke, lingered the question that always survives the meal:

Host: Do we consume the world, or does the world consume us?

Host: The answer — as always — was still chewing.