Vegetarians are cool. All I eat are vegetarians - except for the

Host: The barbecue smoke curled up into the evening air, lazy and gray, carrying the scent of charred wood and something wilder — the tang of meat, beer, and the faint echo of country rock from an old speaker leaning against the porch wall.

The sun hung low over the valley, casting long orange shadows across the hills. Cicadas droned like restless percussionists, and the world felt half-drunk on heat and laughter.

Jack stood over the grill, tongs in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled, his expression half amused, half defiant. Jeeny sat nearby on a wooden crate, barefoot, a glass of iced tea in her hand, her hair catching the sunlight like a flame refusing to die.

A few friends had drifted away toward the lake, leaving just the two of them — the smoke, the food, and the lingering smell of argument.

Jeeny: “Ted Nugent once said, ‘Vegetarians are cool. All I eat are vegetarians — except for the occasional mountain lion steak.’”

Jack: [grinning] “Now there’s a man who knows how to piss people off and still sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Poetic? That’s not poetry, that’s provocation.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Host: The grill popped, a burst of flame licking up toward Jack’s hands. He turned the meat with a casual flick, eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of mischief and skepticism.

Jack: “He’s not really talking about eating vegetarians, Jeeny. He’s mocking moral posturing. You know — the people who turn food into politics.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s clever?”

Jack: “It’s honest. He’s saying, stop pretending your diet makes you holy. Whether you eat kale or cow, we’re all part of the same food chain — someone dies for someone to live.”

Jeeny: “That’s an easy philosophy when you’re holding the tongs.”

Jack: “You’d rather I feel guilty about dinner?”

Jeeny: “Not guilty. Conscious. That’s the difference.”

Host: The flames hissed, spitting droplets of fat into the air. The sound was oddly soothing — a kind of primitive rhythm that belonged to fire and flesh. A hawk circled overhead, a dark shape against the fading sky.

Jeeny: “You know, people like Nugent make it sound like compassion is weakness. But it’s not. It’s the most human thing we have left.”

Jack: “Compassion’s great — as long as it doesn’t turn into moral arrogance. Half the people preaching ethics can’t even look their neighbor in the eye. They’d rather love animals because animals don’t argue back.”

Jeeny: “You think kindness needs to be strategic?”

Jack: “No. I think it needs to be real. You can’t eat virtue. The world runs on teeth — not hashtags.”

Host: Jeeny sipped her tea slowly, her eyes narrowing, catching Jack’s in the heat-hazed light. There was no anger there, just the steady pulse of belief — quiet, relentless, like a heartbeat under the noise.

Jeeny: “You talk about reality like it’s a license to stop feeling. But feeling’s what separates us from the mountain lions.”

Jack: “And yet, you’d still run if one came for you.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But that’s survival. We have instinct — we also have choice.”

Jack: “And I choose barbecue.”

Jeeny: “And I choose not to eat something that had eyes and a family.”

Jack: “Then we’re both hunters — just different prey.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of grilled meat toward the lake. The sky deepened, that perfect bruised-purple that comes right before dusk, when the light hesitates before surrendering to night.

Jeeny stood and walked closer to the grill. The flames reflected in her eyes, twin mirrors of quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “Jack, you ever think about the contradiction? We claim to love nature, but we destroy it to satisfy our appetites.”

Jack: “Nature’s not sentimental. It’s red in tooth and claw. Everything eats something else. Even trees consume the dead.”

Jeeny: “That’s true. But we can choose when to stop taking more than we need. That’s what consciousness is — not denying nature, but elevating it.”

Jack: “You mean taming it.”

Jeeny: “Guiding it.”

Jack: “Sounds like playing God to me.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s remembering we’re not supposed to be gods at all.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. Only the crackle of fire, the hum of insects, the whisper of distant water. Jack’s hand hovered over the grill, tongs suspended in midair. The smell of smoke mixed with something subtler — humility, perhaps.

Jack: “You really think what we eat defines who we are?”

Jeeny: “Not defines — reveals. Food is culture, compassion, history. Every bite is a decision about what kind of world we want to live in.”

Jack: “So you’re saying I’m voting with my steak.”

Jeeny: “And I’m voting with my salad.”

Jack: “What if the lion votes for both of us?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the lion’s more honest than we are.”

Host: The sun slipped below the ridge, painting the world in copper and indigo. The firelight danced across their faces — hers thoughtful, his quietly amused.

Jack: “You know, maybe Nugent was right in a twisted way. Maybe he wasn’t mocking vegetarians — maybe he was mocking everyone pretending not to be part of the food chain.”

Jeeny: “You mean pretending not to be responsible for it.”

Jack: “Exactly. People like to act innocent. But nature doesn’t do innocence. It only does balance.”

Jeeny: “Balance isn’t just about taking — it’s about knowing when to stop.”

Jack: “And what happens when you stop too much? When the deer overrun the forest, when crops die from neglect? Even compassion needs management.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe compassion isn’t management at all. Maybe it’s stewardship — caring enough to preserve, not just consume.”

Host: The fire died down, glowing embers casting a low orange pulse through the smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, its voice wild and ancient, as if adding its opinion to the argument.

Jack looked toward the hills, the sound echoing through the dusk.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we’ve overcomplicated it? Eat, survive, respect what feeds you — maybe that’s all it’s supposed to be.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that middle part — respect — that’s where humanity lives or dies.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer, and together they looked down at the fading coals — glowing like the last thoughts of a long debate. The smoke rose upward, disappearing into the darkening sky.

Jack: “You know, I think Nugent’s joke was really about honesty. He just said it with teeth.”

Jeeny: “And maybe we need more honesty — and fewer teeth.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the tension melting into the hum of the night. Jack reached for the last piece of grilled corn, holding it out to her.

Jeeny hesitated, then smiled and took it.

Jeeny: “Peace offering?”

Jack: “Truce between predator and poet.”

Host: The first stars appeared — faint, trembling — over the ridge. The fire crackled, the air cooled, and the argument settled like ash: warm, human, unresolved, but understood.

In the distance, the mountain lion cried once more — not in hunger, but in presence.
And beneath that wild, echoing sound, two people stood by the dying fire, realizing that survival and morality are not enemies — just different verses in the same old song of being alive.