QotD: If you were a cannibal, what would you wear to dinner?

--One moment, young lady. Where do you think you’re going?

--Out with my friends, Mom. Is that okay with you?

--Wearing that awful skirt? Let me look at your nose. Ha! I knew it! You’re not stepping foot out of this hut until you get that bone in your nose. It’s an heirloom, Jujumi.

--I know, I know, I know: from great-great-grandmother’s precious right hand.

--I’ll not have you mocking, Jujumi. Put that bone where it belongs, and whatever you’re up to, don’t be late tonight. We’re having the missionaries for dinner.

--Gag! I’ve ALWAYS hated white meat, Mom. You know that. Besides—

--You’ll eat what’s put before you, young lady. Actually, we’re only having the skinny one tonight. The chief decided to save that big fat one for the party next week.

--Well, I won’t do it. Sooner or later we’re all gonna get mad missionary disease.

--Mad what? Where on earth do you get these ideas?

--I can read, you know.

--What do you mean, you can reed?

--Gigibu’s been teaching us. You know, with those papers his dad collects.

--The eye medicine?

--Gods! I can’t believe how dumb—

--Watch it, Jujumi. And take off that stupid skirt. I’m embarrassed just looking at you. Next thing you know you’ll be covering up your breasts. How do you expect to ever get a husband like that?

--Maybe I don’t want a husband. Maybe I’d like a career.

--I don’t understand a word you’re saying, Jujumi.

--You don’t understand adolescent angst, Mother. Honestly, you’d think we were still in the dark ages.

--Blah, blah, blah. You and your fancy words. You’re still not going out without that bone.

--I HATE that bone, Mom! And I might as well tell you, I’m a vegetarian.

--A veggie what?

--Vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.

--Of course you eat meat. You were raised on meat, like any civilized child.

--Meat clogs your arteries, Mom. I don’t feel like having a stroke or a heart attack. Gigibu and I are going to start planting soy.

--You and Gigibu… Praise the gods! You and Gigibu are—

--It’s purely platonic, Mom. We’re celibate.

--You’re cella what? I wish you’d stop using all this jargon.

--Celibate means we’ve decided not to have sex.

--Oh my gods! Please don’t tell your father, Jujumi. He’ll be furious! What’s the matter with you, anyway?

--I’m forging my own path, Mom. I’m an independent, resourceful woman, working to make the world a better place.

--By running around with a naked nose and all that cloth covering what the gods gave you?

--I don’t expect you to understand, Mom. Parents are a complete bummer.

--I don’t know what you said, Jujumi, but I wouldn’t advise you to repeat it in front of your father. Now you get your bone, like a good girl, and don’t be late for dinner.

--I’ll come to dinner, Mom, but I’m not going to eat one speck of missionary.

--Yes, you will. And get rid of that damn skirt. I won’t have you shaming us in front of everyone.

--Okay, maybe I won’t wear my skirt, since it’s such a big deal to you. But I’m NOT wearing that bone, and I’m NOT eating that damn missionary.

--You’re turning my hair gray, Jujumi. Could you at least PRETEND to gnaw on a bone or something?

--I will if you stop bugging me about the nose-bone. I want to breathe free.

--You’re a terrible daughter, Jujumi. No respect at all for your elders or your ancestors.

--I’ve gotta be me, Mom.

--Okay, I’ll stop nagging you about the bone, but you have to swear to me, Jujumi, that you won’t wear a skirt or anything else. Maybe some beads, but you wear them modestly—nothing covering your breasts. You hear me?

--Gotcha, Mom. I’ll show up for dinner just as naked as the gods made me, although I have to say I’m questioning whether they really exist. If you look at it logically—

--Stop that right now! I can’t take any more of your insane prattling. Get that skirt out of my sight--go play with your friends, be on time to dinner, and if I see one stitch on you, I’ll pick up a thigh bone and beat you with it.

--Violence solves nothing, Mom. Later.