They sat around the dinner table naked, a rather smelly bunch of completely naked, ungroomed people. There’s nothing wrong here. In fact, this is everyday life. One may not want to believe that this really is considered everyday life, yet it truly is. The same scene repeats itself in every household: smelly, dirty, nude people conversing normally.

Maybe to get a better idea of this insane world, we should join a “normal” family at the dinner table.

There are 5 people seated around the dinner table. There are plates of food in front of each person, yet there also happens to be a plate of vomit in front of every person as well. The explanation? That’s for later.

All of them seem like they have not showered in months, yet nobody appears to be bothered by it. It being both the smell and the fact that everybody was caked in a fine layer of mud and dirt, dripping sweat everywhere.

Nobody was wearing clothes either. In fact, there was not a single article of clothing to be found, except for a single sock, just one single sock, that a teenage boy was wearing. This happened to be the subject of discussion at the moment, a private, whispered conversation.

“Now, Bobby, why the are you wearing that sock?”

“Because I feel like it.” The classic response.

“You know, when I was a kid, I went everywhere without clothes.”

“Well I’m my own person.”

The whole table gasped in unison, almost as if they were aptly listening in on the obviously private conversation. Actually, they were: a closer examination of the table during the conversation would reveal that each person leaned closely in to listen in on the conversation while mother and son were talking. Yet, for some reason, the pair didn’t quite seem to be bothered by it.

“Bobby, go up to your room please.”

“Actually, I think I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Then take off that sock. I don’t want people seeing my son looking that way.”

“No.”

The whole room was still. Nobody stirred. The room was silent enough for the sound of a hair falling to be heard as clearly as if it was being amplified through a megaphone. What seemed to be a normal conversation appeared to have a massive impact on the occupants of the dining room as the angst-ridden teenage boy strode out of the room. Seconds later, the sound of a door opening and closing softly drifted through the room.

“Beth, don’t pay attention to that kid. You know how teenagers are today.”

“I’m not really worried. I just don’t really want people seeing him wearing… you know.”

The mood suddenly lightened up considerably, as if a heavy weight was suddenly lifted. Conversation returned to its previous, brisk pace. But the oddities were not finished yet. As the diners continued to eat, a mysterious, rather despicable ritual unfolded.

Every time somebody decided to eat, they would put the food in their mouth in some sloppy way, chew for just a few seconds, and swallow. A few seconds later, they would then commence to put their index finger down their throat and hurl the newly-swallowed food onto a plate. After a few minutes, each diner would get up and empty their vomit plate right in the center of the table. By any normal dinner’s end, there would be a 3-foot tall pile of vomit in the center of the dining table.

But someone was breaking the mold. One of the diners, a rather heavyset man, swallowed his food but did not commence to vomit. Immediately, he realized his mistake.

“Oh, excuse me. I don’t really know what got into me. I guess I’m just… you know.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It happens to the best of us.”

Despite the nonchalant response, the whole table seemed absolutely disgusted with the fact that someone had actually dared to eat food. It appeared almost as if the heavyset man had broken a rather important social taboo.

*****

Dinner was done. Each person emptied the remains of their food plates into the trash can, not looking at the food. Once in the trash can, the food was incinerated immediately. The pile of vomit, however, stayed in the middle of the dining table, a sick tribute to the gods.

One woman, quite obviously a guest, leaned over to the hostess and quickly whispered, “I’m feeling really dirty right now. I think I might… um… you know. Where’s the…”

The hostess whispered back, her words coming as quickly and silently as darts, “Upstairs, second door on your right.”

“Thanks, you know I wouldn’t do this normally, but…”

“Yes, I know, now go on before someone figures out what you’re doing.”

*****

Upstairs, the guest found the room she was looking for. The room was a bathroom, just barely 5 feet by 5 feet in dimensions. Inside there was a tiny, rusty sink with no soap, and an equally filthy bathtub that did not look like it had been used in several months. Quickly, the guest turned on the water, showered for a few quick seconds, and left just as quickly as she had entered.

When she arrived downstairs, Bobby, our angst-ridden sock-wearing teenager, happened to return from his walk. He was immaculately clean and was wearing a rather handsome suit, with the smell of a nice cologne emanating from his body.

His mother fainted the moment she saw him.

“Get out of my house!” The father screamed. “I don’t want to see you like that ever! That’s not how we raised you!”

Bobby strode quickly and quietly out of the house. He lived the rest of his years as a hobo, shunned by all of society. Nobody seemed to understand why he would want to wear suits and cologne all the time, and he never got a chance to explain himself.

FINE