This was a series of three different dinner conversations that took place several years ago. This is basically what it's like every night in my household. As you'll soon find out, these ones have a theme.
Mom: Olivia, eat your tofu.
Me: I can't! It's barbecue and it doesn't go with the whole Asian dinner theme.
Mom: I don't care, you need the protein.
Me (taking a bite): Mom, I really can't eat this.
Michael: I don't blame her, Mom. It looks pretty repulsive, and that's much nicer than what you said earlier about my food.
Me: What did you say?
Michael: She said my ground chicken was diarrhea.
Mom: I didn't say it was diarrhea, I said it looked like diarrhea.
(Mom dishes me tons of broccoli)
Me: Mom, that's enough!
Mom: Well you have to eat it all, your brother won't have any.
Me: Why not?
Mom: Because he doesn't want broccoli breath for his class.
Michael: Damn right!
Mom (whispering): He sits next to a cute girl!
-a minute passes-
Michael: Damn! I spilled food on my pants!
Mom: Better get that out before the cute girl in class sees it.
Michael: Yeah! She's going to think I peed mustard!
Mom: Michael Samuel!
Michael: That was nowhere near as inappropriate as it could have been! Like that comment you made about my food being diarrhea.
Mom: You'll never let that go, will you?
Mom: Here, Michael, have some more.
Michael: No, I'm good. This is quite a hefty bowl of heartiness.
Mom: Maybe if you hadn't eaten that steak earlier...
Michael: Maybe if you hadn't called my food diarrhea...
Mom: I'm going to be hearing that one until I'm dead, aren't I?
Michael: If you're lucky I'll stop then.
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