Once upon a time there was a pigsty on a large and prosperous farm. The pigs lived well, finding more than enough slops in their trough to satisfy their hunger. There were rumors, however, that ownership of the farm had changed hands. Changes were in the works. It was whispered among the animals that the farm was to be liquidated and the animals sold or slaughtered. The pigs shrugged. They were pragmatic creatures. Rumors are only rumors. Whatever else might be happening on the farm, the pigs were being well taken care of. Every morning the farm hands brought them fresh slops. Surly the owners had their best interests at heart. Why else would the pigs be so well fed and cared for? The sun was shining, the pigs were getting fatter and there were plenty of slops in their trough.

Then one day another rumor reached the pigsty. It was reported that the farm horses that had worked faithfully on the farm for decades were being sent to the glue factory. The pigs shrugged. This was no concern of theirs. Horses are not pigs after all. The sun was shining, the pigs were getting fatter and there were plenty of slops in their trough.

A week later it was said that the hen house was empty. According to a rat that made its nest in a hole beneath the nesting platforms, the farm hands had come in just before sunrise, slaughtered, plucked and boiled each hen. Then they took the remaining eggs to market. The pigs shrugged. This was no concern of theirs. A hen is not a pig after all. The sun was shining, the pigs were getting fatter and there were plenty of slops in their trough.

Next it was the milk cows. After that the sheep. Then news reached the pigsty that the faithful farmhouse dog had been taken out to the quarry and shot. The pigs shrugged. This was no concern of theirs. Cows, sheep and dogs are not pigs after all. The sun was shining, the pigs were getting fatter and there were plenty of slops in their trough.

Then one sunny morning the farm hands came out to the pigsty as usual. This time, however, they were not carrying buckets of slop. They were carrying long knives. They came into the pigsty and began summarily slitting the throats of each pig. The pigs all squealed in terror, but of course by this time there was no one left to hear them. The last to die heard his executioner remark, “Nothing personal little fella. It’s just a kitchen table issue. What’s breakfast at the kitchen table without a little bacon?”

Moral? Those whose politics, ethics and religion go no further than their own kitchen tables are bound to wind up on someone else’s.