u/JamesWhiteWrites

We have all heard of TIME Magazine's Most Influential People.

This is great, but there should also be a list that acknowledges the groups who are the least influential people in society.

1. People who write TIME Magazine's 100 Most Influential People lists
2. People who write the Least Influential People List
3. People with degrees in Philosophy, Liberal Arts & History
4. Weather presenters in places where it's always hot
5. People who read self-help books
6. People who write self-help books
7. People who own a pet rock
8. People on LinkedIn who use the word "disrupt"
9. Career advisers advising you on their unsuccessful careers
10. People who are still reading this

Another thing we’re all guilty of is what I like to call unintentional lies.

I’ll give you an example. When someone is telling you a story and they say something like, “And I’ll never forget this…” they’re talking out of their ass. There are no guarantees you’ll remember anything forever. Who’s to say you won’t get Alzheimer’s disease? Are you going to remember it then? Or maybe you’ll develop early-onset dementia. And what about death? How are you planning to remember something when you cease to exist?

It’s all hypocrisy.

I’ll tell you what else is total malarkey: when you’re talking to someone about how they got into their line of work and they respond with something like, “Well, I’ve known I wanted to do this for a living since I was five years old.”

Who the hell remembers being five years old? You’re telling me you wanted to be an accountant since you were five? What the hell type of child were you?

Why is it that when people drink from a straw, they keep sucking on it when it’s empty?
What are you trying to get?
What are you hoping for that the drink magically refills?

There’s nothing left. Give up already.

And then comes that sound…
that aggressive, last-ditch slurp.

fthhhhhhlurp… glub… slrrrp

You know what that sounds like?
It sounds like someone hitting a bong.

And when I hear somebody making that sound,
I feel like hitting them with a bong

There are lots of everyday expressions and sayings that we all say and we all use that don’t even make much sense when you analyze them.

Like:

When someone agrees with you, they go, “You can say that again.”

Well, if you agree with me, why are you trying to make me repeat it?

Can’t you just agree and not make me say it again?

And what would even happen if I did say it again?

Would they then agree again and go, “You can say that again” a second time?

When does it stop with these fuckers?

Or when you are packing up, leaving a place like a hotel, there will always be somebody that says:

“Make sure you get everything.”

As if I would deliberately leave stuff and not get everything.

And what about when you’re reading something and it says, “In other words,” now this is always said when somebody explains something so complicated that nobody understands, so they then have to say, “in other words,” and explain it again in a simpler form in case you were too stupid to understand it the first time.

It’s basically a built-in moron translator.

Why even say “in other words” and then explain it simpler? Why not just explain it simpler the first time around and save us all this time?

“I’ll give it 110%.”

Here’s an idea: take at least 20% and use that to improve your math abilities. You’re not impressing anyone with your unrealistic efforts. Don’t try as hard that’s how you get burnt out. “I’ll give it 110%” I’d like to shove it up your ass at 110%.

“He’s impossible to work with.”

This is said when you are working with someone you don’t like. You say he’s impossible to work with. Well, if he were impossible to work with, how were you working with him in the first place? I think what you should be saying instead is he’s a fuckwit to work with.

You ever go to an Asian restaurant and start questioning their ethnicity?

“I think they’re Chinese…” But this is a Thai restaurant.

What the hell are the Chinese doing running a Thai restaurant?

That’s why when I want Chinese, I go to a Thai restaurantand when I want Thai, I go to a Chinese restaurant..

What do you do when nobody asks you out, you can’t cook, and you’re desperately wanting to go out for dinner?

You have no choice but to dine out at a table for one.

I arrive at the restaurant, and I ask the waiter for a table for one.

“Table for one?” the waiter says, with just enough of a question in his tone to suggest he’s thinking, Really?

Your sorry ass is eating alone?

He then asks if I have a reservation. I look around and see that about 40% of the restaurant is empty.

What is it with these restaurants and reservation systems? It’s vastly overrated. Unless you’re actually busy and need one to maintain order, what are you doing? It’s not like people are lining out the door.

I almost wanted to do a walk out. There’s nothing like a good walkout at a restaurant. It’s even better when you’re already sitting down, menu in hand, sipping the free tap water, and then you just leave because something isn’t to your liking. You see the panic in the waiters, the awkward tension. It’s the same way a car salesman watches his commission walk out the door.

Nothing like a good walkout.

Immediately, I notice this is one of those fancy, over-the-top luxury restaurants by the way the menu describes the cuisine as “elevated modern cuisine.” What the hell does “elevated modern” even mean?

I’m pretty sure the only damn thing that’s elevated is the price.

Any time a restaurant uses the word “cuisine,” you know it’s going to be expensive. I also love it when a restaurant has no prices on the menu because that’s how you know the price is going to be fair.

Or when a place does a lot of things on the menu, then you know they are going to do a lot of things really well.

The waiter hands me a menu and reads out the specials. I always like to act very interested when the waiter reads out the specials, which are about a paragraph long with grandiose descriptions, and then just ask about a particular special to get clarification on what I may order, and then ask, “Which would you prefer?” or “Which would you recommend?” And then go, “Okay, I’ll take a boiled egg.”

I order a main course, and the waiter then asks if there are any dietary requirements.

I hate it when waiters at restaurants ask that. I don’t know, maybe I am allergic to something. Let’s find out! Give me the most exotic thing you’ve got and we’ll see what happens. I’ll have the poisonous fish, the raw chicken, and while you’re at it, cook up some expired meat and dairy. Let’s really test these so-called dietary requirements.

And what if I order the fish and vegetables, and then when they ask, “Any dietary requirements?” I say I’m allergic to fish and vegetables?

What would they cook then?

Even if I insisted, I still wanted it, would they refuse because of the allergy?

That would completely mess with the restaurant. They’d be forced into a moral dilemma serve a guy food that could kill him and risk being sued, or send out a plate of nothing.

The entire staff would be stuck deciding between manslaughter or serving an incomplete minimalist art project that’s supposed to be food.

Probably just a plate of parsley.

You know, because that’s what fancy restaurants do they throw a little green garnish on top and suddenly it’s luxurious. It’s like restaurants accidentally over ordered four million servings of parsley and now they’re desperately trying to offload it onto anyone who orders anything.

Nobody wants it, but you’re getting it anyway.

I think we should live in a world where restaurants automatically assume there are no dietary requirements, and if you have one, you have to tell them, not the other way around. Imagine how much time we’d save from all that small talk. Plus, people who have dietary requirements or preferences usually love telling you about them anyway, like, “I’m a hyper-vegan-pescatarian, which means I don’t eat meat except fish, but only if the fish is between two and three years old and artisanal to the sun.”

Or take it even further if you get food poisoning and die, too bad. No suing. Natural selection. When you eat, you take a risk, the same way you walk past a mentally unstable person on the street that you try to ignore. They might throw a shoe at you, or insult you unprovoked but you walk past them anyway.

The point is, take a chance.

Anyway, I try to decipher the menu, as these fancy restaurants love to present their food deconstructed. Instead of ordering a dish and being presented with it, a pretentious chef will deconstruct it and spread it out on a plate because that’s what makes it luxurious.

I prefer to have my food constructed and then allow my mouth and stomach to do the deconstructing.

Restaurants love glorifying their food with ridiculous descriptions such as “deconstructed sautéed fish delicately placed on hand-cut potatoes, served with vegetables on a bed of rice with locally sourced apple purée and organic blends.” I love it when a restaurant delicately places something on a plate, I’m so tired of these restaurants that just hurl the fish at a plate. I would take it one step further softly place it on a plate, massage it for 10 to 15 minutes, and then deconstruct the hell out of it and serve it with some duck foam confit and locally sourced, hand-cut garden vegetables.

The other thing they do is the dégustation set menu, where they bring out about 14 different plates of over-the-top dishes that only someone who has been institutionalized could conceive. The key for these types of courses is to have the biggest plate you can find and the smallest food possible. The smaller the food, the higher the price the higher the price, the bigger the screwing.

The other part of fine dining is that they like to purée. Everything is puréed peas purée, carrot purée, cauliflower purée, steak purée, and giraffe ball purée. Purée basically means food turned into baby food and spread out on a plate to look sophisticated.

Anyway, I place my order, sit back, and grab some of the complimentary bread they’ve provided.

I ordered pretty simply, but I see other tables that ordered far more quantity-wise, and the waiters refuse to write it down. There’s always an arrogance to these waiters that do this. They’re always like, “I got this. I will remember. I’ve done this for years.” Don’t you find when a waiter refuses to write down the order, you kind of hope they screw up your entire meal just to see that smug bastard regret his existence?

One of the joys of eating alone is that everyone stares at you. People do this all the time in life, even at tables with numerous people. For some reason, humans love staring at other humans. I say when you see someone staring at you, you can’t let them win stare them right back until they shy away first. The nerve of these people.

The waitstaff see that you are alone and try to make more of a conversation with you because of this. Really, this is great and all but get the hell away from me.

The restaurant is playing background music similar to elevator music. At first, it’s nice and settling, then after a while it just seems unnecessary, and then it starts to get on your nerves. It gets louder and faster, and before you know it, you want to get the hell out of the place. That’s the reason restaurants play music with fast tempos to make you eat faster and leave quicker, so they get a higher turnover.

As I sit at the table, I am drawn to this one guy drinking through a straw from an empty glass.

Why is it that when people use a straw, they keep sucking on it after it’s empty? What are you trying to get? What are you hoping for that the drink magically refills? There’s nothing left. Give up already!

And then comes that sound… that aggressive, last-ditch slurp:

fffffthhhhlurp… glub… slrrrp

You know what that sounds like? It sounds like someone hitting a bong. And when I hear that sound, I feel like hitting them with a bong.

I look around at other tables, and I see a lot of good-looking women with very not good-looking men. I don’t get it what the hell do these guys have that I don’t have? I know it’s not just money; some of these guys don’t even have that. What the hell do these girls see in these people?

Sometimes when you’re at restaurants, there will be a table next to you with very loud people, and they basically ruin the entire dinner. You just hear their conversations, and really there is nothing you can do. Some of these tables are right next to each other, so there’s no privacy.

A good restaurant table distance is one where you can talk about and judge the people at the other tables without said table being able to hear.

On the topic of privacy, as I watch these other tables, I can see that when a waiter is at the table, nobody feels comfortable talking. You kind of awkwardly sip on your drink or play with a fork for some reason, but nobody wants this guy there.

And what about when a waiter hears your conversation and then makes a comment about what you were saying? Then you have to pretend that you really wanted this guy to hear what you said in the first place. I’ve always fantasized about talking about totally out-there stuff just to see if the waitstaff is truly listening maybe a conversation about dolphins having sex in a Chinese temple. You know, no-holds-barred, inappropriate, completely random things nobody has ever thought of, just to really test them and throw them off their game.

The other thing I noticed, which is common in high-end hotels and restaurants, is the excessive service where there’s a constant “Is everything okay?”, “Hello,” “Thank you.” It’s just the way restaurants are set up, where they constantly have to come over, change your plate, cutlery, give you something and as a patron, you have to say thank you for every one of these little occurrences. And they usually all have some built-in phrase like “you’re welcome,” so the entire dinner slowly descends into repetitive madness of “thank you, you’re welcome… thank you, you’re welcome.” “Thank you, you’re welcome.” It’s either this or not saying thank you and looking like a jerk you can’t win.

Anyway, the food arrives. I start eating. It’s good and authentic it’s not like I have to question the authenticity of the restaurant, unlike other places.

You ever go to an Asian restaurant and start questioning their ethnicity?

“I think they’re Chinese…” But this is a Thai restaurant.

What the hell are the Chinese doing running a Thai restaurant?

That’s why when I want Chinese, I go to a Thai restaurant and when I want Thai, I go to a Chinese restaurant.

As I am eating my meal, a few moments later another waiter comes over and asks, “Is everything all right?”

In my head I’m thinking

Yes. Get lost and let me eat.

But then I start thinking what if I took that question literally and gave him an answer that made him regret ever asking?

“No, everything is not all right. I just lost my job, I got evicted, my wife left me for a wealthy lawyer, I’m sleeping in my car, and I’ve got a giant pimple on my ass that hurts like a bitch when I sit down.”

That would stop him in his tracks.

Or maybe I go the other way and complain about everything just for fun:

“Well, about 73% of the roasted potatoes are cooked. The other 27% are undercooked. And the steak is a little too… meaty for my liking.”

It’s always fun to push people. Test them. See what they’re made of. Who knows if you’re lucky, it might be the final push that sends that waiter over the edge. Maybe he snaps, tells his boss to go screw himself, quits on the spot and throws a plate at the wall in front of the entire restaurant.

Nothing like a good public meltdown.

Ultimately, I decide not to do either. I finish my meal, but I’m still hungry. Then I notice the table next to me has left, and there’s a perfectly good bowl of fries just sitting there.

These schmucks paid $11 for upmarket restaurant fries which are no different from Burger King’s and they didn’t even eat them.

You ever have that happen?

It’s a real dilemma. You’re torn between publicly embarrassing yourself if the waiter catches you and eating the food you really want.

I look around. Nobody’s watching.

I go for it.

I grab the bowl and suddenly, out of nowhere, this French waiter (an asshole) appears behind me.

“Did you just take that plate from that table?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” I say confidently.

“You cannot take other people’s food, sir.”

“Why not? They’re not here. They left it.”

“It was not yours, sir. Please don’t do that.”

“What difference does it make? It’s just getting thrown away anyway. It’s public domain.”

“It’s restaurant policy. We can’t allow it,” he says, taking the bowl away.

“Policy? Oh really? Where is this policy written? Is there a book? I hear a lot about these ‘policies,’ but I don’t see them anywhere. I think you’re just making them up.”

“Sir, it’s just standard restaurant policy.”

“Unattended food becomes public food. What difference does it make?”

“I’m sorry, we just can’t. I can put in an order for you.”

“No $11? Get lost. Give me the damn fries.”

“Sir, we can’t table transfer food,” he says firmly.

“Okay, okay, fine. Take the damn fries.”

Anyway, I eventually order a dessert, and I arrive at the end of the dinner where the waitstaff will always ask, “Anything else?” even if you just had a starter, main course, a second main course, and several desserts, they will still ask, “Anything else?”

Anything else? How much more do you think I can consume?

The check arrives: $142.13.

What the hell? I barely ordered anything.

I look closer they charged me $9 for the “complimentary” bread. They didn’t even ask. They just put it on the table. I had no choice.

Then there’s a service charge, an automatic 25% gratuity and then they have the audacity to have a tip line below that. So now we’re double tipping?

I call the waiter over and complain. He insists, once again, that it’s “restaurant policy.”

The nerve of this guy. This guy and his restaurant policies.

“I think whatever the hell suits you is the policy,” I say.

“Sir, that’s the way we’ve always operated.”

“You charged $9 for bread you put on the table without asking.”

“Well, the bread is not free, sir. This is a place of business.”

“The hell is this restaurant?” I say.

“Sorry, it’s just the policy,” he replies, walking away.

I can’t believe this place. I hate this restaurant.

You know what? I’m not a criminal but I think I’m about to dine and dash. Charging for bread I didn’t ask for, double tipping, the no-table-transfer rule on food, and the imaginary policy book screw these people.

I hatch a plan wait for the staff to get busy, then slip out.

The moment comes. I walk casually toward the door like I’m heading to the bathroom. No sudden movements. No eye contact.

Then I get close to the door and sprint.

I’m out. Down the street. Turn a corner. Then another. I finally stop running.

Justice is served.

I start walking home, feeling good. I check my pockets to see what time it is and I suddenly realize…

…my phone.

DAMN IT.

I left my damn phone on the table.

I always do that. It’s big, it’s annoying in my pocket, so I put it on the table when I sit down. Now it’s gone.

Great. Now I have a choice go back and get caught or lose a thousand-dollar phone. Because that’s the price of phones these days since we’ve all become numb to the price of phones. I use my phone to check the time, calendar, order stuff, text, navigate, take photos, and even as a flashlight yet if someone calls me, my heart rate spikes and I want to throw it at a wall. We use our phones for everything except calls.

Also, I don’t use a passcode. I don’t understand how people do that typing the same code over and over again. What an inconvenience.

But now I’m worried, because I don’t want anyone going through my stuff.

Especially my search history. The amount of deeply disturbing, questionable videos I have watched on that thing…

I get an idea. I’ll pay someone $20 to go in and grab it.

I ask two people no luck. The third guy is interested.

He says $50.
I say $30.
He says $40.
I say, “Are you insane? $30 for a simple walk-in is a good deal.”
He says, “$40.”
“Fine. $40.”

“Money first.” Of course.

I give him the $40, explain the plan, and he walks towards the restaurant.

I watch from across the street, hiding behind a car.

He walks past the restaurant… gets into a car… and drives off.

Unbelievable. This prick haggled me up from $20 to $40 just to rob me.

Now I have no choice. I have to go back in myself.

I walk in and glance at the table my phone’s gone.

Damn it.

Now I have to talk to the same French waiter (an asshole) I’ve been arguing with all night.

He walks up to me.

“You dined and dashed.”

“No, no I just went to my car to get my credit card.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You were busy.”

He looks suspicious. He knows I’m full of it.

But he escorts me back to the table, places the check and my phone down.

I stare at the check and sigh.

Back to square one.

What do you do when you dine and dash… unsuccessfully?

You dine and dash again.

At this point, I’m already down $40. This is turning into a $180 night. I can’t afford not to escape.

The front entrance is guarded by other restaurant staff, so I need another way out.

The bathroom.

In movies, there’s always a window in the bathroom. But I’ve never seen one in real life.

But at this point, it’s my only shot.

I sneak into the men’s room.

And would you freaking believe it

A window.

A small, awkward, in-between-a-square-and-a-rectangle window. Just big enough for about two and a half human torsos.

I close the toilet lid with my foot, stand on it, and start climbing.

Of course, in a hurry, I left the stall door wide open.

I’m halfway out, and the metal frame is digging into my stomach

When a patron walks in.

“Sir! Are you all right? What are you doing?!”

It’s loud enough that some of the staff hear it in the corridor and come running in.

Now I’ve got an audience.

I try to squeeze through, but my belt catches on the frame. My pants tear.

Then down they go.

Now I’m hanging halfway out a window, pants around my ankles, in my underwear, with the French waiter (an asshole) and the staff watching.

At this point, I’m committed.

I drop back down onto the seat and go for another jump through the window.

I make it out but land face first in the snow outside. No pants.

Before I can even get up, the staff are there.

Then the police.

Next thing I know, I’m being taken in a police car to the station, and I have to spend the night in a cell all alone.

I look down… sigh… then look up.

There’s a window.

Small. Awkward. In-between a square and a rectangle.

“…ehh.”

What do you do when nobody asks you out, you can’t cook, and you’re desperately wanting to go out for dinner?

You have no choice but to dine out at a table for one.

I arrive at the restaurant, and I ask the waiter for a table for one.

“Table for one?” the waiter says, with just enough of a question in his tone to suggest he’s thinking, Really?

Your sorry ass is eating alone?

He then asks if I have a reservation. I look around and see that about 40% of the restaurant is empty.

What is it with these restaurants and reservation systems? It’s vastly overrated. Unless you’re actually busy and need one to maintain order, what are you doing? It’s not like people are lining out the door.

I almost wanted to do a walk out. There’s nothing like a good walkout at a restaurant. It’s even better when you’re already sitting down, menu in hand, sipping the free tap water, and then you just leave because something isn’t to your liking. You see the panic in the waiters, the awkward tension. It’s the same way a car salesman watches his commission walk out the door.

Nothing like a good walkout.

Immediately, I notice this is one of those fancy, over-the-top luxury restaurants by the way the menu describes the cuisine as “elevated modern cuisine.” What the hell does “elevated modern” even mean?

I’m pretty sure the only damn thing that’s elevated is the price.

Any time a restaurant uses the word “cuisine,” you know it’s going to be expensive. I also love it when a restaurant has no prices on the menu because that’s how you know the price is going to be fair.

Or when a place does a lot of things on the menu, then you know they are going to do a lot of things really well.

The waiter hands me a menu and reads out the specials. I always like to act very interested when the waiter reads out the specials, which are about a paragraph long with grandiose descriptions, and then just ask about a particular special to get clarification on what I may order, and then ask, “Which would you prefer?” or “Which would you recommend?” And then go, “Okay, I’ll take a boiled egg.”

I order a main course, and the waiter then asks if there are any dietary requirements.

I hate it when waiters at restaurants ask that. I don’t know, maybe I am allergic to something. Let’s find out! Give me the most exotic thing you’ve got and we’ll see what happens. I’ll have the poisonous fish, the raw chicken, and while you’re at it, cook up some expired meat and dairy. Let’s really test these so-called dietary requirements.

And what if I order the fish and vegetables, and then when they ask, “Any dietary requirements?” I say I’m allergic to fish and vegetables?

What would they cook then?

Even if I insisted, I still wanted it, would they refuse because of the allergy?

That would completely mess with the restaurant. They’d be forced into a moral dilemma serve a guy food that could kill him and risk being sued, or send out a plate of nothing.

The entire staff would be stuck deciding between manslaughter or serving an incomplete minimalist art project that’s supposed to be food.

Probably just a plate of parsley.

You know, because that’s what fancy restaurants do they throw a little green garnish on top and suddenly it’s luxurious. It’s like restaurants accidentally over ordered four million servings of parsley and now they’re desperately trying to offload it onto anyone who orders anything.

Nobody wants it, but you’re getting it anyway.

I think we should live in a world where restaurants automatically assume there are no dietary requirements, and if you have one, you have to tell them, not the other way around. Imagine how much time we’d save from all that small talk. Plus, people who have dietary requirements or preferences usually love telling you about them anyway, like, “I’m a hyper-vegan-pescatarian, which means I don’t eat meat except fish, but only if the fish is between two and three years old and artisanal to the sun.”

Or take it even further if you get food poisoning and die, too bad. No suing. Natural selection. When you eat, you take a risk, the same way you walk past a mentally unstable person on the street that you try to ignore. They might throw a shoe at you, or insult you unprovoked but you walk past them anyway.

The point is, take a chance.

Anyway, I try to decipher the menu, as these fancy restaurants love to present their food deconstructed. Instead of ordering a dish and being presented with it, a pretentious chef will deconstruct it and spread it out on a plate because that’s what makes it luxurious.

I prefer to have my food constructed and then allow my mouth and stomach to do the deconstructing.

Restaurants love glorifying their food with ridiculous descriptions such as “deconstructed sautéed fish delicately placed on hand-cut potatoes, served with vegetables on a bed of rice with locally sourced apple purée and organic blends.” I love it when a restaurant delicately places something on a plate, I’m so tired of these restaurants that just hurl the fish at a plate. I would take it one step further softly place it on a plate, massage it for 10 to 15 minutes, and then deconstruct the hell out of it and serve it with some duck foam confit and locally sourced, hand-cut garden vegetables.

The other thing they do is the dégustation set menu, where they bring out about 14 different plates of over-the-top dishes that only someone who has been institutionalized could conceive. The key for these types of courses is to have the biggest plate you can find and the smallest food possible. The smaller the food, the higher the price the higher the price, the bigger the screwing.

The other part of fine dining is that they like to purée. Everything is puréed peas purée, carrot purée, cauliflower purée, steak purée, and giraffe ball purée. Purée basically means food turned into baby food and spread out on a plate to look sophisticated.

Anyway, I place my order, sit back, and grab some of the complimentary bread they’ve provided.

I ordered pretty simply, but I see other tables that ordered far more quantity-wise, and the waiters refuse to write it down. There’s always an arrogance to these waiters that do this. They’re always like, “I got this. I will remember. I’ve done this for years.” Don’t you find when a waiter refuses to write down the order, you kind of hope they screw up your entire meal just to see that smug bastard regret his existence?

One of the joys of eating alone is that everyone stares at you. People do this all the time in life, even at tables with numerous people. For some reason, humans love staring at other humans. I say when you see someone staring at you, you can’t let them win stare them right back until they shy away first. The nerve of these people.

The waitstaff see that you are alone and try to make more of a conversation with you because of this. Really, this is great and all but get the hell away from me.

The restaurant is playing background music similar to elevator music. At first, it’s nice and settling, then after a while it just seems unnecessary, and then it starts to get on your nerves. It gets louder and faster, and before you know it, you want to get the hell out of the place. That’s the reason restaurants play music with fast tempos to make you eat faster and leave quicker, so they get a higher turnover.

As I sit at the table, I am drawn to this one guy drinking through a straw from an empty glass.

Why is it that when people use a straw, they keep sucking on it after it’s empty? What are you trying to get? What are you hoping for that the drink magically refills? There’s nothing left. Give up already!

And then comes that sound… that aggressive, last-ditch slurp:

fffffthhhhlurp… glub… slrrrp

You know what that sounds like? It sounds like someone hitting a bong. And when I hear that sound, I feel like hitting them with a bong.

I look around at other tables, and I see a lot of good-looking women with very not good-looking men. I don’t get it what the hell do these guys have that I don’t have? I know it’s not just money; some of these guys don’t even have that. What the hell do these girls see in these people?

Sometimes when you’re at restaurants, there will be a table next to you with very loud people, and they basically ruin the entire dinner. You just hear their conversations, and really there is nothing you can do. Some of these tables are right next to each other, so there’s no privacy.

A good restaurant table distance is one where you can talk about and judge the people at the other tables without said table being able to hear.

On the topic of privacy, as I watch these other tables, I can see that when a waiter is at the table, nobody feels comfortable talking. You kind of awkwardly sip on your drink or play with a fork for some reason, but nobody wants this guy there.

And what about when a waiter hears your conversation and then makes a comment about what you were saying? Then you have to pretend that you really wanted this guy to hear what you said in the first place. I’ve always fantasized about talking about totally out-there stuff just to see if the waitstaff is truly listening maybe a conversation about dolphins having sex in a Chinese temple. You know, no-holds-barred, inappropriate, completely random things nobody has ever thought of, just to really test them and throw them off their game.

The other thing I noticed, which is common in high-end hotels and restaurants, is the excessive service where there’s a constant “Is everything okay?”, “Hello,” “Thank you.” It’s just the way restaurants are set up, where they constantly have to come over, change your plate, cutlery, give you something and as a patron, you have to say thank you for every one of these little occurrences. And they usually all have some built-in phrase like “you’re welcome,” so the entire dinner slowly descends into repetitive madness of “thank you, you’re welcome… thank you, you’re welcome.” “Thank you, you’re welcome.” It’s either this or not saying thank you and looking like a jerk you can’t win.

Anyway, the food arrives. I start eating. It’s good and authentic it’s not like I have to question the authenticity of the restaurant, unlike other places.

You ever go to an Asian restaurant and start questioning their ethnicity?

“I think they’re Chinese…” But this is a Thai restaurant.

What the hell are the Chinese doing running a Thai restaurant?

That’s why when I want Chinese, I go to a Thai restaurant and when I want Thai, I go to a Chinese restaurant.

As I am eating my meal, a few moments later another waiter comes over and asks, “Is everything all right?”

In my head I’m thinking

Yes. Get lost and let me eat.

But then I start thinking what if I took that question literally and gave him an answer that made him regret ever asking?

“No, everything is not all right. I just lost my job, I got evicted, my wife left me for a wealthy lawyer, I’m sleeping in my car, and I’ve got a giant pimple on my ass that hurts like a bitch when I sit down.”

That would stop him in his tracks.

Or maybe I go the other way and complain about everything just for fun:

“Well, about 73% of the roasted potatoes are cooked. The other 27% are undercooked. And the steak is a little too… meaty for my liking.”

It’s always fun to push people. Test them. See what they’re made of. Who knows if you’re lucky, it might be the final push that sends that waiter over the edge. Maybe he snaps, tells his boss to go screw himself, quits on the spot and throws a plate at the wall in front of the entire restaurant.

Nothing like a good public meltdown.

Ultimately, I decide not to do either. I finish my meal, but I’m still hungry. Then I notice the table next to me has left, and there’s a perfectly good bowl of fries just sitting there.

These schmucks paid $11 for upmarket restaurant fries which are no different from Burger King’s and they didn’t even eat them.

You ever have that happen?

It’s a real dilemma. You’re torn between publicly embarrassing yourself if the waiter catches you and eating the food you really want.

I look around. Nobody’s watching.

I go for it.

I grab the bowl and suddenly, out of nowhere, this French waiter (an asshole) appears behind me.

“Did you just take that plate from that table?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” I say confidently.

“You cannot take other people’s food, sir.”

“Why not? They’re not here. They left it.”

“It was not yours, sir. Please don’t do that.”

“What difference does it make? It’s just getting thrown away anyway. It’s public domain.”

“It’s restaurant policy. We can’t allow it,” he says, taking the bowl away.

“Policy? Oh really? Where is this policy written? Is there a book? I hear a lot about these ‘policies,’ but I don’t see them anywhere. I think you’re just making them up.”

“Sir, it’s just standard restaurant policy.”

“Unattended food becomes public food. What difference does it make?”

“I’m sorry, we just can’t. I can put in an order for you.”

“No $11? Get lost. Give me the damn fries.”

“Sir, we can’t table transfer food,” he says firmly.

“Okay, okay, fine. Take the damn fries.”

Anyway, I eventually order a dessert, and I arrive at the end of the dinner where the waitstaff will always ask, “Anything else?” even if you just had a starter, main course, a second main course, and several desserts, they will still ask, “Anything else?”

Anything else? How much more do you think I can consume?

The check arrives: $142.13.

What the hell? I barely ordered anything.

I look closer they charged me $9 for the “complimentary” bread. They didn’t even ask. They just put it on the table. I had no choice.

Then there’s a service charge, an automatic 25% gratuity and then they have the audacity to have a tip line below that. So now we’re double tipping?

I call the waiter over and complain. He insists, once again, that it’s “restaurant policy.”

The nerve of this guy. This guy and his restaurant policies.

“I think whatever the hell suits you is the policy,” I say.

“Sir, that’s the way we’ve always operated.”

“You charged $9 for bread you put on the table without asking.”

“Well, the bread is not free, sir. This is a place of business.”

“The hell is this restaurant?” I say.

“Sorry, it’s just the policy,” he replies, walking away.

I can’t believe this place. I hate this restaurant.

You know what? I’m not a criminal but I think I’m about to dine and dash. Charging for bread I didn’t ask for, double tipping, the no-table-transfer rule on food, and the imaginary policy book screw these people.

I hatch a plan wait for the staff to get busy, then slip out.

The moment comes. I walk casually toward the door like I’m heading to the bathroom. No sudden movements. No eye contact.

Then I get close to the door and sprint.

I’m out. Down the street. Turn a corner. Then another. I finally stop running.

Justice is served.

I start walking home, feeling good. I check my pockets to see what time it is and I suddenly realize…

…my phone.

DAMN IT.

I left my damn phone on the table.

I always do that. It’s big, it’s annoying in my pocket, so I put it on the table when I sit down. Now it’s gone.

Great. Now I have a choice go back and get caught or lose a thousand-dollar phone. Because that’s the price of phones these days since we’ve all become numb to the price of phones. I use my phone to check the time, calendar, order stuff, text, navigate, take photos, and even as a flashlight yet if someone calls me, my heart rate spikes and I want to throw it at a wall. We use our phones for everything except calls.

Also, I don’t use a passcode. I don’t understand how people do that typing the same code over and over again. What an inconvenience.

But now I’m worried, because I don’t want anyone going through my stuff.

Especially my search history. The amount of deeply disturbing, questionable videos I have watched on that thing…

I get an idea. I’ll pay someone $20 to go in and grab it.

I ask two people no luck. The third guy is interested.

He says $50.
I say $30.
He says $40.
I say, “Are you insane? $30 for a simple walk-in is a good deal.”
He says, “$40.”
“Fine. $40.”

“Money first.” Of course.

I give him the $40, explain the plan, and he walks towards the restaurant.

I watch from across the street, hiding behind a car.

He walks past the restaurant… gets into a car… and drives off.

Unbelievable. This prick haggled me up from $20 to $40 just to rob me.

Now I have no choice. I have to go back in myself.

I walk in and glance at the table my phone’s gone.

Damn it.

Now I have to talk to the same French waiter (an asshole) I’ve been arguing with all night.

He walks up to me.

“You dined and dashed.”

“No, no I just went to my car to get my credit card.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You were busy.”

He looks suspicious. He knows I’m full of it.

But he escorts me back to the table, places the check and my phone down.

I stare at the check and sigh.

Back to square one.

What do you do when you dine and dash… unsuccessfully?

You dine and dash again.

At this point, I’m already down $40. This is turning into a $180 night. I can’t afford not to escape.

The front entrance is guarded by other restaurant staff, so I need another way out.

The bathroom.

In movies, there’s always a window in the bathroom. But I’ve never seen one in real life.

But at this point, it’s my only shot.

I sneak into the men’s room.

And would you freaking believe it

A window.

A small, awkward, in-between-a-square-and-a-rectangle window. Just big enough for about two and a half human torsos.

I close the toilet lid with my foot, stand on it, and start climbing.

Of course, in a hurry, I left the stall door wide open.

I’m halfway out, and the metal frame is digging into my stomach

When a patron walks in.

“Sir! Are you all right? What are you doing?!”

It’s loud enough that some of the staff hear it in the corridor and come running in.

Now I’ve got an audience.

I try to squeeze through, but my belt catches on the frame. My pants tear.

Then down they go.

Now I’m hanging halfway out a window, pants around my ankles, in my underwear, with the French waiter (an asshole) and the staff watching.

At this point, I’m committed.

I drop back down onto the seat and go for another jump through the window.

I make it out but land face first in the snow outside. No pants.

Before I can even get up, the staff are there.

Then the police.

Next thing I know, I’m being taken in a police car to the station, and I have to spend the night in a cell all alone.

I look down… sigh… then look up.

There’s a window.

Small. Awkward. In-between a square and a rectangle.

“…ehh.”

What do you do when nobody asks you out, you can’t cook, and you’re desperately wanting to go out for dinner?

You have no choice but to dine out at a table for one.

I arrive at the restaurant, and I ask the waiter for a table for one.

“Table for one?” the waiter says, with just enough of a question in his tone to suggest he’s thinking, Really?

Your sorry ass is eating alone?

He then asks if I have a reservation. I look around and see that about 40% of the restaurant is empty.

What is it with these restaurants and reservation systems? It’s vastly overrated. Unless you’re actually busy and need one to maintain order, what are you doing? It’s not like people are lining out the door.

I almost wanted to do a walk out. There’s nothing like a good walkout at a restaurant. It’s even better when you’re already sitting down, menu in hand, sipping the free tap water, and then you just leave because something isn’t to your liking. You see the panic in the waiters, the awkward tension. It’s the same way a car salesman watches his commission walk out the door.

Nothing like a good walkout.

Immediately, I notice this is one of those fancy, over-the-top luxury restaurants by the way the menu describes the cuisine as “elevated modern cuisine.” What the hell does “elevated modern” even mean?

I’m pretty sure the only damn thing that’s elevated is the price.

Any time a restaurant uses the word “cuisine,” you know it’s going to be expensive. I also love it when a restaurant has no prices on the menu because that’s how you know the price is going to be fair.

Or when a place does a lot of things on the menu, then you know they are going to do a lot of things really well.

The waiter hands me a menu and reads out the specials. I always like to act very interested when the waiter reads out the specials, which are about a paragraph long with grandiose descriptions, and then just ask about a particular special to get clarification on what I may order, and then ask, “Which would you prefer?” or “Which would you recommend?” And then go, “Okay, I’ll take a boiled egg.”

I order a main course, and the waiter then asks if there are any dietary requirements.

I hate it when waiters at restaurants ask that. I don’t know, maybe I am allergic to something. Let’s find out! Give me the most exotic thing you’ve got and we’ll see what happens. I’ll have the poisonous fish, the raw chicken, and while you’re at it, cook up some expired meat and dairy. Let’s really test these so-called dietary requirements.

And what if I order the fish and vegetables, and then when they ask, “Any dietary requirements?” I say I’m allergic to fish and vegetables?

What would they cook then?

Even if I insisted, I still wanted it, would they refuse because of the allergy?

That would completely mess with the restaurant. They’d be forced into a moral dilemma serve a guy food that could kill him and risk being sued, or send out a plate of nothing.

The entire staff would be stuck deciding between manslaughter or serving an incomplete minimalist art project that’s supposed to be food.

Probably just a plate of parsley.

You know, because that’s what fancy restaurants do they throw a little green garnish on top and suddenly it’s luxurious. It’s like restaurants accidentally over ordered four million servings of parsley and now they’re desperately trying to offload it onto anyone who orders anything.

Nobody wants it, but you’re getting it anyway.

I think we should live in a world where restaurants automatically assume there are no dietary requirements, and if you have one, you have to tell them, not the other way around. Imagine how much time we’d save from all that small talk. Plus, people who have dietary requirements or preferences usually love telling you about them anyway, like, “I’m a hyper-vegan-pescatarian, which means I don’t eat meat except fish, but only if the fish is between two and three years old and artisanal to the sun.”

Or take it even further if you get food poisoning and die, too bad. No suing. Natural selection. When you eat, you take a risk, the same way you walk past a mentally unstable person on the street that you try to ignore. They might throw a shoe at you, or insult you unprovoked but you walk past them anyway.

The point is, take a chance.

Anyway, I try to decipher the menu, as these fancy restaurants love to present their food deconstructed. Instead of ordering a dish and being presented with it, a pretentious chef will deconstruct it and spread it out on a plate because that’s what makes it luxurious.

I prefer to have my food constructed and then allow my mouth and stomach to do the deconstructing.

Restaurants love glorifying their food with ridiculous descriptions such as “deconstructed sautéed fish delicately placed on hand-cut potatoes, served with vegetables on a bed of rice with locally sourced apple purée and organic blends.” I love it when a restaurant delicately places something on a plate, I’m so tired of these restaurants that just hurl the fish at a plate. I would take it one step further softly place it on a plate, massage it for 10 to 15 minutes, and then deconstruct the hell out of it and serve it with some duck foam confit and locally sourced, hand-cut garden vegetables.

The other thing they do is the dégustation set menu, where they bring out about 14 different plates of over-the-top dishes that only someone who has been institutionalized could conceive. The key for these types of courses is to have the biggest plate you can find and the smallest food possible. The smaller the food, the higher the price the higher the price, the bigger the screwing.

The other part of fine dining is that they like to purée. Everything is puréed peas purée, carrot purée, cauliflower purée, steak purée, and giraffe ball purée. Purée basically means food turned into baby food and spread out on a plate to look sophisticated.

Anyway, I place my order, sit back, and grab some of the complimentary bread they’ve provided.

I ordered pretty simply, but I see other tables that ordered far more quantity-wise, and the waiters refuse to write it down. There’s always an arrogance to these waiters that do this. They’re always like, “I got this. I will remember. I’ve done this for years.” Don’t you find when a waiter refuses to write down the order, you kind of hope they screw up your entire meal just to see that smug bastard regret his existence?

One of the joys of eating alone is that everyone stares at you. People do this all the time in life, even at tables with numerous people. For some reason, humans love staring at other humans. I say when you see someone staring at you, you can’t let them win stare them right back until they shy away first. The nerve of these people.

The waitstaff see that you are alone and try to make more of a conversation with you because of this. Really, this is great and all but get the hell away from me.

The restaurant is playing background music similar to elevator music. At first, it’s nice and settling, then after a while it just seems unnecessary, and then it starts to get on your nerves. It gets louder and faster, and before you know it, you want to get the hell out of the place. That’s the reason restaurants play music with fast tempos to make you eat faster and leave quicker, so they get a higher turnover.

As I sit at the table, I am drawn to this one guy drinking through a straw from an empty glass.

Why is it that when people use a straw, they keep sucking on it after it’s empty? What are you trying to get? What are you hoping for that the drink magically refills? There’s nothing left. Give up already!

And then comes that sound… that aggressive, last-ditch slurp:

fffffthhhhlurp… glub… slrrrp

You know what that sounds like? It sounds like someone hitting a bong. And when I hear that sound, I feel like hitting them with a bong.

I look around at other tables, and I see a lot of good-looking women with very not good-looking men. I don’t get it what the hell do these guys have that I don’t have? I know it’s not just money; some of these guys don’t even have that. What the hell do these girls see in these people?

Sometimes when you’re at restaurants, there will be a table next to you with very loud people, and they basically ruin the entire dinner. You just hear their conversations, and really there is nothing you can do. Some of these tables are right next to each other, so there’s no privacy.

A good restaurant table distance is one where you can talk about and judge the people at the other tables without said table being able to hear.

On the topic of privacy, as I watch these other tables, I can see that when a waiter is at the table, nobody feels comfortable talking. You kind of awkwardly sip on your drink or play with a fork for some reason, but nobody wants this guy there.

And what about when a waiter hears your conversation and then makes a comment about what you were saying? Then you have to pretend that you really wanted this guy to hear what you said in the first place. I’ve always fantasized about talking about totally out-there stuff just to see if the waitstaff is truly listening maybe a conversation about dolphins having sex in a Chinese temple. You know, no-holds-barred, inappropriate, completely random things nobody has ever thought of, just to really test them and throw them off their game.

The other thing I noticed, which is common in high-end hotels and restaurants, is the excessive service where there’s a constant “Is everything okay?”, “Hello,” “Thank you.” It’s just the way restaurants are set up, where they constantly have to come over, change your plate, cutlery, give you something and as a patron, you have to say thank you for every one of these little occurrences. And they usually all have some built-in phrase like “you’re welcome,” so the entire dinner slowly descends into repetitive madness of “thank you, you’re welcome… thank you, you’re welcome.” “Thank you, you’re welcome.” It’s either this or not saying thank you and looking like a jerk you can’t win.

Anyway, the food arrives. I start eating. It’s good and authentic it’s not like I have to question the authenticity of the restaurant, unlike other places.

You ever go to an Asian restaurant and start questioning their ethnicity?

“I think they’re Chinese…” But this is a Thai restaurant.

What the hell are the Chinese doing running a Thai restaurant?

That’s why when I want Chinese, I go to a Thai restaurant and when I want Thai, I go to a Chinese restaurant.

As I am eating my meal, a few moments later another waiter comes over and asks, “Is everything all right?”

In my head I’m thinking

Yes. Get lost and let me eat.

But then I start thinking what if I took that question literally and gave him an answer that made him regret ever asking?

“No, everything is not all right. I just lost my job, I got evicted, my wife left me for a wealthy lawyer, I’m sleeping in my car, and I’ve got a giant pimple on my ass that hurts like a bitch when I sit down.”

That would stop him in his tracks.

Or maybe I go the other way and complain about everything just for fun:

“Well, about 73% of the roasted potatoes are cooked. The other 27% are undercooked. And the steak is a little too… meaty for my liking.”

It’s always fun to push people. Test them. See what they’re made of. Who knows if you’re lucky, it might be the final push that sends that waiter over the edge. Maybe he snaps, tells his boss to go screw himself, quits on the spot and throws a plate at the wall in front of the entire restaurant.

Nothing like a good public meltdown.

Ultimately, I decide not to do either. I finish my meal, but I’m still hungry. Then I notice the table next to me has left, and there’s a perfectly good bowl of fries just sitting there.

These schmucks paid $11 for upmarket restaurant fries which are no different from Burger King’s and they didn’t even eat them.

You ever have that happen?

It’s a real dilemma. You’re torn between publicly embarrassing yourself if the waiter catches you and eating the food you really want.

I look around. Nobody’s watching.

I go for it.

I grab the bowl and suddenly, out of nowhere, this French waiter (an asshole) appears behind me.

“Did you just take that plate from that table?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” I say confidently.

“You cannot take other people’s food, sir.”

“Why not? They’re not here. They left it.”

“It was not yours, sir. Please don’t do that.”

“What difference does it make? It’s just getting thrown away anyway. It’s public domain.”

“It’s restaurant policy. We can’t allow it,” he says, taking the bowl away.

“Policy? Oh really? Where is this policy written? Is there a book? I hear a lot about these ‘policies,’ but I don’t see them anywhere. I think you’re just making them up.”

“Sir, it’s just standard restaurant policy.”

“Unattended food becomes public food. What difference does it make?”

“I’m sorry, we just can’t. I can put in an order for you.”

“No $11? Get lost. Give me the damn fries.”

“Sir, we can’t table transfer food,” he says firmly.

“Okay, okay, fine. Take the damn fries.”

Anyway, I eventually order a dessert, and I arrive at the end of the dinner where the waitstaff will always ask, “Anything else?” even if you just had a starter, main course, a second main course, and several desserts, they will still ask, “Anything else?”

Anything else? How much more do you think I can consume?

The check arrives: $142.13.

What the hell? I barely ordered anything.

I look closer they charged me $9 for the “complimentary” bread. They didn’t even ask. They just put it on the table. I had no choice.

Then there’s a service charge, an automatic 25% gratuity and then they have the audacity to have a tip line below that. So now we’re double tipping?

I call the waiter over and complain. He insists, once again, that it’s “restaurant policy.”

The nerve of this guy. This guy and his restaurant policies.

“I think whatever the hell suits you is the policy,” I say.

“Sir, that’s the way we’ve always operated.”

“You charged $9 for bread you put on the table without asking.”

“Well, the bread is not free, sir. This is a place of business.”

“The hell is this restaurant?” I say.

“Sorry, it’s just the policy,” he replies, walking away.

I can’t believe this place. I hate this restaurant.

You know what? I’m not a criminal but I think I’m about to dine and dash. Charging for bread I didn’t ask for, double tipping, the no-table-transfer rule on food, and the imaginary policy book screw these people.

I hatch a plan wait for the staff to get busy, then slip out.

The moment comes. I walk casually toward the door like I’m heading to the bathroom. No sudden movements. No eye contact.

Then I get close to the door and sprint.

I’m out. Down the street. Turn a corner. Then another. I finally stop running.

Justice is served.

I start walking home, feeling good. I check my pockets to see what time it is and I suddenly realize…

…my phone.

DAMN IT.

I left my damn phone on the table.

I always do that. It’s big, it’s annoying in my pocket, so I put it on the table when I sit down. Now it’s gone.

Great. Now I have a choice go back and get caught or lose a thousand-dollar phone. Because that’s the price of phones these days since we’ve all become numb to the price of phones. I use my phone to check the time, calendar, order stuff, text, navigate, take photos, and even as a flashlight yet if someone calls me, my heart rate spikes and I want to throw it at a wall. We use our phones for everything except calls.

Also, I don’t use a passcode. I don’t understand how people do that typing the same code over and over again. What an inconvenience.

But now I’m worried, because I don’t want anyone going through my stuff.

Especially my search history. The amount of deeply disturbing, questionable videos I have watched on that thing…

I get an idea. I’ll pay someone $20 to go in and grab it.

I ask two people no luck. The third guy is interested.

He says $50.
I say $30.
He says $40.
I say, “Are you insane? $30 for a simple walk-in is a good deal.”
He says, “$40.”
“Fine. $40.”

“Money first.” Of course.

I give him the $40, explain the plan, and he walks towards the restaurant.

I watch from across the street, hiding behind a car.

He walks past the restaurant… gets into a car… and drives off.

Unbelievable. This prick haggled me up from $20 to $40 just to rob me.

Now I have no choice. I have to go back in myself.

I walk in and glance at the table my phone’s gone.

Damn it.

Now I have to talk to the same French waiter (an asshole) I’ve been arguing with all night.

He walks up to me.

“You dined and dashed.”

“No, no I just went to my car to get my credit card.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You were busy.”

He looks suspicious. He knows I’m full of it.

But he escorts me back to the table, places the check and my phone down.

I stare at the check and sigh.

Back to square one.

What do you do when you dine and dash… unsuccessfully?

You dine and dash again.

At this point, I’m already down $40. This is turning into a $180 night. I can’t afford not to escape.

The front entrance is guarded by other restaurant staff, so I need another way out.

The bathroom.

In movies, there’s always a window in the bathroom. But I’ve never seen one in real life.

But at this point, it’s my only shot.

I sneak into the men’s room.

And would you freaking believe it

A window.

A small, awkward, in-between-a-square-and-a-rectangle window. Just big enough for about two and a half human torsos.

I close the toilet lid with my foot, stand on it, and start climbing.

Of course, in a hurry, I left the stall door wide open.

I’m halfway out, and the metal frame is digging into my stomach

When a patron walks in.

“Sir! Are you all right? What are you doing?!”

It’s loud enough that some of the staff hear it in the corridor and come running in.

Now I’ve got an audience.

I try to squeeze through, but my belt catches on the frame. My pants tear.

Then down they go.

Now I’m hanging halfway out a window, pants around my ankles, in my underwear, with the French waiter (an asshole) and the staff watching.

At this point, I’m committed.

I drop back down onto the seat and go for another jump through the window.

I make it out but land face first in the snow outside. No pants.

Before I can even get up, the staff are there.

Then the police.

Next thing I know, I’m being taken in a police car to the station, and I have to spend the night in a cell all alone.

I look down… sigh… then look up.

There’s a window.

Small. Awkward. In-between a square and a rectangle.

“…ehh.”