Sir, This Is an All-You-Can-Eat, Not a Personal Challenge

So I walk into this old-school buffet place like I own it—because obviously I do, spiritually. The sign says “All You Can Eat,” and I took that as a dare. Not a suggestion. A dare.

First plate: respectable. Bit of everything. Second plate: meat tower. Third plate: dessert appetizer round—don’t judge me. By plate six, the waitress is hovering, whispering to the manager like I’m out here committing a federal offense via mashed potatoes. Plate ten? The manager himself shows up, arms crossed, moustache twitching, wearing that “My ancestors built this buffet” energy.

“You’ve eaten enough for five grown men,” he grumbled.

I smiled, sweetly, while gnawing on a chicken leg. “Then charge me for five. I’ll be paying in dignity and shame, both of which I lost after plate four.”

He tells me “All You Can Eat” has a “reasonable limit.” I say, “Define reasonable.” He blinks. I start on plate eleven.

Eventually, they cut me off—not because I was full (I wasn’t), but because the kitchen staff allegedly needed a break “for their own safety.” Whatever. I left with my fork in my pocket and zero remorse.

Lesson learned?
When they say “All You Can Eat,” they should put an asterisk next to it that says “unless Hot Josh shows up.”