(I am just getting over a tonsillectomy. It’s been a long and extremely painful recovery. I am just starting to be able to eat, and also to talk after about two weeks of silence. I am thin to begin with, but I’ve lost 10 pounds due to the surgery.)

Waitress: “What can I get for you?”

My Mom: “I’ll just have a diet coke.”

Waitress: “Okay.”

(The waitress begins to leave without even asking me, so I speak up, albeit extremely hoarsely.)

Me: “Um, miss? You didn’t take my order.”

Waitress: “I assumed YOU didn’t want anything.”

Me: “Well, I do. Can I get a chocolate shake and a soup?”

Waitress: “Why don’t you get some real food? You’re skin and bones!”

Me: “I can’t have—”

Waitress: “Then again, I don’t want you to waste this restaurant’s food with your disorder.”

My Mom: “Excuse us?! Disorder?”

Waitress: “She’s obviously bulimic. Look at her! And she’s all hoarse from puking!”

Me: “No, I’m on a soft food diet for medical reasons.”

My Mom: “She just had her tonsils out.”

Waitress: “Uh huh. Sure.”

Me: “Can I speak to your manager?”

Waitress: “Fine, whatever.”

Manager: “What seems to be the problem?”

My Mom: “Your waitress accused my daughter of being bulimic. She just had her tonsils out. That’s why she’s so skinny and hoarse. Can we please have her food? She’s starving!”

Manager: “Well, she’s so d*** skinny! Of course she’s starving!”

Me: “I don’t have an eating disorder. Do you want to see my throat?”

Manager: “If I have to.”

(I use light from phone to show him the scars and stitches in my throat.)

My Mom: “…And we would like a discount on our bill for the trouble!”

(The manager ended up not charging us because he felt so bad, and he ended up firing the waitress eventually. Luckily I’m all healed up and I’ve gained back five pounds.)

(I work at the drive-thru.)

Me: “Thank you for choosing [restaurant]. How may I help you?”

Customer: “Yes, I would like a 16 piece family meal with two thirds of it fish.”

Me: I’m sorry, ma’am; did you want 10 or 11 fish?”

Customer: “What do mean?”

Me: “Two thirds isn’t a proper fraction to use. It will give you between 10-11 pieces. So how many pieces would you like?”

Customer: “I don’t see how you get those numbers. Just give me 12 fish. Is that a fraction you can figure out?”

Me: “Yes, one 16 piece, 3/4 fish the rest chicken. Is there anything else for you today?”

Customer: “I don’t see the difference between 3/4 and 2/3, but okay.”

Me: “Excuse me, but does this steak skewer have peppers on it? Because it sounds good, but I can’t eat peppers.”

Waiter: “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Me: “Okay, it’s just that a lot of pre-made skewers include peppers, and it says the potatoes have peppers.”

Waiter: “We can make the potatoes without peppers, if you want.”

Me: “That would be great, but I also don’t want the beef cooked with peppers. No peppers on the plate at all, okay? If the skewers already have peppers, tell me so I can order something else.”

(When the food comes out an hour later, the skewers are full of beef and bell peppers. I smell them before the dish is set on the table.)

Me: “Are those peppers?!”

Waiter: “Uh… I guess so?”

Me: “Did you ASK about the peppers at any point before they started cooking this?”

Waiter: “No. Are you allergic?”

Me: “No, repeatedly asking about specific ingredients at restaurants is just a fun game I play. Of course I’m allergic.”

Waiter: “Oh. I can switch it out for something else.”

Me: “Yes. Please. Anything. Anything that doesn’t have peppers and is fast. I’m really hungry.”

(It was another forty minutes before something edible made it to my table. And the food was cold. I never went back.)

(I’m a male having lunch with my best female friend on my birthday. Our waitress comes over to give us the check. Before I can reach for my wallet, my friend has her card in her hand.)

My Friend: “Here you go.”

(My friend tries to give her card to the waitress, but she glares at me instead.)

Waitress: “Seriously dude, you’re gonna make your girlfriend pay for the meal? What kind of man are you?”

Me: “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Waitress: “Not if you make her pay she won’t be.”

My Friend: “Look: it’s his birthday, and it’s my treat. Now if you can run that, we will be on our way.”

Waitress: “I’m not gonna let you pay sweetheart.” *glares at me again* “Where’s your wallet at?”

Me: “I believe my friend made a very clear explanation of the situation. Now if you would just—”

Waitress: “I don’t wanna hear any more excuses! You are the man; you pay for the meal!”

My Friend: “Where’s a manager?”

Waitress: “He’s busy right now!”

(From behind her, a gentleman approaches.)

Gentleman: “Is everything alright?”

Waitress: “Back off! This isn’t your issue.”

Gentleman: “Well, I own this restaurant, so, yes, it is my issue. What’s going on? I heard screaming.”

(I explain the situation to the owner, and he fires the waitress on the spot. As she’s leaving the restaurant, she’s still screaming that I’m not a real man. Our meal was complimentary.)

(It’s 8:30 pm on a very slow Monday night, so my manager has sent everyone home except me and another server. Suddenly, we get slammed. Within 20 minutes I have over 20 tables. While I’m doing my best, about half my tables still need to be greeted, much less have their orders taken.)

Customer: “We need refills. It’s been like twenty minutes since you came over here last. We’re all done with our food and we’ve needed refills this whole time!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir; I’ll be back in one second with those refills, okay?”

(I get the tables refilled, despite the fact that I have to ring in four other tables and check out three of them. Because I am so busy, I make a mistake and give him a regular soda like his friends instead of the diet soda he wants. After dropping them off and trying to attend to the outrageous amount of other guests needing me, he begins yelling for me.)

Customer: “HEY! LADY! WE NEED YOU OVER HERE NOW!”

(I look sympathetically at the couple I am currently taking the order for.)

Me: “I am so sorry about this; I will be right back.”

Couple: “Oh, don’t worry about it; we do understand. It’s crazy in here!”

(I hastily run to the shouting customer. He shoves the cup against my chest, sloshing soda on me and the floor.)

Customer: “Can I get a DIET soda this time? DIET? DI-ET, as in NOT REGULAR?”

(The shouting customer’s wife has been looking embarrassed during the whole exchange. She suddenly pipes up.)

Customer’s Wife: “SIT. DOWN!”

(The customer sits immediately, fuming. I refill his diet soda quickly, trying to ignore the cold soda all over me.)

Me: “Here you go, sir; I’m very sorry about that.”

Customer’s Wife: “Thank you so much dear. Whenever you get a chance, we’d like the bill. Take your time.”

(Trying not to cry, I take care of some other customers, including the poor couple I had to run away from, and then print their bill out. The husband does not look at me or talk to me again the rest of the time.)

Customer’s Wife: “You were an amazing waitress, honey. Thank you.”

(The wife left me a 30% tip, and the other couple dropped a $20 bill for my tip on top of their small, $20 tag.)