The highest degree of disrespect.

Last Saturday, I decided to give my buddy Jake a break from his usual pizza binge and invited him to a fancy new vegan restaurant. Expecting quinoa salads, we walked in only to find the menu filled with dishes that sounded like they should come with a side of pretentiousness. Jake took one look at a plate dubbed “Earth Magic”—a colorful arrangement of what appeared to be dirt and leaves—and simply stated, “I’d rather eat my shoe.” But in an act of rebellion, he ordered the “Recycled Vegetable Medley” with a smirk, while the waiter looked at him like he’d just suggested using a fork for soup.
Moments later, Jake’s dish arrived, looking like a crime scene involving a blender and a garden hose. As he pushed the mound of what could only be described as “compost chic” around his plate, a nearby diner attempted to take an Instagram-worthy photo of his meal. Jake, with impeccable timing, declared, “This tastes like a down payment on a salad,” and suddenly, he was the star of the restaurant. Even the waiter chuckled, assuring him that his shoe would taste better, and that’s when we lost it. Who thought “fine dining” would lead to a roast battle over roasted veggies?