I went to a restaurant yesterday, placed my order, and sat down. Nothing fancy. Just a basic $20 meal — the kind they advertised in the window.

After a while, the waitress brought out half a plate of something I never ordered. I told her it wasn’t what I asked for. She shrugged.

I asked for a refund. “No refunds,” she said. I asked for the meal I paid for. “That’ll cost extra.”

I pointed out that the mistake was theirs, not mine. She didn’t deny it — she just said if I wanted it fixed, I’d have to pay more. A lot more.

So I paid. Again.

I thought maybe if I tipped better, things would improve. But here, tips are mandatory, paid up front, and distributed evenly across the entire staff.

Eventually, they brought out another wrong order. Still half a plate. I asked what was going on.

She smiled, “It’s the best we can do.” I asked, “Where is the rest of the meal?”

“You’re part of our charity program,” she said. “The other half of your meal was given to a customer who couldn’t afford one. We believe in fairness.”

I said, “But that’s my money!” She frowned. “Sir, that kind of entitled attitude isn’t welcome here.” Then she threatened to have me removed if I “caused tension in the dining environment.”

I shut up, sat down, and tried to eat the food I didn’t order. It was cold. Undercooked. Maybe unsafe.

I went to the counter and asked if they could at least fix what they’d served. She said yes, but it would cost more.

“Why?”

“We recently hired a new kitchen staff. They’re not trained yet. We need funding for professional development and diversity training.”

So I paid. Again. Reluctantly.

I went to sit back down at my table, but someone else had taken it. I looked around, and every table was full. The restaurant had let in more people than it could cater for.

It was then that a security guard approached me and told me to leave.

“Why?” I asked.

“You tried to cheat the system,” he said. “Your last payment was thirty cents short.”

I reached for my wallet. “I can fix that right now.”

“Too late,” he said. “You’ve already been flagged in our system. You’re now considered a threat to our dining environment.”

I asked if I could at least get a refund for what I’d already paid.

He laughed. “No. That money’s already been allocated to staff bonuses and sustainability initiatives. They all deserve a raise, especially after all that you’ve put them through.”

Frustrated, I said maybe I’d just eat somewhere else.

“You can’t,” they told me. “This is the only licensed restaurant in the district. If you want alternatives, you’ll have to apply for a food voucher exemption, pay an exit fee, and wait 6 to 12 months. Approval is not guaranteed.”

I asked for a copy of the restaurant’s policies. They handed me a 200-page brochure titled How the Restaurant Is Working for You — written entirely in legal jargon. They offered me a consultant to interpret it, for a fee.

Later, I posted a review online. I noted that they wasted my money and couldn’t get my order right. I said their staff was entirely incompetent and I left broke and hungry. The next morning, I was fined for “spreading misinformation about the restaurant.” They warned that further complaints could lead to more fines or even jail time.

Of course, this is just satire.

No one would tolerate a restaurant run like that.

We demand better service, clear choices, and accountability, especially when it comes to food. At the very least, we’d be demanding our money back!

But when it comes to government?

This is exactly the incompetence, waste, and coercion we’ve been forced to fund for decades.

And if you object? You’re the problem. But if we wouldn’t tolerate it from a restaurant, why do we tolerate it from our politicians?