2026-04-24, 14:40
I swear this tavern is plotting against me.
I’m sitting here, guarding my mug from airborne insects, trying to pretend the GenXTribe cloth isn’t staring into my soul, when the waiter walks over with that polite, professional, “I’m about to ruin your day” smile.
He asks,
“Everything alright, sir?”
Simple question.
Harmless question.
I answer honestly:
“The fly is back.”
And what does he do?
He nods, writes something on his little notepad, and walks away like I just placed an order.
Two minutes later he returns…
with a plate.
A plate.
A plate of what he calls
“The Flyback Special.”
It’s just fries.
Regular fries.
But he presents them like they’re part of some secret menu I accidentally unlocked by complaining.
I tell him,
“I didn’t order this.”
He replies,
“You said ‘the fly is back,’ sir. That’s the name of the dish.”
THE NAME OF THE DISH.
Who names a plate of fries after an insect?
Why is this a thing?
Why does this only happen to me?
I try to explain.
He nods sympathetically like I’m the confused one.
He even pats the table — MY table — like he’s comforting a distressed customer.
Now I’m sitting here with a plate I didn’t want, a fly that’s still circling my mug, and a waiter who thinks I speak in coded menu items.
At this point I’m afraid to say anything else.
If I mention the squeaky chair, he’ll probably bring me soup.
I’m sitting here, guarding my mug from airborne insects, trying to pretend the GenXTribe cloth isn’t staring into my soul, when the waiter walks over with that polite, professional, “I’m about to ruin your day” smile.
He asks,
“Everything alright, sir?”
Simple question.
Harmless question.
I answer honestly:
“The fly is back.”
And what does he do?
He nods, writes something on his little notepad, and walks away like I just placed an order.
Two minutes later he returns…
with a plate.
A plate.
A plate of what he calls
“The Flyback Special.”
It’s just fries.
Regular fries.
But he presents them like they’re part of some secret menu I accidentally unlocked by complaining.
I tell him,
“I didn’t order this.”
He replies,
“You said ‘the fly is back,’ sir. That’s the name of the dish.”
THE NAME OF THE DISH.
Who names a plate of fries after an insect?
Why is this a thing?
Why does this only happen to me?
I try to explain.
He nods sympathetically like I’m the confused one.
He even pats the table — MY table — like he’s comforting a distressed customer.
Now I’m sitting here with a plate I didn’t want, a fly that’s still circling my mug, and a waiter who thinks I speak in coded menu items.
At this point I’m afraid to say anything else.
If I mention the squeaky chair, he’ll probably bring me soup.