I once ordered a well done steak because I'm a buttface who doesn't enjoy eating stuff that's still breathing. The waiter, however, brought me a steak that in fact wasn't well done.
It was rare.
Politely, I pointed this out to him and asked him to return to the kitchen and get the chefs to work on it some more. The waiter did not respond.
Instead I realised, much to my surprise, that several of the customers who had ordered the same well done steak who were quite happy with their blood-stained plates had gathered by my table, and they were staring at me with anger and shock!
"How dare you?! The chef doesn't owe you a nice, well done steak! It's his steak!" they chanted.
My mouth was awfully dry, I was nervous, but nonetheless I tried to give them a piece of my mind.
"B-but p-p-p-please I-I... give steak p-p-please, I have money."
"Chefs are people too! Stop trolling!"
The spaghetti I had stored in my pockets in case of an emergency started oozing out of my pants and drop onto the floor of the restaurant as Gordon Ramsay picked me up and as he was guiding me towards the exit, a pair of cute girls laughed at me.
"Listen, you miserable git, you must understand that even five-star restaurants experience very stressful deadlines and they are forced to cut corners." he explained and gestured at the plastic cups and paper plates.
Then he threw me out on the street and I landed in a pool of my own sweat and spaghetti. I curled up in my miserable state and cried.
"No one cares about your opinion. Go troll somewhere else."
"Y-y-you too..."
I can still hear the laughter.