Buffet of Bad Decisions: The Two-Fisted Biscuit Bandit

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Buffet of Bad Decisions: The Two-Fisted Biscuit Bandit

It’s Sunday at the local all-you-can-eat buffet — that magical cross-breed of Chinese, seafood, and Golden Corral. The kind of place where fried rice, catfish, crablegs, and Jell-O cubes share a sneeze guard and everyone’s dignity costs $24.99 plus drink.

Diagnosis

You spot them halfway down the line — the Macaroni Bandit. No tongs, no shame, just bare hands reaching across the trays like they’re performing a rescue operation. They duck under the sneeze guard with the focus of a Navy SEAL and the hygiene of a raccoon. Mission accomplished: one heaping scoop of bacteria-infused elbow pasta.

To the left, a man in flip-flops is mining the crableg tray like he’s digging for gold, stacking a tower so high it should require scaffolding. Next to him, a toddler, a dishful of gummy bears in one hand, ice cream cone in the other, uses the chocolate fountain as a personal sink. In the corner, a woman is taste-testing the pudding bar with a single spoon she “rinses” in her water glass between samples. It’s the Circle of Life — but sticky.

Then there’s the Two-Fisted Biscuit Bandit — a local legend in their own mind. You spot them by the gravy stains on their sleeve and the look of pure focus usually reserved for brain surgeons and bomb defusers. One hand clamps a biscuit straight from the tray, the other dives in before the first even clears the plate. Butter? Optional. Sanitation? Never heard of her.

They move down the line like a carb-hungry locust, dropping crumbs into the green beans, eyeing the fried chicken like it owes them money. When the tongs slip off the serving tray, do they pick them up? Of course not. They use their hands again — because at this point, what’s one more biohazard between friends? By the time they reach the dessert bar, both biscuits are gone, replaced by a chocolate-coated third one they swear they’re “just holding for later.”

Nearby diners watch in silent horror, but no one intervenes. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s respect. Maybe it’s the realization that we’re all just one bad day away from becoming the Biscuit Bandit ourselves.

The soft-serve machine’s crying, the salad bar’s been plundered, and someone’s using the buffet sneeze guard as a phone stand while livestreaming their plate. Somewhere in this germ carnival, an employee sighs, replaces the serving spoon, and mutters the universal prayer of restaurant workers: “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Treatment

Step one: accept that you will never eat here again without picturing this moment. Step two: alert the staff — they’ll “handle it,” which usually means swapping out the macaroni tray while pretending that fixes anything. Step three: reevaluate your life choices. Maybe the take-out section isn’t so bad after all.

If you absolutely must stay, stick to sealed items: dinner rolls, fortune cookies, and your own bottled water. Assume every serving utensil has been licked, each tray sneezed on, and every pudding cup compromised by human curiosity.

Moral

Buffets prove one universal truth: given unlimited food and zero supervision, people will devolve faster than a thawing shrimp cocktail. Common sense isn’t on the menu — but hepatitis might be.

Next time you crave endless crablegs, remember: the “all you can eat” part includes germs, too.

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