A man walks into a diner and orders a roast beef sandwich. A few minutes later the server returns, saying, “I’m sorry; we’re all out of roast beef. But you can have peanut butter and jelly or bologna.”
Taken aback, the man replies, “Peanut butter and jelly or bologna? I can’t stand either one of those. I want roast beef!”
“Too bad,” the server says. “We’re all out of roast beef. You have to choose peanut butter or bologna.”
“Well, just give me a bowl of soup then,” the man replies, trying to avoid an argument. “That will be good enough.”
“You’re not listening,” the waiter replies, an edge in his voice. “You can’t order the soup. You came in for a sandwich, and you’ll get a sandwich!”
“But I asked for a roast beef sandwich!”
The server leans menacingly over the man and sticks a finger in his chest.
“Look, Mac,” he says, “are you trying to cause trouble? Are you an elitest or something? If peanut butter and bologna are good enough for our other customers, they’re good enough for you, so stop wasting my time and choose one!”
“But I can’t digest either peanut butter or baloney,” the man says. “They both turn my stomach. Why can’t I have something else?”
“Simple,” the server says smugly. “It’s a binary choice.”
