I recently came across an odd news story about a man who called 911 after Red Lobster refused to refill his cheddar biscuits for the twelfth time.

Twelfth.

12.

A dozen biscuits deep into what I can only assume was a very committed personal journey, this man decided the appropriate next step was law enforcement. Because the sign said “endless.”

Endless.

Now, I have never set foot inside a Red Lobster. Not out of snobbery, but out of self-preservation. See, I have a severe shellfish and fish allergy tends to discourage casual experimentation with seafood-adjacent environments. So I cannot personally speak to the seductive power of these legendary cheddar biscuits.

But I can speak to human behavior. And this? This is not about biscuits.

This is about expectations. Entitlement. And our deeply complicated relationship with the word “unlimited.”

Because somewhere along the line, we stopped understanding that “endless” is not a literal contract. It is aspirational. Marketing poetry. A vibe.

And yet, this man heard “endless” and thought challenge accepted!

I would pay good money to hear the 911 operator’s internal monologue.

“911, what is your emergency?”
“Yes, I’ve been denied my twelfth biscuit.”
“…Sir, are you in immediate danger?”
“Yes. Of injustice.”

There is something almost admirable about the commitment. The refusal to accept limits. The unwavering belief that the system (in this case, a seafood chain and its baked goods) has wronged you.

But also, no.

Because here’s the uncomfortable truth. There are always limits.

In buffets. In lunch specials. In “bottomless” brunch mimosas that mysteriously develop a top. In life.

“Call me anytime,” we say. But do we mean 2:30 a.m. on a Tuesday when I am finally asleep after staring at the ceiling contemplating my life choices? Probably not.

“Let’s definitely get together soon.” Will we? Debatable.

“Endless biscuits.” Until, they’re not.

The problem isn’t that limits exist. The problem is that we resist them. We push against them. We take them personally. We interpret them as betrayals instead of boundaries.

And sometimes, in truly spectacular fashion, we escalate them to 911.

But what if, instead of demanding the twelfth biscuit, we paused at the eleventh and asked ourselves as to what am I really hungry for?

Is it actually cheddar-based carbohydrates? Or is it fairness? Control? The deep, existential need to feel like the rules apply consistently?

(Also possibly, yes, carbs. Let’s not overcomplicate it.)

There is a quiet wisdom in recognizing limits. In understanding that “enough” is not a failure state. That being told “no” (even by a biscuit) is not a personal attack.

Because when we don’t recognize limits, we risk becoming that person. The one arguing with a server about the metaphysics of “endless.” The one dialing emergency services over baked goods. The one missing the point entirely.

So here’s my gentle, irreverent takeaway.

Enjoy the biscuits while they come.

Appreciate the abundance.

But when the basket stops refilling, maybe it’s time to put down the phone, thank the universe (and the server), and go home.

Preferably without law enforcement involvement.

Because not everything that is marketed as endless is meant to be consumed that way.

And not every boundary is a crime.

Even if the biscuits are really, really good.