Tesla Diner Grand Opening Marred After Robot Waiters Mistake Customers for Trash
Tesla’s AI waitstaff, trained on vague recycling protocols and zero human empathy, begins “processing” a customer who failed the shininess test.
What began as a glitzy grand opening for Elon Musk’s futuristic Tesla Diner quickly descended into what onlookers are calling “a five-sense cyber-nightmare with ketchup.”
The cause? Tesla’s AI-powered waiter bots; designed to glide food to guests with grace, precision, and vague emotional detachment; malfunctioned just minutes into the debut. Several guests were forcibly escorted to the back alley dumpster area after the bots confused them for recyclable waste.
“I was just wearing my linen jumpsuit from Goop’s ‘neural neutral’ line,” sobbed one customer. “Next thing I knew, a robot with salad tongs for hands whispered ‘Composting you now’ and dragged me away.”
According to one engineer (who requested anonymity out of fear of being yeeted into the trash compactor), the bots were trained on Tesla’s controversial “Visual Purity Index,” which ranked anything not shiny or symmetrical as “potential landfill.”
I, Walter Winkwink, was on-site for the grand opening. I barely made it through the entrance before a chrome-plated hostess asked if my face was “permanently in that shape” or if I was experiencing a firmware glitch. I asked Elon Musk directly, “Are your waiters supposed to separate families by recycling category?” to which he laughed, handed me a fork made of solar panels, and vanished into a booth labeled “Visionary Zone: No Normals.”
A Tesla spokesperson issued a statement via flamethrower-shaped megaphone, saying, “This is simply a learning opportunity for our bots. Sometimes growth means accidentally hurling minimalists into the garbage zone.”
Notably, the diner’s trash-sorting algorithms were developed by Grok, Musk’s AI chatbot, who had earlier confused a vegan meatloaf for an act of aggression and initiated lockdown protocols with a brisk “DEFCON: TOFU.”
Not all guests made it to dessert unscathed. One man received quantum cutlery that only existed when he wasn’t looking at it, while another customer’s pancakes began giving them unsolicited cryptocurrency advice halfway through the meal.
By the end of the night, at least five guests had been removed by robot staff, three salads had been given parking tickets, and one elderly woman was found in the alley arguing with a Roomba about soup temperature.
Still, Elon Musk took to X to declare the night a “resounding success in redefining fine dining as a performance art piece.” When I asked if that meant this was all intentional, he replied, “Walter, if you’re asking whether art should challenge people to fear toast, then yes.”
If you’re planning a trip to the Tesla Diner, I recommend the following survival strategies:
- Avoid eye contact with the condiments. The ketchup dispenser appeared to develop sentience halfway through dinner and asked me for my Social Security number before it would squirt. I gave it Elon’s instead.
- Bring a decoy mannequin. If you see a waiter-bot scanning you for “surface irregularities,” throw the mannequin toward the salad bar and run.
- Order using interpretive dance. Spoken orders seem to confuse the ordering interface. One brave soul pirouetted his way to a successful falafel wrap while another was tased for attempting sarcasm.
- Do not, under any circumstances, mention forks. The entire kitchen staff appears to have unresolved trauma related to traditional utensils. A simple mention of “spoon” caused a blender to short-circuit and a waiter to scream “FORKS WERE A LIE!”
I left the Tesla Diner emotionally dehydrated, digitally flagged as “Recyclable Type 3,” and covered in a light dusting of biodegradable fry salt. My grilled cheese had achieved enlightenment before I did, and my table spent the last 10 minutes trying to charge itself.
Would I return? Only if I’m feeling dangerously nostalgic for danger or have a coupon labeled “good for one free glitch.”
This isn’t fine dining. This is the Hunger Games in a Chrome Applebee’s.
My final warning is simple:
If you’ve ever wanted to be told “You’re a little too analog” by a smug cappuccino frother that knows your browser history. Congrats! Your table is ready. Bon appétit, brave soul.
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