What to Do If Your Imaginary Friend Chokes at an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet

Last Updated on August 4, 2025 by Michael

Steve’s turning purple again.

Right there. Between the wilted salad bar and that chocolate fountain nobody should trust. Making that face—you know the one. Like a fish discovering air isn’t optional.

This Is Your Life Now

Funny thing about having an imaginary friend who’s actively choking: nobody else gives a shit. That waitress refilling the ranch dressing? She’s thinking about her smoke break. The manager counting receipts? Already forgot you exist. Your Tinder date who agreed to meet at Golden Corral? (First red flag, honestly.) They’re in the bathroom googling “how to fake an emergency.”

Steve’s doing the international choking sign now. Hands at throat. Eyes bulging like those squeeze toys at the dollar store.

You could let natural selection take its course. You could. But then who’d argue with you about whether hot dogs are sandwiches during your nephew’s birthday party? Nobody, that’s who. And Steve knows it, the manipulative transparent bastard.

Assessment Time (Make It Quick)

Is Steve still bitching about the temperature of the mac and cheese? He’s fine. Let him suffer.

But wait—silence. Steve hasn’t been quiet since 1997. Not during your colonoscopy. Not during your wedding vows. Definitely not at a buffet where he has OPINIONS about the placement of the sneeze guard.

The fake ficus is shaking. That’s either Steve having a seizure or… nope, it’s Steve.

The Heimlich Nobody Asked For

Here’s where dignity goes to die.

You’ve made physical contact with Steve before. That time he got his imaginary foot stuck in an imaginary bear trap. (Don’t ask.) The secret handshake that’s just the Macarena. Normal stuff.

But wrapping your arms around nothing while some kid films you for TikTok? That’s Tuesday night, baby.

1. Get behind Steve (ignore the stares)
2. Find his theoretical midsection
3. Make a fist like you mean business
4. Thrust upward with the fury of someone who TOLD HIM not to eat seventeen shrimp
5. Pray to whatever god handles invisible emergencies

Pro tip: Screaming “GODDAMMIT STEVE” adds authenticity to the performance.

When Physics Betrays You

The Heimlich isn’t working because of course it isn’t. Steve’s anatomy is like a Picasso painting had a baby with an M.C. Escher sketch. His liver’s in his elbow. Don’t ask how anyone knows this.

Plan B: Beat It Out of Him

Bend Steve over. Right there by the “Please Wait to Be Seated” sign that nobody’s ever obeyed in the history of chain restaurants. Five sharp whacks between his theoretical shoulder blades. Really commit. That teenager livestreaming this already thinks you’re insane—might as well give her content worth sharing.

Plan C: The Finger Sweep of Shame

Steve swears the shrimp is “right there.” Steve also swears he dated Scarlett Johansson’s imaginary cousin. But you’re already elbow-deep in public humiliation, so what’s a little more?

Sweep that invisible gullet. Fish around in there like you’re looking for car keys in a couch cushion. The couple at table twelve just asked for their check. Their loss—this is dinner AND a show.

Plan D: Full Nuclear

Nothing’s working. Time to negotiate with the universe.

Close your eyes. Channel every birthday candle, every shooting star, every lucky penny you’ve ever wasted on Steve’s continued existence. Promise the buffet gods your firstborn. Your 401k. That coupon for a free dessert you’ve been saving.

Actually, not the dessert coupon. You’ve got standards.

A Brief History of Steve’s Near-Deaths

Let’s talk data. You’ve been tracking this. (That Excel spreadsheet labeled “Steve Death Statistics Q1-Q4” isn’t making itself.)

That’s right. Steve found a way to choke on pudding. PUDDING. The man’s a medical marvel.

Your Audience Awaits

Congratulations, you’re trending on Twitter. #BuffetExorcism is really taking off.

Some options for damage control:

“DINNER THEATER! TIPS WELCOME!”

“THE CRAB LEGS ARE FRESH!”

“HE’S METHOD ACTING!”

Or just own it: “YES I’M DOING THE HEIMLICH ON MY IMAGINARY FRIEND, KAREN. SOME OF US HAVE LOYALTY.”

That lady in the corner? She’s president of the HOA. Your property values just tanked. Steve owes you thirty grand minimum.

Steve Lives (Unfortunately)

He’s breathing again. Making it everybody’s problem too—gasping, wheezing, clutching his chest like he just discovered mortality. Drama queen doesn’t begin to cover it.

The manager’s approaching. That’s his “I don’t get paid enough for this” walk. He’s bringing the assistant manager. They’re tag-teaming your humiliation.

Quick moves:

• Get Steve water he’ll pretend to drink
• Ban him from anything harder than applesauce
• Practice explaining performance art
• Consider witness protection
• Update the Incident Database

Yes, you have an Incident Database. It’s searchable by food type, location, and severity of public humiliation. You’re not proud of this. But you’re not NOT proud either.

Soft Foods for Soft Brains

Steve’s “traumatized.” His invisible esophagus needs time to heal from its near-death experience. Sure thing, buddy. Let’s pretend your internal organs follow any logical arrangement.

Approved foods:

• Pudding (but monitor closely after The Butterscotch Incident)
• Ice cream (melts before it murders)
• Smoothies (NO CHUNKS, STEVE)
• Cotton candy (dissolves on impact)
• Soup (HOW DID HE CHOKE ON SOUP)
• Baby food (yes, really)

Steve’s already eyeing the popcorn chicken. This is how horror movies start.

Prevention Is a Myth

You’ve tried everything. The PowerPoint presentations. The laminated safety cards. That intervention where Steve’s other imaginary friends showed up. (Carol was supportive. Brad was useless.)

Steve doesn’t learn because Steve doesn’t want to learn. Steve thinks “risk adds flavor to the dining experience.” Steve’s an idiot.

But here’s another attempt at keeping him alive:

You know what? Forget it. Steve’s gonna Steve. Just keep the Heimlich position ready and know where the exits are.

The lobster tank remains permanently off-limits after Steve tried to “liberate” them last Thanksgiving. He named them all. Gerald the lobster haunts your dreams.

Exit Strategies

Know when you’re beaten.

Let’s Get Real for a Second

How did this become your life? When did “having an imaginary friend” turn into “performing medical procedures at chain restaurants while Linda from book club films it”?

You know exactly when. Third grade. Mrs. Henderson’s class. Right after Tommy Williams said your lunch smelled weird. That’s when Steve showed up, told Tommy his mom looked like a foot, and became your ride-or-die.

Now you’re thirty-seven, banned from every Sizzler in a tri-state area, explaining to your therapist why you need a plus-one for someone only you can see.

But Steve’s been there. Through your dad’s funeral. Your divorce. That phase where you thought you could pull off a fedora. (You couldn’t. Steve tried to tell you. You didn’t listen.)

So yeah. You’ll save him from the attack shrimp. Again. That’s what you do for family.

Even if that family member has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming and the chewing skills of a newborn.

FAQ Nobody Asked For

Q: Can Steve digest food like normal people? A: Bold of you to assume Steve’s normal in any capacity.

Q: Why not leave him at home? A: He knows where you sleep.

Q: Is this medically accurate? A: Steve’s medical records are written in crayon by his doctor, Dr. Whiskers (also imaginary). So no.

Q: Have you considered therapy? A: Thursday at 3. Steve comes too. Dr. Martinez is considering early retirement.

Your Survival Kit

Seasoned handlers of the invisibly impaired know to pack:

• Telescoping step stool (Steve’s height varies)
• Heimlich instructions (laminated, illustrated)
• Smoke bombs (distraction purposes)
• Running shoes (broken in)
• Bail money
• Flask (labeled “cough syrup”)
• Database of buffets you’re not banned from (shrinking)
• Secondary flask
• Therapist on speed dial
• Will to live (optional)

The Bottom Line Nobody Wants to Hear

Society says imaginary friends end at puberty. Society’s never met Steve. Steve’s like herpes—he’s forever.

Tomorrow he’ll want to try that new place with the “Atomic Wing Challenge.” You already know how this ends. You’ve seen this movie. You’ve LIVED this movie. You ARE this movie.

But you’ll go. Because somewhere between third grade and your fourth decade on this earth, Steve became non-negotiable. Like taxes, but more aggressive and worse at chewing.

New rule: No shellfish within 72 hours of major holidays or parental visits. This is non-negotiable. Your mother doesn’t need to see you Heimlich the air again. She’s been through enough.

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