It falls in the same category as a cop and his (or her) gun, a construction worker and his hammer, a plumber and his wrench, a conservative and his ideas or a server and his tray: If it’s not your tool, do not touch it or you will get hurt.

After serving for two years, I took a job at a restaurant on Pewaukee Lake that most would consider fine dining. It was overpriced and under-frequented. My uniform alone cost more than $200.

On one particularly slow evening, I was serving a table of 10 overly wealthy middle-aged people. Apparently not all of them were acquainted.

When wealthy people are not well acquainted, it’s been my experience that they familiarize themselves with one another by exchanging stories on how one’s wealth came about and subsequently pass judgment.

“Are you independently wealthy,” the fat woman at the head of the table asked in a sincere voice, “or did you inherit?” She punctuated the latter option with a disgusted click of the tongue.

You people are sick. You must think of me as your servant boy. If you snap at me, I’ll break your fingers.

I went around the table taking cocktail orders. When I arrived at the fat lady, I politely offered to take her fur coat.

“You will do no such thing,” she said. “This is a 15-year-old mink coat. It’s worth more than you ever will be.”

My mouth dropped. I hope you order something with a “white sauce” on it. The only thought that came to my mind as it repeatedly processed her comment was, Bitch!

I entered in the drink orders and picked them up from the bar, placing them around the tray concentrically. The logic in this is to ensure the tray keeps balanced and the drinks are delivered in the proper order without shouting out, or “auctioning,” them to see who has what drink.

I stood by the woman at the head of the table. The man to her right was the person I started with in collecting the drink orders. Holding the tray in my left hand, I picked up his drink with my right and leaned forward to deliver it to his right. This left me somewhat off-centered, my tray supported slightly higher than my center of gravity to the left and my body leaning rightward to set his cocktail down.

At this moment, Miss I-like-to-wear-roadkill-for-show saw her drink on my tray and reached to pick it up. As I was placing the gentleman’s drink down, I felt my tray start to quickly — and unnaturally — tip forward.

But it was too late. All I could do was pull most of the drinks into me and block the mess from splashing anyone at the far end of the table.

That white mink jacket looked how it must have when the poor animals were first skinned, except it was bloody from wine this time.

Immediately, I began shouting at the woman, “What are you doing? You can’t touch my tray!”

I was red in the face and shaking. “Is this your first time in a restaurant?”

Apparently the gluttonous consume hot air as well — the woman stood up and appeared to have tripled in girth and height.

“You’ve ruined my coat! This coat cost $5,000!” she barked.

That was frivolous and apparently you’re not as well-off as you make yourself out to be.

“You’ll be purchasing me a new one. How did you lose control of your tray?”

I was fuming. I ran to get my manager, leaving a trail of alcohol of various sorts dripping behind me.

After explaining — well, shouting — to my manager “Beth” what had happened, she took off in a rampage. To date, she’s still the only manager I’ve had that has stood up for me against a customer.

Beth confronted the woman and put her in her place. She also added 20 percent gratuity to the bill and took her name and information so the bill for my new uniform could be paid for.

There are some situations that go awry but end well. Nonetheless, it is people like the fat lady who need not reproduce. That way, there will be no question of whether the money was earned or inherited.

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