Re: Your Brats In Restaurants

Dear Herd Animal:

I realize that you've had a tough day of dumping your ugly little fucktrophies off at Miss Lurleen's Daycare and/or Nimrod's Academy of Country Line-Dancing. And as if your day weren't tough enough already, poor dear, you had to go pick up those same toxic brats in your gas-gobbling SUV and endure the intellectual rigors of screaming at them in the aisles of Wal-Mart. Then it was time to dump the kids back off at Grandma's.

As a mother, life is so hard for you. Yes, it's tough to raise today's children, given all the effort it requires to plop them down in front of the VCR for 6 hours at a stretch and subsequently dump them off on other people's doorsteps. And since you've worked so hard today (you actually had to spend five minutes watching your own children), you've decided that you want to treat yourself to a nice meal tonight.

But wait—your plans are almost ruined for a moment. Grandma isn't home! How DARE that bitch attempt to have a life of her own? Doesn't she know that her only function in the universe is to watch your annoying little snot-drippers? Well, that just means one thing. You'll have to load up your ill-behaved, drooling, nasty little runts and drag them to the restaurant with you.

Life is so unfair.

Of course, it's a hell of a lot more unfair for the other restaurant patrons who are praying that you (and all other breeders) will just keep your sorry ass at home for a change. But no, you're hell-bent on dragging your unwashed, germ-infested kids out in public. And what you really feel like eating tonight is Chinese food, down at the joint where they make a garlic chicken dish so hot that it's like ingesting a blazing bucket of napalm.

What? Your kids can't eat hotter-than-hell Szechwan cuisine?

"Tough shit", you mutter, almost wearing out your monosyllabic vocabulary. Because in typical breeder fashion, your children don't really matter one little bit. It's all about YOU and your convenience. You want Chinese food, so you don't give a crap whose evening you wreck with your screeching brats—or whether or not your children will even be able to eat the food served to them.

Look around the restaurant the next time you walk in with your kids. Maybe then you'll finally notice the collective eye-rolling and quiet groans of all the other customers who take one look at your wretched little brats and wish to hell that you'd explode.

Of course, the restaurant servers won't be doing that. No, they're paid to pretend that they like your stinking little runts. They'll pretend to roll out the red carpet, and will simply wait until your back is turned to spit in your food. Ask any restaurant server who the absolute worst customers are, the answer will generally be a tie between the Sunday after-church crowd and "people with children". Breeders are rude as hell, condescending, demanding, and on top of it all, they're piss-poor tippers. Which makes you a blast to wait on, eh?

Meanwhile, it will take your kids, those darling little rocket scientists, a moment to figure out that they haven't seen a picture of Ronald McDonald yet. Horrors...they're not in a hamburger joint! Whatever will they do?

They'll throw a thousand-decibel tantrum, that's what.

Don't you know it's dangerous to surprise your children like that? After all, today's children don't recognize food objects unless they're either nestled between a sesame-seed bun, or come in a Lunchables package. This will overload their circuitry. What do you MEAN, no French fries? No ketchup? Then it's not food. In their stark confusion, the dull-witted little shits will probably try to eat the upholstery, instead.

The garlic shrimp dish you ordered is chock-full of hot peppers. In fact, it's hot enough to melt the Polar ice cap. The kids don't like it, can't eat it, don't want it. Even at their tender years, they feel ripped off, and who can blame them? As dumb as they are, they recognize something that you apparently don't--that this place is not appropriate for them. They're bored out of their skulls and they don't like the food.

But despite the fact that you've blathered on all day about how important a job mothering is, don't even pretend that you give two shits about those kids. It's about YOU. You wanted to eat Chinese food, and by Jove, you'll do just that--regardless of who it irritates.

And believe me, it's irritating the living hell out of everyone.

Your kids are out of control. They're screaming, whining and scrambling around like demon-possessed weasels. But what do you care? You got what you wanted. And after all, you’re oblivious to the hideous racket that your kids generate, because you never bother trying to stop it at home, either. No, you just let it roll on like the soundtrack to the world's worst horror film, while the rest of the customers secretly fantasize about disemboweling you.

Everyone's having a perfectly horrible time now, thanks to your usual glaring lack of concern. Except you, naturally. You're having a great time, which is all that matters to you, you selfish pile of shit.

The other customers have had their entire evening wrecked because of your complete disregard for others. Your kids are not only miserable, but hungry. But who cares? You got your way. So now, after a fine evening of tormenting the wait staff, infuriating the other diners and failing to feed your own children, it's time to dump the little bastards back off at Grandma's.

Listen, Breeder:

Do us all a favor next time. The next time you want to eat out, leave the brats at home (or somewhere--like maybe in the middle of the freeway). Nobody wants to see your kids but you (and given your level of parenting skills, even that's debatable).

Nobody likes to spend the time and money to have a quiet, civilized evening out, only to have it rudely interrupted by some trashy breeder. If it hasn't dawned on you yet, people are trying to eat here. It's pretty hard to choke down a plate of food when you've got some screeching, hideously ugly runt staring at you like a bug-eyed monster.

Oh, I know you probably think that all that dried, caked-on dirt on your kid's face is appetizing. You think that the stench of baby shit and that gelatinous green ooze of dripping snot are acceptable precursors to fine dining. That's because you have all the socialization of a hunk of dog shit. Back in Gruntville, where you grew up, it was probably normal for every female over the age of 12 to pop out a litter of runts. So while you were busy growing up as a doddering country bumpkin and seeing kids being dragged around everywhere, you couldn't have had any way of realizing that out in the civilized world, people don't DO that.

For future reference, I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

It's called a BABYSITTER.

Oh, you can't afford that?

Too damn bad. Guess you can't afford to have kids, either.

Bottom line: keep your goddamn brats at home until they can sit still, shut their mouths, and act like ladies and gentlemen in public. Of course, with your child-rearing skills, that probably won't happen until they hit 30. So just stay home and feed them their 100th TV dinner of the week, and leave the rest of us alone.

Because unlike you, we actually work for a living and deserve a quiet evening out.

--Jandi Aznor