So here’s the deal . . . you go out with your lady to a nice restaurant, you got dressed up in your finest badd ass rock and roll star threads, she’s looking hotter than the hinges hanging off the gates of hell, your ready to drop a few dollars on some cuisine . . . nothin’ too fancy, but it ain’t a chain store either. You’re sitting there, you’ve ordered, maybe you whisper naughty love poems in your sweetie’s ear . . . can you dig it?

Enter . . . the family. A few adults, and a few children. Screaming, running, snot dripping, whining, annoying little tots from hell. Lest anyone think I hate children, let me state that I in fact do not hate kids. I’m not sure I want any of my own . . . although I’m certain a child that sprung from my loins via lady lascivious’ girly parts would be the most bad ass little CyberMonkey . . . but I am generally not opposed to children. I have two nieces that I love to death.

That being said, I’ve had enough of having to deal with other peoples badly behaved offspring. I think maybe it’s “parents” I have a problem with. How many times does my evening have to be ruined by someone else’s progeny before I go all mad-ass and grab the father by the back off his head and pound his skull into the table whilst screaming the theme to SpongeBob SquarePants?. And then I’m the bad guy?

It’s simple . . . if you want to take your kids out for dinner, you have three options:

You could probably use a night away from the little darlins’, couldn’t you? I know I could. See, if I wanted to have my evening complimented with whining brats, I’d get me some. I wouldn’t need your demon seed to provide the diversion.

Or really, anyplace with a playscape. Here’s the deal . . . I don’t go there, because I expect kids to run around and act like . . . kids. That giant monstrosity of chutes and ladders (and maybe a ball pit) says “It’s OK to let your kids run wild”. And it also says “Magnificent Bastard stay away”.

See, my parents rarely had to spank me. Because they did it once. And I knew that when we went out in public, if I acted like a fool, they’d do it again. It’s called “the fear of God”. The rules were simple . . . Sit Down. Shut Up. And you knew what would happen if you transgressed the rules . . . one of the two parents (or maybe both) would throw a beating on you. No discussion, no negotiation.

Talk Back? Beating!

Whine? Beating!

Get Out Of Your Seat? Beating!

Sit Down and Shut Up? Corn Dog!

You see, my parents had a code of ethics that said if your children misbehave in public, it’s because YOU are a bad parent. My misbehavior would have been embarrassing to them. So they made sure I didn’t misbehave. And it made me a better person. When you let your kids run around like animals and ruin my meal, it makes me a bitter person. Then again, my parents understood that parenting continues after you bust your nut, something most of you mouth breathing morons can’t fathom.

Beat your kids . . . or leave them at home.

If you choose to do otherwise, don’t be surprised when you wake up with your head on the table, bleeding from the mouth and ears, with this haunting refrain playing over and over in your head . . . Who lives in a pineapple under the sea . . .