To the worthless lump of failed humanity whose obnoxious children ruined my dinner at Sizzler the other night, the guy who sat at a table with all the adults of your extended clan, obliviously stuffing your soft, quivering jowls with all-you-can-eat shrimp while your noisy little brats went unsupervised in a nearby booth and generally behaved (and sounded) as if they were playing on a jungle gym in some open-air playground about a mile away from civilization:

You suck.

No, seriously, you do.

You see, the fact that your meager dreams evaporated years ago and your self-respect is dead and buried beneath that admittedly awe-inspiring paunch of yours does not absolve you from your parental responsibilities to actually, you know, parent. Yes, I know the only glimmer of pleasure you can strain from your gray and miserable life is the time spent discussing football stats with your equally corpulent brother-in-law over heaping plates of fried crustaceans. And I’m certain that your admirable ability to completely ignore the high-pitched squealings of your misbehaved progeny is an adaptive mechanism to protect what little intellectual capacity you may have remaining in that stupid round noggin of yours. But believe me, what you seem so adept at filtering out while you eat was unbelievably irritating to every other person in the damn restaurant. And as you’re the one who spawned the offending creatures, the responsibility for them irritating me ultimately falls on your ample and well-cushioned shoulders. So allow me to offer you some suggestions on how you should have handled the situation…

First, it was a tactical error to put the kids in their own space. Yes, yes, you had a large group — large in more ways than one, but I’ll get to that — but you really should have asked to have another table joined to the other three you were occupying so you could keep the undisciplined girl-children within smacking distance.

If that was impossible for some reason — and I didn’t really see that it was, but what do I know? I’m not a restaurant host — then you should be advised that occasionally glancing in the direction of your hyperactive moppets and pressing a sausage-like finger to your pudgy lips in a silent shhhh expression is not particularly effective. As you would’ve noticed for yourself if you hadn’t been so intent on getting back to your shrimp and/or fantasies of athletic expertise.

The proper response for you would’ve been to lever your prodigious ass out of your chair, walk over to the children’s table, and say, “Sit down and shut up.” I think you would find that this simple phrase can work wonders if applied in the correct, no-nonsense tone of voice. But possibly your children are unaccustomed to hearing such authoritative language — I’m guessing this is probably the case based on everything I saw that night — so you’re going to have to be prepared to escalate. Threatening to cut off the flow of dessert items — and then finding the intenstinal fortitude to actually do it — would be one possible punishment. Another would be hauling their entitled little tushies out to the parking lot and telling them where the ursine defecates. Again, the important thing is follow-through, which you seemed loath to do.

When you finally did go visit the Island of Dr. Moreau in person, it was too little, too late, since your family was already packing up, putting on coats, and obviously preparing to leave. Ever hear the expression “closing the barn door after the horse has bolted?” If you have, it was probably years ago, shortly after conceiving the first of those loud, disrespectful cretins of yours in the back seat of your rusty old Civic. Next time, try saying something at the time of the actual problem… or just wear a condom.

Oh, and one more thing: Have you ever considered the effects of letting your kids eat brownies and soft-serve ice cream instead of dinner, and then giving them birthday cake afterward? You, your wife, your brother-in-law, and the bro-in-law’s woman are all easily described as “bovine”; your daughters aren’t there yet. But if you keep feeding them like that, they’ll soon be marshmallows off the old Jello salad. Or something. You get my point. Think of the children, man!

And stay the hell out of restaurants that I like to frequent.

That is all.