We went to Bob Evans yesterday for lunch. People make fun of Bob Evans but I like it.

We sat right up close and personal to two tables full of small children and babies, most of which belonged to one set of parents. I counted six kids that looked to be under seven years of age, at one of the tables and belonging to one set of parents. At the other table were another couple with three small children and a couple of grandparents. Oh, and serving them all was one extremely efficient and smiling and very unappreciated waitress who looked tired enough to lie down in the aisle and nap.

Of course, she couldn’t have done that because she was on duty, and because two of the little boys were already lying down in the aisle. Twice, carrying large and heavy trays full of hot food, she nearly fell over them. The parents’ reaction? They were upset that she nearly hurt their kids.

Well, the mothers were, anyway. The fathers were busy eating.

Not once did either of those men lift a finger to help their wives with all those children. They’d come to Bob Evans for lunch and they were eating lunch. The wives, who really don’t deserve any sympathy because after all this was a life they’d chosen of their own free will, barely had a chance to eat anything, what with feeding babies and toddlers and trying to corral the little boys who were really, really naughty.

Two fathers, a grandfather, and several little boys, all dressed sharply and stylishly and lookin’ pretty good if you’re the type who can look past selfish, childish, disgusting behaviors, and two mothers, a grandmother, and several little girls, all dressed in Mickey Mouse t-shirts with long-sleeved blouses underneath, long denim skirts, crew socks, and tennis shoes. Long pony tails on the little girls and one of the mothers, and huge poofy bulbous bouffants on the other mother and the grandmother.

Yes, I’m being my usual cruel self. All together, as a unit, they looked like they’d escaped from the circus. All together, as any kind of advertisement for a lifestyle, they looked like total losers. I can not even imagine looking at those people and envying them in any way.

And why would any sane and intelligent woman choose a man like that? A smug, selfish, self-serving male who would sit in public with his family and not lift a finger to help in any way? Such a male is not a man. A man would have pitched in and done his fair share.

A male who just sits there and takes care of himself while all around him chaos ensues, watching his wife deal with it all and expecting her to in the first place? That’s not a man. That’s a big oversized baby-boy, and shame on him.

Women, please stop marrying these guys and encouraging them to breed. There are already more than enough of them; we don’t need any more.

What do you say we all decide to breed only with MEN, who will do their fair share just as we do, and who would look disapprovingly at a little baby-man in a restaurant who takes care only of himself and lets the “little woman” deal with the kids.

Gross, nasty, stupid men, this kind.

But a man who knows how to care of children and just naturally does it? Oh baby. Please breed. We can’t have too many of you on this planet. Those men are the sexiest things in the world. I read their blogs regularly and when they talk about taking care of their babies and children, and cooking, and buying their clothes, and playing with them, I come close to melting in my chair. Sexy, honest-go-goodness MEN, those.

But what in the world could any woman find sexy about a selfish baby-man? I just don’t get it.

And apparently, a selfish baby-man who buys his own and his sons’ clothing at Gap and Tommy Hilfiger, but expects his wife to make her own and her daughters’ clothing herself? After buying the t-shirts at a yard sale, of course.

And I’ve heard several of such men say that their wives’ elbows were covered at all times lest someone see them and succumb to lust.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.

I guess that’s why the families are often so large. The sight of those uncovered elbows at night just DOES it to these men.

Ladies, two words: RUN AWAY. Unless, of course, you like being treated that way, in which case, there had better not be any complaints later. Oh, and before I forget: Phooey on you.