Something akin to an anti-miracle occurred again. An anti-miracle is an event I assume to be rare.

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Miracle:

1: an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs

2: an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

3Christian Science : a divinely natural phenomenon experienced humanly as the fulfillment of spiritual law.

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This was deja vu all over again.

Once again a person with a Halfwit Factory between her legs gently placed her devil-spawn on the table, in the middle of the restaurant.

Lovingly, she removed the infant's diapers as the rest of her brood ate and screamed. The sire/Sperm Donor of the zygotes slurped and burped obliviously.

My head cocked as I witnessed this, my eyes panning the restaurant filled with patrons looking for someone to intervene.

As the Halfwit Factory removed the screaming infant's crap-filled diapers and took to wiping the infant's anal orifice on the table, many of the other patrons stopped eating.

Their eyes darting around the room pleading for help.

As I said, I'd been here before. The last time I simply asked the baby-making machine to take her child into the bathroom where we have changing stations.

This prompted the baby-making machine's family to call and complain and the other patrons, claiming I didn't do enough.

I vowed: This would not happen again.

The Halfwit Factory, with the vagina she wielded like a machine gun against humanity, set the shit-soiled wipes on the table as I intervened.

"Pardon me, but could you pass the grey poop-on the table?"

The Sperm Donor of the table slowly broke away from his gluttony and focused his vacant gaze of the disembodied soul at me (Luckily this was the one attribute he passed onto his vacuous offspring). I had to break the gaze as I could feel my brain atrophying.

I was crumpling-up newspaper and tossing it under the table. "Ma'm you simply can't change diapers on the table in the middle of the restaurant. What a fine bunch of miracles you have here."

"How dare you tell me how to be a parent."

"I would never be so presumptuous. I would've suggested you never be a parent or wished you barren. But alas, I am too late." I finished crumpling the paper and glanced at the pile under the table.

"How dare you -"

"The rocks eat cheese in the shade." This seemed to overload what was left of her brain. 

I had dispatched a cohort to run a hose into the restaurant, he handed me the end and I handed the Halfwit Factory, with the machine-gun vagina, a book of matches.

"You, Sperm Donor, would you mind sucking on this?" Handing him the hose.

"Fuck no, sucking be woman's work." And he shoved the hose to the Halfwit Factory and snatched the matches from her.

"Fire be man's work." Partially chewed food bits spewed from his mouth  more prevalent than thought.

"Bright and shiny, right." I said as I quickly stopped the Halfwit Factory from shoving the hose up her skirt and put it in her mouth, she sucked on the hose. When gasoline began to be syphoned through the hose I pointed at the newspaper. She did as suggested.

"I'm lactating and it tastes like bacon." With this statement I proved I need not give a command, as the Sperm Donor was already lighting a match.

"Fire good!"

"Sure it is. One Sun gives life, two Suns give more better life!"

"I like hose." The Halfwit Factory exclaimed as her children threw the poop filled diapers at each other.

"As I said, you cannot change your kids crap-filled diapers in the restaurant, at a table people eat-on, in a room with appalled semi-concious humans."

The Sperm Donor tossed the match onto the papers and with a woosh the flames lept to life.

The initial response of the brain-dead family was to pull away as it was hot. But I directed their empty gaze to a 24 hour marathon of Jon and Kate plus 8, mesmerized they forgot about the burning.

I turned to the rest of the patrons and razed my arms as if asking of God "Have I done enough? What more would you ask of me?"

The flames engulfed the family, they didn't seem to mind. I could see dad still eating while engulfed in flames. "This Pizza is burning my tounge. You'll hear from my lawyer." Were his last words.

The Halfwit Factory/Sperm Bank was putting away the wipes as she turned to dust.

The children screamed and pooped and pee'd right up to their evidently gloriously happy end.

And the poop was gone.

I assume this was satisfactory to all, since no complaints came in.