Baby, it’s cold everywhere these days, outside and inside.
The #MeToo movement has put flirting and romance into a deep freeze. Men across the country fear the ramifications of holding a door open for a woman, let alone pouring her a Christmas cocktail. There’s ice, ice baby in feminists’ veins.
What’s a man to do if he’s walking in a Winter Wonderland by himself? (In this case, Rod Stewart and Michael Bublé hang out together). And what’s a lonely gal to do, when logs on the fire fill her with desire? I wrote in 2016 about the leftist meltdown in “Baby, It’s Dumb Outside,” but since then things have regressed even further. I knew the lefties weren’t the brightest bulbs on the tree, but this year they don’t even know how to put the plug in the socket.
Apparently we women will have to mix the drinks and be the ones who move in closer, just like in this original 1949 “flipped” version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” with Betty Garrett and Red Skelton. She strips his jacket off, pushes him down onto the sofa, jumps on top of him and turns off the light. It’s all against his will, but I don’t hear anyone throwing a fit about date rape or nonconsensual behavior. Typical contemporary feminism: What’s good for the goose isn’t allowed for the gander.
While the #MeToo Left and their Snowflake siblings are all in a flurry over song lyrics, I have to wonder, Do You Hear What I Hear? Apparently not. Christmas is to celebrate a birth, but the Left totally misses the miracle of life: they want the right to end it at any stage or in any season. And this Christmas season, a line has been drawn in the snow. Either you are a Snowflake so traumatized by the classic “Baby It’s Cold Outside” that you applaud when radio stations ban it from playlists; or you are the type who cheered when a station in Kentucky played it on a continual loop for two hours. I identify with the latter; that’s the perfect amount of time to spike some eggnog for two, and heat things up under the mistletoe.
There’s a frenzied attempt to deconstruct countless other Christmas songs, as if getting rid of the music will get rid of Christmas. These folks need some re-education! They need to be locked into their safe spaces watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” on an unending loop. Perhaps their hearts will grow three sizes that day. Maybe they’d think of something they hadn’t before . . . perhaps Christmas means a little bit more? Short of that, we can at least save our Christmas playlist from all those folks who are more Angry Elf than holly jolly.
One of the classics that lefties are squalling over is “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”—they think it’s threatening, that it depicts Santa as a stalker, and that it ridicules emotions. But back when this was a hit in 1962, children had rules and bedtimes and knew that unacceptable behavior had consequences. Some of us call this “discipline” or “expectations,” nothing that Snowflakes can understand since they were never subjected to such horror; it would have damaged their self-esteem. The Four Seasons’ version is great for compelling kids to be on their best behavior. Frankie Valli’s falsetto calls out the children who are cry-eye bay-ay-bees, while deep voices warn children that they are being watched night and day. I like to envision my newly-wed parents dancing to this hit around their living room, my mom sipping a Pink Lady and my dad with a Gimlet.
Back to the kids with the bad behavior: Snowflakes are so “woke” to bullying that “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” is now off their playlist. “Poor Rudolph!” they lament; “All the other reindeer ridicule his differences, they aren’t inclusive!” Unbelievably, the National Bullying Prevention Center has produced a “T.E.A.M. Rudolph Toolkit” for teachers. It’s a digital resource for teachers to learn how to use the song to teach “acceptance and inclusion through teamwork.” I would like to say “Yay! You go, teachers!” except I’m disgusted that there are such brainless teachers that they would need digital resources to sing about red-nosed Rudolph with their class.
Unlike Snowflakes, Rudolph didn’t need years of therapy; he grew a chest and became Santa’s F-22 Raptor. It’s true: What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, as long as you don’t cower and hide in hopes that someone will hand you hot cocoa for comfort. Singing Cowboy Gene Autry wrote “Rudolph” and other Christmas songs; he also was a rodeo champion who owned and rode world-class bucking broncos. I’m a boy mom, and I’m keeping Bad-Ass Rudolph on my playlist.
I’m also keeping “White Christmas” on my playlist; I recommend the swoon-worthy rendition by Bing and Bublé, with a bottle of bubbly. And don’t be ridiculous, people. It’s not racist. It’s about freshly fallen snow. Which is white. I’ve lived in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Western New York, and white snow is definitely something to celebrate. Because soon enough, it is plowed into muddy, slushy piles along the roads, dirty from tire treads and exhaust—not exactly dreamy, merry, or bright. If my sleigh gets mired down in mud, forget about sleigh bells—the children are more likely to hear mom swearing. As my son at the age of 4 once explained to a flight attendant, “My mom will feel much better after a Cosmopolitan.” (This Winter White Cosmo is definitely a cup of cheer).
Kids these days see and hear much worse than a few swear words. Thanks to a progressive agenda, little children are increasingly confused about whether they are male or female. Across the country and around the world, birth certificates now offer a third or neutral “gender;” a parent can decide that a 3-year-old child is “transgender;” liberal media lauds a child drag queen and drag queen story hours; and only half of all children are raised in families with married birth parents. It’s hardly a surprise that the Left is pushing for a ”gender-fluid” Santa Claus. These folks are more than a few nuts short of a fruitcake.
Because the Snowflake generation has learned only revisionist history, they don’t realize that Santa Claus was real, and that Santa Claus was a man. It’s no wonder that that they have such a frigid response to Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. For them, that kind of childhood wonder has become a millennial’s childhood trauma: Is mommy is having an affair? Wait, I thought Mommy dated women! Is this consensual? Is Mommy trying to get extra presents? I think the better question to ponder is this: Why does anyone assume this kissing was steamy enough that Santa and Mommy might end up Rocking Around the Christmas Tree? (But if you want to, I suggest the rendition with Gary Hoey on guitar).
Santa might be checking his list twice, but I bet he’s had to revise it to check whether we are naughty or ice—as in “Give me a man, a martini, and some mistletoe” versus “I’m a special snowflake and mistletoe is rapey.” If you ask the Left, I’m pretty certain they’d say I fall into the “naughty” category. I will happily identify as such, if it’s because I reject leftist ideology. I say Merry Christmas, I think flirting needs a revival, and the only snowflakes I tolerate are those that fall on my nose and eyelashes.
As long as I’m professing my naughtiness, I might as well send those Special Snowflakes into a whiteout: Ho! Ho! Ho! is how Santa laughs and has nothing to do with slut-shaming; “Here Comes Santa Claus” is not sexual, not even when Elvis sings it; I think reindeer boobs are a great idea for the nursing mother; “folks dressed up like Eskimos” is not cultural appropriation; I don’t know nor do I care what’s on Starbucks Christmas cups; it’s OK to say “snow balls;” candy canes aren’t “J” for Jesus; and the White House Christmas decorations are gorgeous this year.
Wishing you a Merry and Bright, Oh Holy Night; with abundant Comfort and Joy all these 12 Days of Christmas.
But above all, take to heart these words of the Wexford Carol (here performed in the studio by Yo-Yo Ma and Alison Kraus):
Good people all, this Christmas time,
Consider well and bear in mind
What our good God for us has done
In sending his beloved son.
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