We’ve all been there: You hop in your car on a frosty December morning and switch on the Christmas station, hoping to accessorize your peppermint mocha with the perfect holiday tune when…
“Baby It’s Cold Outside” assaults the airways. Not since you heard the 342nd parumpapumpum in The Little Drummer Boy have you felt so much yuletide rage. (What? Surely I’m not the only one aware of that overconfident chap’s remedial rhythm execution?)
“Baby It’s Cold Outside” is the worst Christmas song ever. It is basically one poor woman’s futile cries for help from a sexual predator, put to music. When it comes on the radio, even Brock Turner is all, “I don’t know, guys, this seems a little rapey.”
The words in that song make me shudder. I actually clench my butt cheeks in horror at the thought of them. If you think I’m overreacting, allow me to break down the lyrics with their subtext in italics:
I really can’t stay (But baby, it’s cold outside)
Thanks for sharing the Bloomin’ Onion with me at The Outback, but I just want to be friends.
I’ve got to go away (But baby, it’s cold outside)
After one date I’ve come to realize why you are still single.
This evening has been (Been hoping that you’d drop in)
So very nice (I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice)
Don’t touch me. You’re creeping me out, dude.
My mother will start to worry (Beautiful, what’s your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (Listen to the fireplace roar)
Siri, text my parents. Tell them I’m trapped with Senõr Onion Breath over here and ask them to please send help.
So really I’d better scurry (Beautiful, please don’t hurry)
But maybe just a half a drink more (Put some records on while I pour)
I’ll call Über while he’s in the kitchen not looking.
The neighbors might think (Baby, it’s bad out there)
Say, what’s in this drink? (No cabs to be had out there)
Oh God. It’s a roofie. You roofied me, didn’t you?
I wish I knew how (Your eyes are like starlight now)
To break this spell (I’ll take your hat, your hair looks swell)
Roofie sinking in…
I ought to say, “no, no, no, sir” (Mind if I move in closer?)
I knew I never should have accepted a date from Bill Cosby.
And so on.
But luckily, Minneapolis-based musicians, Lydia Liza and Josiah Lemanski, have given the song a makeover–peppering it with messages of consent, such as:
I really can’t stay (Baby, I’m fine with that)
I’ve got to go ‘way (Baby, I’m cool with that)
This evening has been so very nice (I’m hoping you get home safe)
I ought to say “no, no, no” (You reserve the right to say “no”)
You can hear their whole song here:
Finally! It’s about damn time someone changed those lyrics!
Now, if they could just give the Drummer Boy a few percussion lessons, all would truly be merry and bright this Christmas.