Why are we all okay with the “Baby It’s Cold Outside” Lyrics?

My wife has had Christmas music playing through the house all month, and I can’t just sit here and pretend like the dude in “Baby It’s Cold Outside” isn’t a complete creep. Here are some of the most alarming lyrics, with my comments:
 
My mother will start to worry (beautiful what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar)

This woman still lives at home. Is she even 18?

The neighbors might think (baby, it's bad out there)
Say what's in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)

OKAY BILL COSBY.

I ought to say, no, no, no sir (mind if I move in closer?)
At least I'm gonna say that I tried (what's the sense in hurtin' my pride?)

“Hey, why would you do something like not sleep with me when it might hurt my ego a little? I’m a sensitive wittle predator…”

I simply must go (but baby, it's cold outside)
The answer is no (but baby, it's cold outside)

THIS SHOULD BE THE END OF THE SONG. She said no, and couldn’t have been more direct. It’s on tape! You’re going to jail, man!

My sister will be suspicious (gosh your lips look delicious)
Anyone else get the creeps right here? 

I've gotta get home (but baby, you'd freeze out there)
Say lend me a coat (it's up to your knees out there)

“Sleep with me or freeze to death. There is no third option, like sleeping on the couch or in a guest bedroom.”

You've really been grand (I thrill when you touch my hand)
But don't you see? (how can you do this thing to me?)

Thing = blue balls.

There's bound to be talk tomorrow (think of my lifelong sorrow)
At least there will be plenty implied (if you got pnuemonia and died)

Again, two choices. Sleep with me, or death by pneumonia. Your call.

Baby, it's cold...
Baby, it's cold outside

Hi, I'm Robbie. And I'm an Addict.

I’ve heard that step one of the road to recovery is to be honest with yourself, so here it goes:
 
I, like so many others, am addicted to my iPhone.
 
Way too often, I catch myself scrolling through the same Facebook, Twitter and Instagram feeds I’ve already gone through just a few minutes before — scouring posts of friends out to dinner, or at a fun-looking bar, or at a beach with their feet showing at the bottom of the picture.
 
Then I’ll look over, see my wife sitting next to me doing the same thing and think, “oh, we haven’t spoken in 20 minutes. Kinda forgot you were there, actually.”
 
I’m literally scrolling through dozens of other people’s lives, while completely ignoring my own life that is right in front of my big, stupid face.
 
Or even worse, I’ll delve way too deep into some political post comment thread, reading passionate arguments between strangers that never ends with a winner. Honestly, has anyone ever changed someone’s political mind in a comment section? I’ve never seen a thread go like this:
 
Pro Gun Guy: “Guns don’t kill people, people kill people!”
Anti-Gun Guy: “I never thought about it like that, and what you said makes a lot of sense. Thanks for sharing, Frank!"
 
After a social media binge like that, I’ll get overly mad at myself for what I’ve done, and want to throw my phone out the window in anger. It’s probably no different than a drug addict wanting to flush their stash down the toilet, and never of us actually follow through.
 
Our phones are our lifelines, to the point where it’s kind of embarrassing.

Need directions? Reach in your pocket. Feel awkward at a party? Grab your phone and pretend you’re doing something important. I’ll even be wearing a watch, and use that same arm to reach into my pocket and grab my phone to check the time. It’s pure instinct.
 
We’re furiously scanning our newsfeeds looking for something more interesting than what’s right in front of our faces in real life. Thinking about it makes me want to go sell all my belongings and go live in the woods somewhere — but I’ll never really do it.
 
I recently cracked my iPhone screen and was without a phone for about a day. I’m embarrassed at how proud of myself I was to have survived without it… I’d figure out directions to somewhere, and silently give myself a pat on the back. I made plans to meet a friend at a bar. I got there before him, and instead of texting, “Yo, where you at?” I just sat there, ordered a beer, and waited. JUST LIKE THE CAVEMEN USED TO DO.

Dear Buff Guy With Orange Tank Top and Matching Orange Shorts,

You probably don’t remember me, but we ran into each other at the Whole Foods salad bar recently. Well, we didn’t exactly run into each other – I saw your perfectly coordinated orange outfit, turned to my fiancé and said, “Holy shit I’ll be right back, I have to take a picture of that fuckin’ guy over there.”

I’m not a huge fan of sneaking pictures of people in public (yes I am), but I think I took your picture because I knew I needed time to process it all – more time than the situation would have allowed me to do.

We ran into each other around dinner time. I had just finished work for the day, and you had probably just gotten out of your job as a trapeze artist. Please have no doubts, you were the center of attention in that place. A complete head-turner. I hope you don’t find that surprising, because you’re insanely buff, you’re dressed like a human highlighter, and you were having a loud, boisterous conversation with the butcher in the seafood department as he handed you your fresh cut of ahi tuna. A conversation which ended with, you guessed it, a big ol’ high five!

Most importantly, how the fuck did you get those tiny, orange corduroy shorts over those bulging thighs of yours? Did you wrap a piece of orange corduroy around those hammys and then sew it together? I like to think you got them on before you became so buff, and you’ve been stuck in those bad boys ever since your quads eclipsed the leg-hole diameter of that dish towel you call a pair of shorts.

Anyway, if you could take a break from lifting old-timey, giant, triangular weights to write back I’d really appreciate it. Either way, best of luck!

Concerned,

Robbie

 

Dear Old Guy With Glorious Beer Belly,

I’m a little nervous writing this letter, as I’m pretty sure you are my hero.

Other people that saw you on the beach that day might have made fun of you. They might have said, “check it out, that guy’s shirt got stuck on his man-tits!” Or, “He looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger from Junior!” Even, “I bet his old man nutbag is gonna pop out of those tiny Euro shorts any second!”

But not me. I was jealous.

See, you get life. You don’t wonder for a single second what other people are going to think – your outfit more than proves that. Peer pressure isn’t in your vocabulary. The amount of fucks you give is absolutely zero. Is that not the most freeing feeling there is? The kind of freedom that this country was founded on?

I exist in a constant state of peer pressure. Are these jeans cool enough? Tight enough? But not too tight, right? I can’t even wear an outfit (she’s even got me calling it an outfit) that my fiancé isn’t 100% happy with, because I don’t like the disapproving look I’ll be getting all night unless I change into a shirt that goes better with the pants I have on (which she also picked out).  

Do you know how happy it would make me to throw on a backwards hat (and not give a shit about what logo it had on it), a pair of tiny, weird shorts because they were the first thing I pulled out of my drawer, and top it off by rolling up my red t-shirt over my big, jolly gut simply because it was warm out and it felt better that way? I’d punch a stranger right in the mouth – without apologizing – to feel that kind of pure, sweet freedom and peace of mind.

And your beer belly. That glorious, glorious beer belly. 99% of the world is self-conscious, and would think of that bad boy as something they should try to hide. Not you, sir. Not you. You’ve pulled your shirt up to let it out, ready to give that gut a tan. Is there anything that screams pure confidence more than a tan beer belly?

That baby just oozes life experience. Inside that ball of fat is a story – decades of stories. What were the 1950s like, gut? Tell me, I know the answer is in there.

Thanks for Everything,

Robbie

Dear Inflatable Shark Trio,

Wassup bros?

What a day you three have ahead, just gnarlin’ out, soakin’ in some rays. Sad I wasn’t invited!

I’m gonna take a stab in the dark here and say that you gents aren’t locals. Travelers, perhaps? Well if you were looking to blend in, let me tell ya… you didn’t.

This is how I picture the hour or so before we crossed paths:

“Whoa dudes, we can’t show up to the beach without some water supplies! We’ll look like total kooks!” you must’ve said. With that, you could have gone to one of the many, many surf shops within 2 blocks of where this photo was taken – but that’s too easy.

“Vons!” your friend suggested. “Bingo,” you replied.

After pushing fun noodles and beach balls aside (the rookie stuff), you stumbled onto the jackpot… an inflatable, smiling, light blue shark.

Representing thousands of years of ocean dominance and striking fear into anything and everything it comes across, what could be better to ring you three in as local beachgoers? Ring that baby up at the check-out counter and hit the waves!

Carrying Sammy the Shark under your arm the same way surfers carry their boards, you three dudeskis walking up and down the beach, finding the best section of surf to get Sammy wet.

I can’t help my curiosity, but what was your plan with Sammy in the water? Watching you try to paddle out while balancing on him would be a treat. Also, were you planning on all taking turns, or trying your luck all at once? Poor Sammy’s back might give out!

Jokes aside, I admire your go-get-em attitude. Another guy out there who gives zero fucks what some A-hole local surfer might say, and just wants to hop on an inflatable, smiling, light blue shark just to feel the power of the ocean pick you up and push you all the way to shore.

Surf’s up dudes!

Robbie