Dear Rat Pack,
Although we all love swaying drunkenly along with your renditions of "Baby It's Cold Outside," which, for those who haven't noticed, is essentially a man coercing his feminine companion to sleep with him, it's getting to be a bit much.
For males, your delightfully misogynistic songs are a pleasant reminder of times past, but with the modern age of political correctness, we're afraid we can't be friends anymore. We non-females have to keep up our image of being as sentimentally tied to the holiday as everyone else, despite the fact that, yes, some of us still enjoy it simply because we get a week off from work and can drink spiked eggnog while watching football and ignoring our in-laws.
But, then again, your songs remind us of a simpler time, when men were men, women were women, and Christmas was Christmas, not the Holiday Season. As anti-feministic as it may be, there's something comforting in reverting back to the horrendously unequal ways of the 1950's. Oh, right, that'd be the comfort of bigotry.
Nowadays we have Harry Connick Jr. telling us what Christmas is all about, but it just ain't the same. Frank Sinatra's version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," which had been re-written to feature each of his children and his wife (at the time) telling of what they got their beloved patriarch, has a special glow to it that no version of "Ave Maria" could ever match.
Though it's barely December and we're already a bit sick of Christmas music, here at the Daily, we raise our glasses to you, our darling purveyors of inexcusable male chauvinism.
Sincerely,
The Daily Arts Department
