Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer illustrates the worst of humanity.

There are a number of Christmas songs that illustrate the worst of humanity, but "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" takes the cake with its gale-force shitstorm of pettiness. It's a song about bullying, discrimination, shallowness and opportunism. Nothing about the story shows any redeeming quality to it. It's like a committee of shitty people got together to create a nation founded on the principles of douchiness, and wrote the lyrics of Rudolph for their anthem.

Another ignoble candidate is the song, "Baby it's Cold Outside." It's a song about a guy who sucks at getting laid, so he tries to pressure some chick into putting out by suggesting that it's a little chilly. The song starts out innocently enough:

I really can't stay...
But baby, it's cold outside.

The gambit is set: his personality, companionship and presumably his looks have failed, so he offers her the only thing he has that might persuade her to stay—the warmth of a heater. So she brings up this troubling fact:

My mother will start to worry...
Beautiful, what's your hurry?
...and father will be pacing the floor.

Just who is this guy that she's with who'd cause both her parents to stay up late worrying about her? And how old is she if she's still living at home? At this point in the song, after more insistence, she finally relents to have another drink. Then the realization hits her:

Say, what's in this drink?

Woah, sound the rape alarm! She further illustrates this man's duplicitous nature by suggesting that he's drugging her. There's only one place this train is headed, and it's a town that starts with the letter "D" and ends with "ate Rape." Bad things are afoot in her caboose. The line immediately after is a subtle threat by Count Rapeula:

No cabs to be had out there...

No cabs? That's not even a subtle threat, that's a blatant one. "Go ahead, try to escape. You don't have transportation and you won't find any." Then our Emcee of non-consensual sex outdoes himself: he suggests that she might actually die if she doesn't put out:

Think of my life-long sorrow,
If you caught pneumonia and died.

Your choices are clear: get dick, or get pneumonia and die. Near the end of the song, after literally telling him "no, no, no," she finally, reluctantly, relents and throws out this desperate line:

At least I'm gonna say that I tried...
What's the sense of hurting my pride...
I really can't stay.
Baby don't hold out.

So what small consolation she settles for is that at least she can tell people she tried not to get raped and/or pneumonia. And in this douchebag's world, the only thing at stake is his pride getting bruised. Nevermind the literal bruising her junk will get after a night of sloppy Christmas sex with (possibly) a minor. On one hand, I get it, I've told chicks some pretty stupid shit to get laid (for example, that I was the copy writer who wrote captions under the caps of Snapple—pussy for days). But I've never told a chick she might get pneumonia and die if she doesn't get her sugar cookie glazed with my holiday frosting. Barf.

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