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  • Writer's pictureJerry Della Femina


It was a “politically correct” witch hunt, and you and I have lost.

To show they’re in charge, the PC idiots have decided that there are some song lyrics that you and I can’t listen to.

So they have gone and f***ked up the lyrics to a wonderful tune sung by a man and a woman duet in a snow storm.

“Baby It’s Cold Outside”

I really can’t stay (but baby, it’s cold outside)

I’ve got to go away (but baby, it’s cold outside)

This evening has been (been hoping that you’d drop in)

So very nice (I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice)

My mother will start to worry (beautiful, what’s your hurry?)

My father will be pacing the floor (listen to the fireplace roar)

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)

The neighbors might think (baby, it’s bad out there)

Say, what’s in this drink? (no cabs to be had out there)

I wish I knew how (your eyes are like starlight now)

To break this spell (I’ll take your hat, your hair looks swell)

I ought to say no, no, no sir (mind if I move in closer?)

At least I’m gonna say that I tried.

Here is the PC Nazis’ official version of why the lyrics of this song had to be changed:

“The revised lyrics focus more on the aspect of making sure the woman is consenting to stay for longer versus the somewhat previously pressuring lyrics in the original version.”

Now those of you who just read those 75-year-old lyrics can see why the PC Nazis have changed these lines that made them cringe:

1) “Say, what’s in this drink?”

2) “I ought to say no, no, no”

3) “At least I’m gonna say that I tried”

And we all know what would happen if you take the original lyrics to heart today.

A guy on his first date with a young woman would remember the original lyrics and without permission would reach over and tweak her breasts, getting them both thrown out of a restaurant.

A young woman thinking of those inflammatory lyrics would decide to take that handsome young married man in her office, lure him into a supply closet, and “bonk” him.

I’ve decided that I know which way the wind is blowing and I’m going to repeat a column I wrote years ago to absolve myself from all past transgressions.

At the time two “very cute” women I’ve known for years shot daggers at me on Facebook for daring to laugh at their new “Me Too” religion.

So here I go again:

Let me say I’m sorry – so, so sorry. This is a blanket apology to the 26.3 million women I have come in contact with in my lifetime.

This is also an apology to the thousands of women who worked at my advertising agencies over the years. If I admired your dress, skirt, hairdo, nails, fragrance, I hope you will forgive me. Eighty-three percent of the time I meant nothing but a compliment. I must admit that 17 percent of the time, when I was complimenting you, I had what the Catholic Church would call “impure thoughts.”

I want to offer my apology to “M” (not her real initial). I remember one day in the winter of 1971. It was snowing. I announced that we would have a “snow day,” and I took the entire agency to a restaurant called Shazam, just off Fifth Avenue. We all had a lot to drink. After a while, couples began pairing off, as they did those days when the term “politically correct” was just a twinkle in the eye of that guardian of our morals – the New York Times – and many of the Facebook “Me Too” Mafia had not been born yet.

These were the ’70s. We were young, free, drunk, and stoned. All of us – men and women – owned the world.

So after seven or eight drinks, I decided to walk home in the snow. You (“Ms. M”) were leaving at the same time. The street was slippery. Then it happened. I took your arm and accidentally – and I will swear in a court of law it was an accident – when I reached to take your arm to help you across the street, my right arm touched your ample breast.

My arm was snuggled against said breast until we got to the other side of the street. Then you went your way and I went mine. But, “Ms. M,” I must confess that in the last 46 years I have thought about the firm, soft warmth of your breast against my arm at least three times a week. Often, that’s the last thought I have before I drift off to sleep.

All I ask is that you forgive me for those 14 or 15 seconds and, if you insist on going public with my transgressions, I would gladly cut off my offending right arm in public if it will mollify you.

Also let me add that I never in my life asked a woman to sit on my lap, like so many male “pigs.” My fear has always been that under those conditions there would be an erection and the woman sitting on my lap would fail to notice it.

A note to every woman reading this: Before you light your torches and come after me like they used to hunt and destroy Frankenstein in those horror movies, this is no defense of Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Kevin Spacey, etc. I think that any kind of sexual force, sexual blackmail and rape are horrible crimes.

I’m in favor of punishment that would turn these would-be stallions into geldings. Jailing them is not enough punishment for the harm they’ve inflicted on so many people.

Sexual abuse and sexual bullying must stop. Perhaps when a person feels they are being sexually harassed, they can look the abuser in the eye and say the two magic words that may cause the abuser to stop. The two magic words? “Harvey Weinstein.”

But here’s a word of caution. You’ve turned “Me Too” into a politically correct witch hunt.

I read a great book, “Naming Names” by Victor S. Navasky, about the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1951 ridiculously charging and jailing the “Hollywood 10” for refusing to admit they were Communists.

But after that stupid, headline-blaring witch hunt came the quiet witch hunt, where Hollywood people accused men and women they hardly knew of being Communists, and 496 people lost their jobs and had their lives destroyed.

This is the politically correct witch hunt I feared.

It turns out a woman who had sex with Matt Lauer dozens and dozens of times had him fired because the first time they had sex she claims she was too drunk to say no.

Picking on the late former president George H.W. Bush when he was a 93-year-old man in a wheelchair and claiming he touched her ass got a woman a lot of publicity, but it’s pushing things too far and it’s a damn witch hunt.

Men can be jerks. Will a romantic evening in 1988 turn into a “he took advantage of me” tweet or Facebook message today because the dopey guy forgot to call the morning after and went back to his wife?

Will the world adopt the politically correct insanity of some universities, where a couple looking for a fun night in bed must first fill out a 10-page form explaining that before every sexual step each participant is giving the other written permission to continue, and should they both get a little tipsy or smoke some weed a consensual sexual event will be regarded as a mindless assault?

Perhaps the great Peggy Noonan said it best in her column when she wrote: “The challenge is to pursue justice while keeping a sense of humanity. Human resources departments terrified of costly lawsuits will impose more and stronger rules that won’t necessarily thwart bad guys but will harass good men.”

As for me, I have a word for those few (and I admit, pathetically few) women who, after drinks, dinner, and a great deal of begging on my part, were kind enough to go to bed with me. Please don’t sue me. I know you’re probably peeved that I didn’t say it. But maybe if I say it now you will forgive me.


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