Come on. You knew I had to run a Dirty Dancing picture with this. It was between that and a picture of TLC performing their powerful anthem taking on fertility clinics and day care rates, "Baby Baby Baby." That's what it's about, right?
I'm on a date but something isn't quite right. Maybe the beer is a little too warm, maybe the bar is a little too dark or maybe his laugh sounds less like a man's and more like a retarded donkey's. Or like Ronnie's from Jersey Shore. Same thing.
The corner is a comfy seat. What's the fuss about?
I like him, but I don't LIKE like him. Ya get me? But, he's a nice enough guy so I'll stick it out for an hour or so before I text one of my friends to call and fake an emergency. "What? Your unicorn got run over by a truck and you need me to help you get it back to the rainbow? I'll be right there!" Sorry kid, I gotta go.
Then he says it. "Baby, get me another beer." Umm, ex-CUUUUSE me? Baby? I'm all for nicknames and such, but the only people that get to call me Baby are the people that I want to call me Baby. When I hear it casually exiting his mouth when the feelings I have for him are equal to the ones I have for anything related to Perez Hilton (i.e. NONE), I'm out of there faster than if had shown up in a bedazzled Ed Hardy shirt.
To quote Andy Sachs when she runs out on that superhot editor in The Devil Wears Prada, "I'm not your baby."
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