Open letter to Michael Buble (naturally)
Dear Mr. Buble,
Dude—can I call you dude? I’d like to imagine you’re the kind of guy who can drink a beer with the best of them, so dude seems fitting in the best possible way—we need to talk.
You do a lot of great things. You look great. You sing great. You were making middle-aged women swoon with your greatness long before sparkly vampires came along. You have Facial Expressions that can only be accurately appreciated with capitalization. You are the most charming Man’s Man this side of George Clooney’s ER glory days.
In short, Michael, you’ve got a lot of things going for you. So it’s with regret that I say—your rendition of “Santa Baby”? It was, hands down, the least great, most uncomfortable Christmas song since “Christmas Shoes.” (Spoiler alert: the mom dies in the end. Need more information? Ask Patton Oswalt, I hate to say.) You can’t tell Santa that you’ll put out if he does. It’s not your fault that Jerry Sandusky’s carousel of just-horsing-around-with-young-boys is in the news at the same time your trying-very-hard-to-not-be-homoerotic serenade to Santa hits the airwaves. But no matter the season, telling Santa you’ve been a sweetie all year makes you sound less like the world’s second most Charming Canadian (Ryan Gosling, obviously, is first, [and here and here, not to rub it in] but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.) and more like a runner up in the local Ho-Ho-Holidays drag queen competition.
You do a lot of great things. Changing the lyrics to the only seductive Christmas carol is not one of them. Literally everything else you do is. Play to your strengths, dude.
Sincerely,
Anne Marie
P.s., Seriously. Let’s get a beer.
