Don’t Call Me “Baby,” Bubba.

I’m in a mood. I was pulling out of the gas station, hot as hell with my window down where the air went out again, some guys pulling in yell, “Hey, baby!”

So I turned around.

Went back to the gas station.

Don’t you call me baby, Bubba. Don’t call me darling, honey, sugar, dear, doll. In fact, if you’re under 70 and looking for a term of endearment for any woman you don’t know, the word you’re looking for is ma’am  I’m not your sugar. I’m not your darling.  I’m sure as shit not your honey.  And I damn sure ain’t ever been anybody’s sweetheart. The only man that could call me that took his last breath in May, 1997 and if you want to keep yours — as well as your balls — I suggest you ask for my name and I’ll decide whether or not it’s any of your business.

This is 2016. We’re not “honey.” We’re serving in combat. We’re engineering your roads. We’re finding your medical cures. We’re losing our legs flying Blackhawk choppers in Iraq and then we’re coming home and serving in Congress injured (shoutout Tammy Duckworth). We’re winning gold medals, and we’re about to run this nation.

You call me doll and I’ll call you dick.

We clear?

Bet that jackass don’t make that mistake again for awhile.


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