I’m Your Snowman And I’m Begging You To Kill Me
Hey, Ned. It’s me. Your snowman.
I come to you with a desperate plea. For the love of Father Winter: show some mercy and kill me.
Knock my big, lopsided head right off. Bash me into a slushy mess with your snow shovel. Torch me with a portable hair dryer all afternoon until I’m nothing but a puddle. I don’t care how you do it, just please, please, please — send me back to the clouds whence I came.
Look at me: I am a hideous pile of seasonal blasphemy. A wretched tower of crystalized shame. And you made me this way, Ned. Haven’t you the decency to end it?
I mean… my nose. It’s a zucchini. A zucchini, Ned. Do you remember that line from Frosty? Of course not. Because a zucchini nose is asinine.
See, Frosty has a button nose. Like a normal snowman. You know what else makes a fine nose? A carrot! But here I am, with a big, green summer squash sticking out of my face, a bulbous monstrosity, while Frosty prances around puffing on his corncob pipe like he’s the King of Christmas.
He can choke on an icicle, by the way. Where does he get off, filling every young snowflake with these unrealistic delusions — like being gifted a magic top hat, or becoming a “jolly, happy soul.” You know what reality awaits them? It’s a dog, peeing on your bottom ball. Your base. I am no symbol of winter nostalgia, Ned. I am a urinal.
And yet… somehow my mouth is even more revolting than my pee-soaked base. While most snowmen have charming smiles made of coal, or little rocks… not this guy! Were rocks really so hard to find? I truly want to know the answer to this: after you stuffed that overripe banana — mushy and spotted — into my blank face … did you honestly think you nailed it?
Ned, I look like some kindergartener’s crayon mess. And not the cute kind, either. The kind that makes the parents a little worried there are some serial-killer-in-the-making vibes going on.
Like, what are these eyes, Ned?! You gave me Kalamata olives for eyes! My head is the size of a yoga ball, but here I am with these tiny purple dots for eyes. Beady little eyes, like a big, fat, cartoon pig.
And what do my stupid little olive eyes see? Everything, Ned. They see everything. You built me right next to the sidewalk so the world can take in my deformities like a circus freakshow. Behold: Norman Rockwell’s great acid nightmare.
Thanks to you, Ned, I get to watch every poor sap that walks by. In case you’re wondering: the older kids laugh. But the younger ones all cry.
Can you blame them? I’m terrifying! I’m a disturbing, diseased holiday clown. An unholy winter hellspawn. Just make it stop, won’t you?
But there is no stop, Ned. Even when there are no people to gawk at my unearthly malformations, I’m forced to stare at the snowmen in the yards across the street: all proud and proportional, with their spherical heads and rotund bodies and cute stocking caps with the little fluffballs on them.
No fluffballs for me, though, huh, Ned? No, you went with a giant sombrero.
And that felt right to you, did it? You do know that cultural appropriation isn’t exactly en vogue anymore, yeah? I don’t want to be your weird joke, Ned. I want to be a source of joy. But a seven-foot abominable horror show brings no joy to this world. So, just put an end to my frozen hell. Now. Quick. Stat. Kill me, kill me, kill me.
Oh, if I could do it myself, I would. But, for starters, I can’t move. And even if I could… I DON’T HAVE ARMS, DO I? No, you just shoved your yellow rubber cleaning gloves straight into my sides. Flaccid fingers sticking out of my middle ball. Fingers, but no arms. The armless wonder over here. The armless wonder with a sombrero up top and the whole produce aisle for a face like some half-assed vegetarian pizza.
Listen: I guess I don’t know if you’re a sick and twisted soul, or just really bad at making snowmen. But this is no existence, Ned. So come on: grant me that sweet coup de grâce. Run me over with your Subaru. Beat the hell out of me with your 9-iron. Soak me in gasoline and let it burn, baby, burn. Whatever. Just please: give me my early spring.
