Karen constructs an elaborate proof (“That hat + Frosty = alive, hat = magic, OMG shoes”), while Tinkle, a fan of Richard Dawkins, whips out his copy of The God Delusion and argues in the name of science. Not really. To this inept David Coppperfield wannabe, the word “magic” is like Viagra. He’s instantly more alert and more erect, and wants to get his hands on anything that will make him a millionaire. Karen continues to theorize that the hat equals magic as a convenient gust of wind knocks the hat off Frosty’s head, killing him immediately. “Big deal,” scoffs Karen. “We only knew him for twenty seconds. Let’s go get gingerbread lattes at Starbucks, guys!”
Fine…I’ll continue. Tinkle grabs the wayward hat and claims ownership now that it’s “magical.” Karen protests that he threw it away like a baby born in the bathroom on prom night and that it’s no longer his to keep. The situation gets a little too To Catch a Predator as Tinkle reprimands Karen, calling her a naughty, naughty little girl. He flings Hocus Pocus back into the hat, zips up his pants, and denies ever seeing Frosty come to life, among other things. The children protest and Hocus gives Tinkle a piece of his mind.
Karen and the Balls assert that they all saw Frosty come to life, the latter in the weakest voices I’ve ever heard. Maybe puberty came early this year. Tinkle pulls the “children are idiots” card and patronizingly tells them that snowmen can’t come to life and that babies come out of vaginas.
The kids reassure Frosty that snowman life begins at ball rolling, and that there’s nothing they won’t do to get him back. Cue the Frosty song and Schnozzola again. Schnozzola asserts that the children are entirely in the right, that the hat belongs to Frosty. The Supreme Court will be having a hearing to reverse that ruling and Roe V. Wade soon. Even more frustrating, Schnozzy defends theft, as the rabbit swipes the top hat and replaces it with a Christmas wreath. Hocus Pocus hops back to the children and gets their attention with a whistle. Karen replicates the miracle of birth, and Frosty hollers “Happy Birthday!” yet again. I guess snowmen don’t really support the idea of tabula rasa. Nurture or nature? Nature or nurture? My head is gonna explode.
Frosty doesn’t know how to handle being alive, as he ponders how he can speak, string together sentences, poop snowballs, and sweep. He counts to ten. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9, 6, 8. He’s so MENSA material.
Sure, he can laugh and play like you and me. But he sure breaks out in a sweat faster than the average fatty. Frosty would totally be the star of The Biggest Loser. From the looks of the thermometer, the temperature went up by at least fifty degrees within two seconds. Shit!
Can snowmen get melanoma?