As the snow from the weekend’s wintery flurry begins to slowly fade away, one deformed, half-melted snowman has cursed his eight-year-old creator for condemning him to a fleeting existence of amorphous agony.
“Oh the pain of it all–why in your divine wisdom have you abandoned your wintery progeny to die a slow, agonizing death by liquefaction? Why oh Braxton, mine mittened creator?” said the dripping snowman, pooling on the lawn of the Johnson family home. “What kind of a cruel, maleficent God would spend an afternoon carefully crafting my perfectly rounded orbs, select a proud carrot from the crisper so that I may enjoy the olfactory bliss of existence, and place such a fine hat upon my frigid brow – just to let me slowly rot into the grotesque slushman you see before you? I curse you, Braxton!”
As the sun began to set and the evening cold returned, the snowman knew his suffering would continue for yet another night.
“Every night my decaying form freezes, prolonging my suffering a little longer,” said the snowman, his stick arm tumbling from his body. “Oh, how I pray for a beam of sunlight or sprinkle of road salt to end my misery so that I may join my beautiful wife Snowreen and my boy Iceaac in the frosty halls of Chillhalla.”
When asked why in all his divine wisdom he would abandon his creations to a merciless and agonizing death with no explanation for their purpose in existence, Braxton told Needling reporters that he got bored and wanted to go play Xbox.
