Mr. Snowman and Snowma’am were happily wedded homeowners of Snow World: the land of packed stacked balls, buttoned eyes and pointy orange noses. Together, they spawned a snowbaby: or an empty-headed ice cube. Despite the frozen atoms, his pliable brain was ripe for indoctrination.
First, Snowma’am “educated” him on religion: claiming he’s special while tip-toeing around conspiracies like “evolution.”
“Mom, why are there no photos of you and Dad when you were empty-headed snowchildren?” Snowchild asked.
Snowma’am wanted to say, “we were rolled up from fallen snow because Snow World prohibited snowsex after the 1992 snowball chordling incident. We couldn’t secretly deflower ourselves either because of our surveillance state enforcing genital curfew by sniper. But, we lobbied for reinstating snowsex, and after the state complied, you popped out of my Snowgina!” Instead, she reduced her reply to “Oh, don’t worry my sweet boy. All you should know is Snowgod created us, he loves us, and like the state, he’s watching your every move.”
Snowchild obediently absorbed her reductionist brainwashing and went to play with his snowfriends. “So… have you ever pulled your carrot?” Snowchild’s friend asked him holding a SNOWPLAY: Snowmen’s Magazine (Limited Christmas Edition).
“Yeah dude, I snort some snow while doing it. It really elevates the sensation, ja feel?” Snowfriend righteously tooted.
Snow child asked, “what is this ‘snow’?”
“Oh, you gotta try it! Just violently inhale it up your chlorine-treated shelf-stable baby-carrot snose. It’ll make you feel things you didn’t know you liked.” suggested the snowfriend.
Upon handling the hand of white powder, Snowchild accidentally dropped it on his snow-abdomen. Being the same colour, it was difficult to find. “Hey, don’t worry man, it happens often! I haven’t been able to find the 3 Mentos, a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and 2 ½ tablespoons of bird shit stuck to me since we met,” Snowfriend assured while uttering troublesome statements.
Snowchild rolled home and asked, “hey Dad, if igloos are made of snow, and I’m made of snow, am I made of igloo, or is the igloo made of snowflesh?” (Mr. Snowman was gawky compared to Snowma’am, repeating jokes like: “What do you call a frozen, tired oar? A snore!” followed by explanations like “oh, and the oar has sleep apnea.”) Attempting to conceal his perturbed reaction to Snowchild’s question, Mr. Snowman replied “don’t ask deep questions my delicate snowflake.”
Snowchild hated being called a delicate snowflake. It was an unnecessary adjective combined with a belittling noun-turned-adjective. More than inaccurate name-calling, Snowchild hated literary conundrums. He silenced his “deep” questions as he grew into a snow-adult, snow-student, snow-cashier, snow shovel (promoted to snow-blower), snow-groom, snow-divorcee, and snow-retiree (often called a “snold-fart”).
As he tumbled through the unforgiving, indifferent, meaningless snowiverse, he pondered questions like:
- Why do the tax-snowmen and rich-snowmen hoard our capital while having us squabble on menial discourse?
- Why does my mental health correlate with my economic prosperity and academic ability?
- Why is the only snowman who wears a top hat named Frosty? Shouldn’t the hat make him warmer?
Inconspicuously, everyone in Snow World accepted they would melt away in the judgement-day event named “Spring.” It wasn’t delivered by Snowgod, but rather, the Groundhog. As the snow-businessmen, snow-politicians, snow-bankers, snow-journalists, snow-prostitutes, snow-military-generals, and snow-snow-dealers melted, the Groundhog rolled over to Snow World—Sonic-style—where the snowmen once roamed. On the ground, he discovered a framed photo of an ice cube, picking it up to examine it.
With the clouds parting ways to reveals a searingly vibrant sunrise, he examined the world before him, shedding a tear; all he saw, was a pond.