With the warmer weather comes many dilemmas. While some concern themselves with deciding the appropriate time to begin grilling meats in public, I have larger concerns. Inside my freezer sits the head of a winter snowman. Charcoal eyes, carrot nose, jolly disposition, the whole deal.

I found him, or his head, back in January sprawled out on the sidewalk by some older kids with too much free time. He was dazed but still alive. His body, however, had been thoroughly smashed. Lacking the knowledge to construct a snowman body myself, I scooped up his head and ran home.

It took him a long time to come around. I was grateful because for the first few days I panicked and had set him inside one of those styrofoam coolers and dumped leftover soft drink ice on him every few hours (what do I know about caring for a snow man’s head?). Eventually I transferred him to the freezer. He rests now between the Hungry Man dinners and some rolls of Kodak 800 speed film I stole from a Chinese man.

The problem is, I haven’t told him what happened. It appears his mind blocked out the attack entirely. It’s nice having him around, don’t get me wrong. He’s always ready with a song or an interesting fact about the holidays whenever I open the freezer. And so long as I keep the temperature dial on a 6 or colder, he’s lucid.

But it’s May. How do I tell him all the snow has melted? That everything he knew and loved has literally evaporated. That it’s not simply too cold to feel his body, his body isn’t even there. That his body is, in all likelihood, passing through the bladder of a bloated Ukrainian man. How do I tell him I am moving to New Mexico and have socks that need freezing? What if he gets mad and contacts the authorities about my packs of dolphin meat?

I just want it to get cold again so I can push the 800lbs. freezer out into a field and release the snowman head and all the Stouffer’s frozen fish dinners I bought with a coupon out into the wild and be done with it.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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