Frosty's Last Stand...

I swear if we get any more snow here in Maine I’m going to paintball Frosty the Snowman.

I’m pretty sure it’s his fault. Yeah, yeah, he dances around in that big ole black top hat of his singing about winter magic and all that poop, but can you really trust a guy not wearing any pants in zero-degree weather?

I kinda doubt it. I’m thinkin’ we got lucky enough the only carrot on his chubby white person was used for his nose. But I digress.

It’s his fault Maine got over 100 inches of white stuff and are still getting more even halfway through March. It’s not widely known but he and Santa…well, let’s not go there, but just say politics invaded the North Pole big time. It’s tough with Christmas icons. Everybody wants to be top reindeer. Even that red-nosed upstart instigated a hostile takeover. If not for a polar bear swallowing that little dentist elf I don’t know what might have happened there.

But Frosty has been unhappy for quite a spell now. No matter his big talk of “magic winter snow” and all that happy horse crap. He wanted it all. Nearly had it all. It took a good fifty elves and a half-dozen reindeer to pull Santa’s big red ass out of a slow-roaster that “mysteriously” got jammed into the workshop chimney.

It’s probably a good thing the ho ho ho guy had those compromising photos of Frosty and Jack Frost, else a second attempt might have succeeded. Who knew Jack wasn’t as frigid as he pretended to be?

At any rate, Frosty was exiled and headed south. To Maine. And maybe Ohio.

Why get all Christmasy so near St. Paddy’s Day? Well, because we’re scheduled for another inch or two of fresh fallen poo-powder tonight.

So I’m thinkin’ blue for the paintball color. Can’t be totally heartless and at least Frosty will still have the option of joining Blue Man Group after his holiday gig goes bust. But his big white butt is mine.

Happy frickin’ birthday, indeed…