It’s been a long while since I believed in Santa Claus. I was the last kid in my fourth grade class to concede that Old Saint Nick was merely a figment of my parents’ well-meaning but rather manipulative imaginations. Why would my trusted mother make up such an immensely complicated lie? Whose bells were actually jingling the year he couldn’t make it on time and I had to sit in the den with the door closed watching Fraggle Rock while “Santa” delivered my presents? In truth, I was mildly terrified of the jolly old fat man who my mother insisted “got very angry with children who tried to spy on him,” so much so, I made her hold my hand walking down the shag carpet stairs one year because I had this image of Kris Kringle turning into something resembling Galadriel the elf queen when she gets a hold of that damn ring that was always causing so many problems - you know the part when Cate Blanchett turns from ethereal to demonic and freaks the fuck out of poor Frodo? (Guess he didn’t go to Jared).

Anyway, after the lie about Father Christmas was finally revealed to me, it all went downhill from there. Logically I began to question nearly every detail once purported to me as gospel about my childhood icons.

I became so downtrodden with the multitude of fabrications my parental units had bestowed upon me in the name of yuletide, my adolescent walls of sugar plums came crashing down around me like a type 2 diabetic attack. But this time, insulin wouldn’t save the day. The falsehoods needed to be revealed. The truth needed to be espoused one way or another and I wouldn’t rest until the shroud of holiday horse shit was lifted off of all the other impressionable minds around me. Here is one to get you started:

Part One: Frosty the Snowman Was a Letch
A fat stub of a wet cigar perched between his lips wet where his corncob pipe should have been. He wore a sports jacket and a button down yellow shirt with a duck on the lapel. He coughed like a TB-divorcee on his way to rehab for the third time in nine months, but something in those coal-colored eyes lured me in from across the hazy bar.

“What’s your poison?” He asked.

“A vodka martini, dirty, in all the right places.” I purred.

“What’s your name kitten,” he whispered into my ear.

“I’m the DC Damsel. You can call me Dee Dee for short. And you are?”

“Frosty,” he said, “Frosty the Snowman.”

“Well Frosty, what brings you to these parts on such a cold winter’s night?”

“I’ve been looking for a little magic doll, in this old silk hat I found.”

“Care to dance?” I asked.

“Certainly.”

He twirled me like an ice princess there on the grungy floor of the Broomstick Bar, and as I fell into his graceful stick-like arms, I couldn’t help but wonder, if the fairy tale romance I had so long dreamed of wasn’t about to come true.

“How about I walk you home Dee Dee?”

“I’d really like that Frosty.”

And before I knew it we were walking the streets, arm in arm, pausing for long, cool kisses along the way.”

“Would you like to come up?” I asked.

“As sure as you melt my heart sweet thing.”

As we sipped on our buttered rums, I could tell he was starting to feel their steamy effects.

And before I knew it, our frozen fondling had gone too far.

“Don’t make me regret this night Frosty” I said as I took a post-coital pull off my Marlboro Light.

“Dee Dee, baby, I’ll never let you go.”

Relieved and satiated, I fell into a deep sleep. Had I finally found the one? Could his icy exterior really hold the key to all of my holiday happiness and beyond?”

THUMPITY

THUMP

THUMPITY

THUMP THUMP

“What the?!”

Something had startled me awake and as I stood there with my teeth chattering I noticed the window was wide open. I ran to it and stared down the seven stories.

“He couldn’t have…”

“He wouldn’t have…” I stuttered.

How could he have ever survived that jump?!

As I turned around and scoured my tiny studio apartment for clues, I saw it, in a heap in the corner. It was Frosty’s fedora with a post-it note stuck to the brim.

A shiver passed through me.

I clutched the yellow note in my hand and began to read.

“Thanks for tonight doll. I’ll never forget it. But I’m just not the kind of guy to be tied down. I’m not a one woman kind of snowman. I’m going through a selfish phase and I really need to concentrate on me right now. I’m sure you understand. Good luck Dee Dee, we’ll always have tonight.”

Who in the hell did that snowman think he was?!

He thinks he can just come into my life and laugh and play and duck out the back as soon as things start to heat up a little?

Motherfucker.

Frosty was sure right about one thing though, I never would forget that night.

Every time it began to flurry, small vengeful tears trickled from my eyes.

Snot-filled icicles hung resentfully from my nose.

On my weaker nights, after a few spiced rums, I’d send him lovelorn text messages from my iPhone. But I never did hear back from him and after a while I realized the number he had slipped me was for the Cold Stone down the street.

On my angrier nights I’d stare at my hair dyer, nurturing violent fantasies of the snowman’s silent screams as I melted him down to nothing more than a puddle on the floor and a pair of red licorice lips.

No Frosty, you won’t come back to life one day, not if I have anything to say about it.