I’ve been looking at this thing every morning for weeks. My daughter made it at school and proudly brought it home and placed it on the dining room table.
“Look at my snowman, Babbo!”
Is that what it is? There’s something about the dead plastic eyes, unnaturally rosy cheeks, and vacant screaming mouth that I find unnerving. Or maybe it’s the spike thrust into its head, only enraging it further instead of putting it out of its misery. One arm is angled up in a gesture of hope while the other is snapped off at the elbow in a gruesome injury. Its eerie glowing nose can’t distract from its disgusting flattened physique. With a body like this, I’d expect it to be something left on the sidewalk by a ghost dog. Enlarged and placed on a divan with a fishbowl of froggy snacks by its side it could be Jabba the Hutt. This “snowman” screams out the horror of an undead existence and projects the ennui of a civilization and the unutterable sadness of eternal suffering.
“I love it, honey. Let’s put it over on that end of the table facing away from me.”