Sick of tradition, Frosty tosses his corn cob pipe into the fire. As he does, a bit of his arm gets over-warm and sloughs off as slush on the bearskin rug.
“Typical,” Frosty mutters. He shuffles back a few feet. He would sweat nervously if he could afford it, but the Californian winter, ever short on snow, is even sunnier than usual.
He has an itch he can’t scratch on the top of his head. He’d hang his hat on the rack by the door, but Frosty the Cabin lacks the same musicality, and he knows he’s nothing if not song.