There’s often a “Frosty’s Heating and Cooling” van driving around my neighborhood. It’s the adult version of an ice-cream truck. If I owned the company, I’d change the name to “Frosty and Sunny’s Heating and Cooling” because there’s no way I’m taking heating advice from a guy named Frosty. Cooling, yes—Frosty knows his stuff about cooling. But heating? Ridiculous.
SHIVERING MOM: “Is it fixed?”
FROSTY: “All done.”
SHIVERING MOM: “But it’s still freezing in here.”
FROSTY: “Are you kidding? My carrot nose almost fell off, and I just left a clump of my ass in the kitchen. “
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