It’s that warm, fuzzy, fa-la-la-la-la-laaaa time of year, for holiday festivities, sugary treats, and joyful Christmas tales. So, imagine my shock last Friday morning, when I opened a box of Krispy Kreme donuts left on our firm’s kitchen table and saw THIS:

I know. My Gawd. What a horrific and gruesome crime scene. I’m sorry if you urped up even a little of your Monday morning coffee.

What de heck? It’s a headless Frosty the Snowman donut. And someone I work with is clearly a heartless psychopath.

Several of us did put our heads together and pretend that we were unrealistically attractive forensic squints and FBI agents for the renowned but fictitious Jeffersonion Institute.

Was it one of the guys?

Nah. They would have simply torn the head off with their bare hands, leaving harsh, jagged, doughy edges.

Do we have a cannibal in our midst? Are brains like the delicacy of donut snowmen?

Nah. Plus, we think serial killers are more turned on by ripping out the eyes of their victims.

There’s only one conclusion. It had to have been a staffer. One of us obsessive-compulsive neat freaks clearly used a knife to cleanly sever the head from the body. (By the way, that’s not blood. That’s Frosty’s *sniff* red wool scarf.)

It definitely wasn’t me, though. I only like the bloody raspberry filled ones.

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