Back in the 80s my DPs sensibly didn't buy me Mr Frosty, thus scarring me for life and setting me on a road to be the ultimate Christmas consumer of mindless tat.
So my DH bought it for me one Christmas thus condemning me to years of ice-grinding mum-slavery. My dc adore the stupid plastic grinning idiot, and wheedle, beg and cajole me to turn the unturnable-by-any-child-ever hand crank to crush a thimbleful of ice despite there being a perfectly functional blender available to make glassfuls of ice in seconds.