Snow Ain't-So-White: Greetings from Fiction Class
You can't
blame me for Lord White's passing. Look,
when I married the old goat, he already had one foot in the musty grave and the
other on a slippery banana peel. Sure,
he left me this charming mansion, but I worked my ever-loving butt off for this
place. For god's sake, the man was
ancient. He had more wrinkles than a
Shar-Pei.
Don't forget, he also left me that brat of a daughter. Snow. You heard me right: Snow. What kind of a whacko names his kid after precipitation? And what kind of name is that for a princess? Why not cut right to the chase and name her Flake? That's right, I said it. The girl is a flake. She talks to midgets. Oh, pardon me - dwarfs. The Flake talks to dwarfs.
I wish she'd just choke herself and do us all a favor. Maybe one day when she's eating a plum or a peach or Bing cherries, she'll inhale the wrong way. That would be sweet. What's that you say? An apple? An apple?! Apple seeds aren't big enough to get wedged in her throat, you blithering idiot. What? The core? Right, because everyone knows how common core-eating is. Poison? Now you're talking. Now, there's an idea I can live with. Live with… get it?
That's rich. Ha, and so am I, or will be, if I can just find a way to make Princess Snowflake melt away permanently.
I'm so glad we had this chance to chat. Now tell me truly, Mirror, who is the fairest in all the land?
