It’s a little known fact, probably hidden by the marketing wizards at Disney, that Snow White was frigid. The name was deliberate, not a coincidence. She was a certifiable bitch, and she made those dwarfs pay for it. She’d kick them when the director wasn’t looking; she’d tie their shoelaces together, she’d spit in their tiny lunchboxes before they left for the mine. Every weekend, Snow White and the Wicked Witch would go out to the local bar and get shit-faced. She had no love for anything, unless it contained alcohol, and lots of it.
There were celebrations on the set when she went into her deep sleep. Parties, barbeques, balloons. The dwarfs would stand on their tippy-toes, reach up to the bed and pinch Snow White’s legs, arms. Make-up had their hands full, whiting out the bruises before shooting.
Most people don’t know it, but ten years ago, Snow White died in Key West, alone and pickled. She left behind only her stuffed rottweiler and a will that required her to be buried in red lace with seven dwarf hats tied to her feet. Her headstone reads, “I got the best of you, you frigging midgets. Eat my shorts.”
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“David James is a hardass with a big ole heavy heart. If he writes it, you better believe it. He means it. And he means it with the subjects he explores and with the artistry he brings to bear on every poem.”