Dan Burt – Comedy Writer

I’ve seen a snuff film before and I don’t know why any­body would get a thrill from it. The movie I watched just showed three old ladies stand­ing in the kitchen wash­ing laun­dry in tubs. They  gos­siped inces­santly and dipped snuff slop­pily. They got that shit every­where. Snuff juice was drip­ping from their chins and into the laun­dry tubs. The table was slimed with snuff spit.

Every now and then you’d hear anguished screams ema­nat­ing from off cam­era. Then this huge, mask-wearing, leather-clad per­son would lum­ber in laden with wet, stained clothes. He would grunt and shove the bloody bun­dle at the old ladies. They would divide the gar­ments up, drop them in their tubs, and start scrub­bing. By the end, I got so sick of lis­ten­ing to those snuff-smeared women gos­sip, I was hop­ing they’d dis­ap­pear off cam­era, too, but they didn’t. They even­tu­ally moved to the front porch where they sat rock­ing in their rock­ing chairs, shelling peas, and, of course, dip­ping snuff. Now that I think about it, I may have been watch­ing a home movie because those old women looked famil­iar and the film didn’t really have a plot.