A snippet of prose - nothing to do with Snowbooks; it just falls into the category of so clever it makes me grin involuntarily. The Producer of a merciless, celebrity-exposé TV show briefs a researcher on what she's looking for:
"Anything that might be of interest to [our] audience. Which is best visualised as a vicious, lazy, profoundly ignorant, perpetually hungry organism craving the warm god-flesh of the anointed. Personally I like to imagine something the size of a baby hippo, the color of a week-old boiled potato, that lives by itself, in the dark, in a double-wide on the outskirts of Topeka. It's covered with eyes and it sweats constantly. The sweat runs into those eyes and makes them sting. It has no mouth, no genitals, and can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote. Or by voting in presidential elections."