Everyone knows, that “Super Bowl” season is THE TIME, when the broadcasters air their best commercials on “GAME DAY”, and how “it’s no exception” around these parts. Hey, I’m my own “walking/talking commercial” for my fantabulous ideas. Beaming to you, a dream—so obscene. . . . . smokin’ and croakin’ as THE GHOST WITH THE MOST celebrates the big game in his own way as it’s “The Continuing Adventures of Beetlejuice”.
Lurking down-low in the ole’ Midwestern region you know so well, as St. Louis “is the best hole, in the ground” next to anywhere, down there in that swell of fetid apartment-complexes. It would make you think of the refugees crawling-out of the wreckage of trailer-park tornados. To describe, it? The world of the marginal working-poor? Well, it’s an inverted, mirror existence going on through the margins of what we call, respectable—as everything is a discounted reflection, “ghosts of existence” bumped along, like stray twigs and leaves—and dropped-off in this sleepy domicile. It’s the touchstone of American legend that never goes away, the kind of elements who would cheer at a hanging, if not getting “strung-up” themselves as low-lives and comic foils.
Beetlejuice slumps in a chair and gurgles-back with his hands, crossed over his tidy little pot-belly, wearing the striped-suit as always, maybe a football cap like a hang-dog hyena, his hair in a nimbus.
A bowl of roaches, sits before him.
That is, “instead of Nachos”.
And also on this provident “Game Day” spread—fried “bat-wings” in place of the chicken wings humanity usually scarfs-down, only he dips them in embalming fluid.
There is “Cousin Hugo”, dressed-up like John Wayne Gacy, “a killer-klown” and another cousin, named “Unknown Hinson”. Think of a ghoulish cable-television installer in a jiffy hat and vampric fangs who got him connected “on the wire”, Just “Charter” but we’re still a society of line-men and cable-fraudsters, standing up on ladders—up to mysterious mischief.
But here, as they snack down with juicy, pregnant relish on the big day. You see, these guys “cover the angles” with sports-betting, talking into cell-phones and negotiating, with “Grim Master Fate”, over the money they largely, “don’t have”.
“A sure thing”, like a pyramid of tapped-suckers. Five dollars here, a ten-spot there—all amounting to a rickety investment-scheme as “double your money”, or else the miscreants, here “will definitely have their asses, kicked”. For a real nigh “down at the ole’ bug-zapper” as you know him, best.
The honking horn, and there his old truck rattles by, with giant bumpers held-up with baling-wire, spit, and a prayer as he certainly ran-off with all those NFL jerseys, that “fell off the cart”. Or so they say.
Where you’ll see him, you’ll find the lights, the action, the carnival of greedy human folly, “A DISCOUNT” like “a real pal”, as “here today, gone to hell” for long-term commitments as he’s always moving around, “from town to town” as wallets go missing, and “deeds” to plots, and not always “the burial kind” where he’d fit in around these parts “like kid gloves”. . . . . or the hocking hoof of Satan’s younger brother, walking the earth down here in our locality, of all places like flies to shit.
Ask him, and he’ll respond “with that modern-dodge” of what he does, for a living”.
There, hocking and spitting into his coat in a haze of malingering sleaze, wondering if he “can bum one of those coffin-nails, off of you” as he’s a house-caller, a junk-hauler, a fiendish gamble—a confidence man who will “sing to the praises of the world”, while stripping the copper fixtures from your house.
The door-bell rings with spooky chimes, and there—the pizzas arrive, covered in stink-bugs and roadkill. It was described as “the pizza special”, or maybe just “a special pizza” as a face, lights-up on the pie “like the man in the moon”, or a kind of genie of “wish-fulfillment” like a supernatural scratcher’s sweepstakes, “proofs of purchase” and the lottery for instant prizes and cash.
Perhaps, an order from “Mystic Pizza”.
And there, the ner’do’wells grip their betting slips in this lurid, cozy little room.
Beetlejuice practically wishes, “he could have a front-seat on the action”, be part of “the glory” as his friends are getting “really stoked”.
“Your wish is half-granted”.
Announcing the teams:
Why, it’s “The Netherworld Vultures” vs. “The Graveside Maggots” in the most anticipated series, you’d catch since the Wiccans battled the Fundamentalists last Halloween for one acrimonious piece of “spiritual warfare”. Gothic pom-pom girls in heavy eye-shadow, shake out the poms beneath the scoreboard, lighting-up with ads—always sponsored by Coca-Cola and Budweiser beer as hell makes anyone, thirsty after-all. Hell without, or “hell on earth” as it’s always the same.
And there’s “the coin-toss”, as the scoreboard lights up the graveyard in stark relief. That’s “the field”, what might as well be as cursed as an Indian burial ground, or maybe a Civil War Battlefield as death, and the marketing of death, is a particularly American institution, as gory and ookey as melted candy and a puddle of puke for all the angry sweat of customers he ever ripped-off.
But the great “Grim Master Fate” will tell you, “all’s fair, that ends here—for you and for me”. No one cheats “fate”, though certainly we know people “who haggle, and pilfer” as a side-job, as Beetlejuice is somewhere “low in demon world’s regiment”.
The earth shakes, and up rise the players. Ghouls, werewolves, behemoths with heads stitched onto bleeding necks “like real Frankenstein bruisers”, as fans hold-up foam gravestones in the audience.
Give me a “B”, an “E”, an “E”, a “T”, an “L”, an “E” and a “J”, a “U”, an “I”, a “C”, and an “E”. WHAT DOES THAT SPELL? BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!”
“Oh, no”, Beetlejuice says—witnesses-it back in front of the television.
He zaps-down through the floor, in an ookey shaft of light and rises again—there, on the field as 100 million fans watch on television, to see him in “a striped referee-suit”, judger and bookmaker and ironic-justice, “all rolled into one” as you “can’t cheat karma” or Dantean justice.
“It’s my day off!”.
But “death takes no holiday”.
A grumbling, among the players as they push and shove our ref, pile-driving him straight into into the dirt like wrestlers.
He rises to his feet, now a ghoul in a devil-costume holding a trident. Kid-brother to Satan, taking on his role as “dealer” as He traces “the fates” in the dirt, the coin-toss—and heads collide
(They’re not “too bright”).
Instinct takes-over, a creature of mischief. Beetlejuice picks-up the pig-skin “and feints-away” to the roar of the crowd, tucking it under his arm “and sneaking-off” with exaggerated steps. before getting smashed by a golf-cart, one of those sort of “line-painters” on the sidelines.
And there, as he flies through the air with freakish, ghostly physics and lands in the ice-bucket by the bench ,struggling there with his kicking-legs.
Forked-tailed henchmen gather and chitter in the gibbitude of Satanic apes, and the owner himself—Lucifer in a wide Stetson-hat. applies a lit-cigar to his hindquarters as his pants smoke and Beetlejuice howls in the ice-water.
A rumbling in the earth. And there Beetlejuice rockets out of the stadium, butt-first like a smoking, streaking meteorite as he cycles down lands back on the 50 yard-line.
Stop the delay!
And then the kick-off, Beetlejuice kicked in the butt—and his body whipsawing over the turf, and his head snaps-off—falling into the hands of the receiver. Muffled-up under the player’s arms with his horned skull, giving advice out the side of his mouth like a coach—
“Look out, player to your left—keep going—I got money on this game!”
His head, slapped and knocked-around, muffled up in the player’s arm-pit until the two fall under a giant pile-up. That must be about 5000 pounds of crushing human meat–
And there, the head pops-free, jaw-agaw and rolling off into a gopher-hole as the play is ruled, “out of bounds” and dollars shoot-up from the ground, like bones and innards back to the general air of things.
He feels them, “so knock on wood”. Be sporting, and visit us next time as give me some hell, give me some beer, give me comic justice, give me some cheer—as what’s that name? Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! A sure bet, “for a movie sequel, somewhere” as we stay true to the ole’ “rag and bone” circuit of amateur promotions. Until next-time, don’t you go changin’.