Hey, it’s the ole’ Beetlejuice Club-House comin’ your way From Fenton, Missouri– for a real night “down at the bug-zapper”, call your friends over the ole’ CB and come on dawwwooon! Just across from the porno-store with the big, neon red-lips for cougar-town sin and a roll in the trailer, bouncing-around on the struts.
And who brought the beer?
The wife at home, Kayleen– told you to go to Walmart to buy a pack of Huggies, but then you start lookin’ around like a low-down cai-ote and suppose you could use a little bit of action. What’s a working-man to do? You fraudulently collect about six or seven disability checks, all while banking on that big lawsuit for that plate they put in your head, since the asbestos factory closed-down.
Yes, a holler and git-fiddle down all the haunted-highways as he leans at the bar, and gritches the flint on the ole’ cigarette lighter like the devil’s been chasing you, for idle time as it’s good to lean on the pick and hoot the breeze.
All the wayfarin’ small-joy pleasures that mostly amounts to plastic, sugar, and Easter-looking starch down at the ole’ dollar-store, as look at me– I’m a millionaire! Life is rich in thoughtless unsophistication– and it’s glorious for the American simpleton, leaned-up against the pool table with crossed-ankles and a striped-jacket like a kid.
You gonna finish that beer?