The Netherworld Comet

Planet EARTH—like a ghost-ship sailing through space through the purple nebulae and corona of dragon’s breath through the home-world sun.

A haunted comet backlit by the pitiless twinkle of stars…… here, stirring a fetid muck-ball of despoiled waste and restless UNDEATH.

You’ll know it for the landfill of a planetary body as solar wind and phantom old television signals are picked-up through a static-sputtering television.

The cryptic stench—like the smell of rotting fruit and itchy flies amid so much foregone, doomed, damned detritus of human civilization. Compost, shredded newsprint—junk cars and grosser slag-heaps swarmed-over with roaches n’ beetles n’ lizards.

Nearby, a Styrofoam cooler and lawn chair as THE FIEND scratches at his crotch “like a real night down at the ole’ bug-zapper”. Six-pack, included—“a few cards short of a full deck”. Maybe you’d have “A JOKER” or just be “A Jack, off” as the King of Diamonds or maybe just THE ACE OF SPADES.

Dead time, funereal hours—tombstones for eyes like undead groans. For it’s “the trailer-park at the end of the universe” or maybe just the flip-side of late, great PLANET EARTH like a wormhole sock “turned inside-out” above the flaming inferno of purgatory’s structure.

Call it “THE NETHERWORLD”? Where death is the eternal agenda…….

You’ll have “just a ghost of chance”…… or about as much promise of passing through the gate of heaven as a roast fowl on the feasting table, a scatter of rib-cages and wishbones picked-cleaned by fiendish old-world gods dreamed out of H.P. Lovecraft’s “NECROCOMICON”.

A flutter through flapping pages of old “momma’s wish-books”, a black oozing creature of “not, if, absence” like a wave of indented garbage—an impression of menace. Not “THE HOLY SPIRIT” but the great “OOOK” of hungry inspiration.

It wraps its fist around Beetlejuice’s striped pants-leg and tugs “like a dog scratching to get out”.

More adventures to come, just a night in the life of our favorite putrid pus-bag of antic BEETLEJUICE—take a sip of the foaming green bile and hang on for one wild ride…….

Here’s a clip from “THE BONE-STRIPPER” from another movie, “never far away”…… be in judgement and awe, and don’t piss-off THE JUDGE!!!

 

Inspiration strikes! Let the void call-forth interest in “THE SEQUEL”…..

 

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The Netherworld Comet

Wheels of Time, Scales of Karma

  

“Heh, heh heh”. Takes a bite, don’t it?

  

“Another World” of Management

  

 

“Ah, the old rat-race”…..

 

“Keep the boss happy”…..

 

“There’s got to be a better way”

  

“I know– Infomercials!”

  

“Hello, Junior College– here I come”

  

“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice”

  

So begins a crash-course in eternal wisdom…..

Form follows function in this after-life, as true as a dung beetle up to its task of maintenance crew like a worm pit of reincarnation and renewal.

Let the scales of COSMIC JUSTICE fall where they may.

Chained to the “Karma Factory”, so to speak as dead wage-slaves trudge into work—your immortal relationship with the nature of eternity.

Further impacted into the stark burial of cycles, you’ll quickly learn “that death is no holiday”.

No rest for the wicked, nor solace for the deathly grind.

Death….. drudgery…. taxes….. SMOKE-BREAK.

Pull your own weight or disappear in a puff of smoke….. like Sylvia Sidney as Juno in office garb and pearls as she draws a jaded puff off of her cigarette and gives you an empty stare.

“Well, what did you expect?”.

And you can bet that the paperwork is horrendous– beyond the veil of the unseen—“behind the scenes” as platonic forms are given reality in the give-and-take “around death’s door”.

“We need a union”…..

There, strewn across the land-scape of hell of red-rock, ashes, and cinders amid rocky paths of career advancement. Adjust your clocks, set your engines—pay the price “and meet your spend-down” as an Elvira-like hostess gives you the video tour on the screen, there in the waiting room.

  

Death, your scythe-wielding recruiter. Satan, your middle-management. The CEO of the system, an evil, sucking, parasitical “vampire squid” which about describes “the beast in the details”.

Maybe “the spry” escape….. but only LIVING ON BORROWED TIME.

Can you outpace karma? Well certainly, Beetlejuice tries…. as a gamely parasite whom feasts off the naivete “of the next chump” who drops by his graveyard trailer. Like a bad 1970’s relic of discounted, horrific leisure-suits and used car-salesman tactics.

Refinance “a new lease on life” with this guy? Think again—he’ll be the fiend stirring over a vat of putrescent, rotting juices with a stick.  “Bad credit”, or “no credit?” HE’LL TAKE EVERYTHING “BUT THE SQUEAL”.

Like “turning shit into gold”….. your carcass “has to be worth something”.

Your “soul-salvage” guarantee OR NO MONEY BACK. Your market-clearing price.

We don’t make the rules, as you’ve got about as much luck as the prize vomited out of a gum-ball machine in a little plastic egg.

“WE MANUFACTURE IGNORANCE” and hold the key to death’s door, the flyer “should say”. He also moonlights as a bio-exorcist or “rented party-clown” whom drives out the living “for a song”.

He’ll even show up at shopping mall openings and sign autographs.

If you think he’s a shit-magnet for sinister money-making schemes, you ought to meet his nephew. Curdled-up and soured with a worthless community-college degree “like the younger, faster, smarter” tech-savvy side “putting the OLD SKOOL out to pasture”.

Suckers work retail….. enterprising bastards rig-up a kind of Bitcoin mining-operation when “a fake, homeless torso” gets kicked off the pavement of any street corner—a kind of “automatic beggar” covered with a blanket to mask its animatronic flimsiness, the cup of loose change overturned and emptied by opportunists.

Meanwhile, sharing rent with Uncle Beetlejuice when he would otherwise be fishing a dead possum out of the pool at some dead-end roach motel, LITERALLY.

There, a work-bench of thrumming, stripped-down computer components “sucking away” at every spare penny “in the ether of cloud-computing”, as dubious as any elaborate justification of NAPSTER-style downloading and curdled consumer parasitism or identiy-theft.

SPAMMING plays a big role, here. Dregs of unemployment, law of cyberspace.

Above it all, the twinkling stars never setting on this mysterious, glowing earth-ball and for what it all means other than the shifting tides of gravitation and appetite slowly and surely “grinding us down” with friction as we choke on exhaust and our own grime.

For he’ll hold the globe in the palm of his hand, like an evil grinning joker.  Don’t knock the pulsing, cosmic-waves out of cycle…. losing extra seconds and threatening to bring the fabric of existence crashing down. Geometric occult mysticism? Fractal time-wave ZERO? Or just a solar riddle?

Find out more in the sequel to Beetlejuice currently percolating in development…..

  

    

Wheels of Time, Scales of Karma

Clown College for Dummies

Ranting & raving through the night, either a sick twisted misfit pacing outside of a “Radio Shack” or late-night attendee of CLOWN COLLEGE down at the local community center. Many are called, fewer are HIRED…. like a 12-step program of unemployed commiseration with backward-turned chairs and sobering stories of a brutal, “unfloppy” job market. These days you can watch “clowns” all the time– whether a personal v-logger’s YouTube channel or old re-run’s of MTV’S “Jackass”. Pretty much “a non-starter” for most unresourceful boneheads, so it’s said “that some take-up the mantle of screenplay-writing”.

Don’t be “that guy”….. be a lottery scratch-off winner!

An Unnatural History of Evil Clowns…..  http://bit.ly/2F4f0pP

 

“Hey buddy– bum a cigarette off of you?”

Will the real untold clown stand up?

Why, it’s drudgery– “ON SPEC!!!”

See, you’re learning already!

 

  

“Genius in Motion”….. Ain’t “Clownin’ Around”!!! A sample of the “Beetlejuice 2” Script:

bj2_teaser_1point3_wga

Clown College for Dummies

Haunted Valentine to the Video Graveyard

Lurking in near-distant memory, the bygone video store.

You shall know it by the blue awning above the doors, which typically read “BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO”. And with a whiff of cleaning agents through the air-conditioned breeze, in you went.

Imagine this—winding reels of magnetic-tape encased inside this thing called “the video-cassette”. It played in a boxy thing called a “VCR”.

Back then. . . . . . there was no such thing “as playlists”. Or optional subtitles.

Your video tape was a mass-produced item replicated and packaged over an assembly-line with stacks of them piled everywhere, warehouse-side.

What you see is what you get.

Each video tape playing the exact same thing out of each identical box. Clunky, linear—your movie “played straight through” from beginning to end. You could expect a certain order of content.

First—black silence.

Then the FBI Copyright Warning—PIRATES, BEWARE!

Maybe some previews. . . . . . some ads? And the movie itself.

Other than the fast-forward button, YOU WERE STUCK.

“BE KIND, PLEASE REWIND”.

You may as well be sketching on a Cuneiform clay tablet with a stick and baking them in some ancient Mesopotamian kiln when you think of the implications.

Making your own tapes “was another story”.

Each piece of footage, say—you taped-off of t.v. had to appear in a front-to-back sequence, AS YOU DID THE PHYSICAL ACT OF TAPING. If that magnetizing strip did not pass over your video-tape, then nothing was saved.

Nothing. Nada. END OF STORY.

Just a little history lesson. . . . . . are your eyes glazing over, yet?

your choice was TO BUY A VIDEO-CASSETTE. . . . . OR RENT A VIDEO-CASSETTE.

As for yourself– what else was a teenager going to do on a Friday night—trapped in the arm-pit of civilization and seeking R-rated validation?

“R”. . . . . as in RED-MEAT. Or REAL. Or REVELANT to the modern manly condition.

Namely, you had the ole’ video-store ball on Friday night, heading down to the place that rented you wish-fulfillment.

YOU HAD OPTIONS.

YOU HAD ESCAPE from sheltered, milquetoast existence—being a fevered, middle-class brat with romanticized megalomania and a nattering, Bette Midler-type mother with a credit card.

This, as the marquee of circling popcorn lights sat as an open invitation “to pay the cover”, down at the video emporium. Your local doorway “to glitz”, a thousand video boxes of lazy purview.

The poster and video-box art “did half of the convincing” as you cavorted among “the sizzle” and were sold “the steak”.

A crazy, twisted mirror reflection of your fantasy life and the unverbalized American underbelly.

Usually, the worse the movie the more outrageous and overstated the box. . . . . wallowing in a sea of retarded sexuality and violent revenge. All your hopes and aspirations.

And to say, “one was disenfranchised”, let the scene speak for itself.

If you wanted a rubber, slit-eyed monster with a gruesome grin of sharp teeth, the box wouldn’t lie to you. Even if this low-budget feature “didn’t have much else going for it”, you couldn’t mistake “what you were getting”.

A monster, as promised. A gimmick? Maybe some naked boobs.

The producers will unmistakably bring you a beast. Just not necessarily a high-quality product, but the monster featured prominently on the box SO THERE COULD BE NO MISCONCEPTION THAT YOU WERE GETTING WHAT YOU PAID FOR.

(– And maybe less)

Present the clerk your video card. More titles were coming out all the time.

Even as said viewer settled into the sweet shores of weekend like shuddering, orgiastic release. . . . . .

“This was the time, this was the place”.  Laying down your worries and cares and pent-up stresses.

Now the VCR did the work FOR YOU— It was here that “the division of labor” dropped us in a magnetic funnel of leisure and how we collapsed, glassy-eyed, like a pile of dead, rotten fish.

Whatever one’s beleaguered station in life, you didn’t want to be morally or intellectually challenged, confronted, or made to think. The hardest question you should ask is how many toppings to put on your home-delivered pizza as you ordered over the phone.

The party and good times BROUGHT TO YOU. Here we are now, entertain us!

And where there’s a crowd there’s always a marketing opportunity. The brightest, foremost minds in advertising had your attention, a captive audience in the brief moments before the movie—and roughly reckoned your demographic as part of the teeming millions.

“Hello friend…..”

It assured you of a couple of things, namely “you’re fine just the way you are”—your untroubled right to curl up upon your favorite spot on the couch “and take it easy”.

It flattered “your rather obvious station”. A mature and discerning viewer, obviously….. the weekend video warrior reveling in the overthrow of responsibility, there in one’s greedy, splayed-out inertia.

All the wishes and aspirations of your subject, in that “lowest common-denominator sense” mirrored through this controlled media presentation. Phrased in a straight-forward way as any simpleton could understand.

Marketing psychology: establish “viewer sympathy” like an experiment showing gorillas a film-strip of other gorillas plucking bananas from the tree and unpeeling them, frolicking in nature.

That could essentially be described as a bored, lonely viewer “plugged-in” to a kind of “Publishing Clearing House” grand prize winner mentality—hapless you “WINNING BIG” in the delightful virtual shopping mall one part “Wheel of Fortune” luck and Donald Trump glitz, perhaps the average man’s conception of how a rich, successful, and fabulous person lives.

Lots of gold and glib “personal success stories”, more hot air than brutal application. How sweeter “the easy answers” spoon-fed to the perked-up viewer. Just “a man off the street”, no special study or preparation invested, roused to meet “the gimmick” via touch-tone phone.

Happy associations….. for who wanted to be told “life was HARD”?

Many social philosophers would argue THE SYSTEM WAS MAD.

The society of the spectacle, military build-up as wars always raged somewhere across the globe. . . . . the masses crowing into stadiums for sporting events.

Just some were trillionaires in the upper reaches of Wall Street even while bums slept on cold, windy corners and America’s debt-clock climbed to astonishing levels of insolubility….. I could not say.

Hard questions for another time. . . . .

Propped-up, a lazy little shit in a nice middle-class household. Don’t expect me or anybody “morally-justify it” but dammnit—if you liked low-impact entertainment at the end of a hard week, the video store was the ticket.

We don’t pretend to be moral philosophers….. crushing a beer-can against your noggin.

As if you could really be caught expecting expecting us “to write the great American novel” or much else wholesome, hardly crawling out from in front of the t.v. THE ENTIRE EVENING.

A noble endeavor. . . . .

THEY HAD YOU “PEGGED”, all right.

Like a spoiled kid who’d order a pizza and feed it to his dog who snarfs it up, wearing a pathetic little party-hat.

It was “better not to think about it”. . . . .  the realities of telemarketing and retail.

Enough people had to minimally “call-in” in order to make the offer, “justifiable” as it fit into the grinding economy.

More sucking, hungry squid-mouths than “easy morsels” out there as the industry clamored for your attention. Fighting your “sales resistance”, pay either by Visa or Mastercard.

How winners “were few and far between” and what that said about the odds of your fantasies ever being fulfilled. The answer was all there in “THE FINE PRINT”, as if all of life “wasn’t a negation” already.

No matter where you go, “THERE YOU ARE”.

It was the little square television screen, set to “Channel 3” and about “as cable-ready” as it would ever be, which meant NOT. There with the clunky rabbit-ear antenna.

You kind of “had a feeling”—looking beyond the bright, naively-styled realities behind show business that novelties and gimmicks couldn’t really hold out against “endless, dead time”.

Making out “the true way of things” beyond this illusion of tired, daytime life and the ole’ idiot-box.

You wanted to feel “you’re a part of something”….. even as the video never claimed to be overly-challenging or said “it was anything else”.

The consumer never liked to be told, “no” but was entitled to nothing, really.

Wishes, aspirations—running outside in the suburban yard to yell into the night, the pent-up energies of someone “too young to understand, really”.

You can’t buy love BUT IT IS FOR RENT.

  

Haunted Valentine to the Video Graveyard

Gimme a Shot of that BEETLE-JUICE

Gawwwd, that’s vile!!

A.A. or “After-Life, Anonymous” had never bet on the bedraggled bedlam of “real character studies” as Beetlejuice hiccups within a circle of fold-out chairs and recounts the tale…..

Wandering “here & there” and somehow “shat-out by that sandworm”. Thank you sir, “take a number”. You’re just “one in a million” as surely as “Death & taxes” and waiting rooms are the permanent mortuary of “putrid excuses”.

A link….. Anyone for Vomity Second Chances?

That’s what sequels are for!

 

Gimme a Shot of that BEETLE-JUICE

Pee-Wee’s “213” Playhouse

Yes, “they all begin like Pee Wee”….. the moldy, shut-in basement where you make friends with sock-puppets and otherwise peek out the window in tight gray slacks and tip-toe “hi-tops”. If it’s not eventual state institutionalization, then maybe it’s the theater-club.

Be it odd make-believe orr the kind of home that stocked yogurt-covered pretzels as “Jr.” sipped yogurt from a straw like a hookah from the world of Tim Burton arabesque, there’s a place for boys like Pee Wee. The neighborhood misfit no one pays attention to, only thinking “he’s pretty weird” like damaged goods and queasy “opt-outs”. For certainly, there’s no depth “too low” for someone like Pee Wee to tragically regress. . . . . . when one’s youth of Saturday-morning cartoons “goes into overtime” and you find yourself a twisted, if sexually-frustrated teenager “who clings to second-hand tv re-runs” like a life-line.

“The Play-House of Horrors”. . . . . And whether Pee Wee is your potential “Jeffery Dahmer” in the making, rolling out the barrels of acid down at “Apartment 213” and a severed head leering out of the refrigerator as police fumigate the building in haz-mat suits.

  

 

Maybe it could be said Pee Wee “is the prey”, more likely– akin to a rabbit snatched-off in a fox’s mouth like the darker side of nature, human and otherwise.

That’s what I tend to think.

Ask not of what the door-to-door meat-man sells you, as it’s Beetlejuice “down the street”. He’ll give “Groundhog’s Day” a whole new meaning as the earth is emptied of fresh cadavers and resold to the unsuspecting like a comedy horror-show.

In the world of “gray market” frauds, bootlegs, imitations, and “CASH-ONLY EXCHANGE”, I’d say “that he’s been sleazing around your neighborhood, recently”. Return home to a house spurting water, stripped of all the copper-piping as you hear vague reports of a seedy truck parked around town “and disappearing, suddenly”.

   

 

“You get what you pay for”, Pilgrim.

    

“The World is One. Dark. ROOM”

 

 

Pee-Wee’s “213” Playhouse