A stranger lied on the barroom floor
And drank so much he could drink no more
And so he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell bound train

The engine was bloody, it was sweaty and damp
And brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp
An imp the fuel was shoveling bones
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans

The boiler was filled with lager beer
The devil himself was the engineer
The passengers were most a motley crew
Some aboard that others he knew

Rich men in broad cloth, beggars in rags
Handsome young ladies and wicked old hags
As the train rushed on at a terrible pace
Sulfur and fumes washed their hands and face

Wider and wider the country grew
Faster and faster the engine flew
Louder and louder the thunder crashed
Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed

Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the coals were burning with its quivering flame
Then out of the distance there came a yell
“Ah ha!” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell”

Oh, how the passengers jiggled with pain
Begged old Satan to stop that train
The stranger awoke with an anguished cry
His coat wet with sweat and his hair standing high

He fell to his knees on the barroom floor
And prayed and prayed like never before
And the prayers and vows were not in vain
For he never rode that hell bound train
Aha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha


Some lyrics to ponder on…… as St. Louis broils like an angry-red lobster of awful summer weather that would impress the train-yard of Satan’s jest. After-all, we boast of the old “Union Station” which was once a railway-hub, now refashioned into a downtown mall and hopeful tourist-trap. Need “a designated driver”? Hopefully LYFT or UBER won’t put the engineer out of business…… and you’d reckon that would be BEETLEJUICE, HIMSELF in an old filthy coat and “tour-guide” hat pulling the whistle-chain.

“ALL-ABOARRRRRRD!!!”

The mad, steaming cars, haunted train sounds– snorting like a demon-steed AND FREIGHT-TRAIN TO HELL. Damnation angels and a downward journey you won’t return from, that’s for sure. Don’t look now, but the model-railway club is hijacked and miniaturized figures vaporize through portholes, AND THIS SURE AIN’T “MR. ROGERS’ NEIGHBORHOOD”.

The verisimilitudes are horrifying and you’re better jumping off the back caboose, screaming. Better this, than “HOT-WHEELS”, eh? What a strange, downward angle…… far better to shoot for the stars “than boiling dirt, below”.

Gastric juices, a besotten morsel…… Don’t be turned into “sandworm shit”.

I’d rather take a number and sit in a social security office BUT DON’T QUOTE ME ON THAT.

You could die laughing…….

White Palace of Bargains

il-fullxfull836426008-4eao-152845    big_lots_tag

http://comicbook.com/2015/09/25/every-home-needs-a-beetlejuice-lamp/

On sale, now: A desk lamp fashioned after the style of maybe, something you’d see in “Beetlejuice” like the twisting, winding body of a snake– perchance, diving through your table like an optical illusions of wriggling stripes.

Odd Lots, “Big Lots”– like something you’d find at this close-out store of bargain-basement derangement “on clearance”. Oh, yes– they sell all sorts of junk that regular stores otherwise “couldn’t get rid, of” though something tells me that the lamp will be sold for premium prices online.

But the ethos of “Big Lots” is an example of sketchy local character in my very own backyard, one of the run-down suburban areas that circle the city, proper. A local author once published a book called “White Palace”, a take-off on the restaurant, “White Castle” around these parts with their famed “belly-bomber” hamburgers sold, “10-to-a-sack” an an allegory unto grungy dreams and work-a-day worlds.

You’d know this place, if you saw it.

Down by a stretch of rail-yard overpasses and sidewalks kicked-up with feld-spar and soot as the large billboards advertise “worker’s comp” lawyers seen on television as the roar of motorcycle engines thunder past. Practically every woman works as a waitress with a particular out-state, countrified drawl as the grassy, run-down yards are uncut and as tangled as the mullet-style haircuts on the men. As it was diapers, toddlers, and a room fool of bandanna-ed confederates commiserating over cigarettes. . . . . and how the beer was always ice-cold.

You’d find a touch of “Beetlejuice” around these parts. Location equals character as the night-shift is his home and you’ll always see a zoo of local flavor on Saturday nights down at the local Shop n’ Save as everybody and their stump-toothed cousin goes out to buy beer, ambling-out the door with bare, toothpick-like arms, a greasy cap, and clinking bottles as the night time is “the right-time”.

In real life, say– he’d doubtlessly work as a manager at the “Big Lots” store I was talking about– haunting the back warehouse, down there with the mechanical box-crusher and forklifts full of close-out junk as he grins and slithers salaciously across the cold, cement floor– harassing the female employees and otherwise walking-around with his keys jingling in his belt-loop in a red apron.

He’ll have plenty of sleazy, low-down adventures that brings comedy to the local area and great exposure for the part of America we rarely think of, but makes-up the industrial back-bone of all our days. Before you think you have him pinned-down he’s off somewhere else wreaking mischief as the drop of the word.

So what’s that sound?

BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!

At a blog near you. Tell your friends, re-post constantly– we’re #1!!

White Palace of Bargains