Bachelor Flop-House

Well, I guess “that marriage arrangement” didn’t work out.

Here today, “gone to hell”.

Even as Beetlejuice sits morosely on a lawn chair in an apartment complex, moping like a little boy. All you needed was a pink flamingo in the yard—halfway between Las Vegas & Florida, maybe just here in Missouri for wild, spun-out times.

In a state of twilight “hangover”, his SUPER POWERS aren’t too super at the moment. Maybe just need some whiskey and a snort of cocaine to clear his rotten cobwebbed head, halfway dead “and right next door to hell”.

Just like “a piece of meat that keeps on living” as he ought to lay down on the mattress flung in the corner. Or maybe just watch some low-rent daytime t.v. with the ambulance-chaser ads and “for profit” rip-off colleges as “the big score” was a bust, this time.

As if looking up in the air and apprising “a better reality”, perhaps MORE VIGOROUS than cheap “family feed-barn” all-you-can-eat pizza buffets and the prizes you win out of gum-ball machines.

Life is like an empty beer bottle……. “you always know what you’re gonna git”.

For it’s THE GRIND of “living death” as society sets you loose with E-Z credit financing and no safeguards on huge Visa/Mastercard bills. Narrowed options on the marginal side of Jerry Springer existence, unresourceful and sensationally-vacant.

Slithering further and further down the cultural drainpipe….. as the inviting ground gives off the stink of rotten mortality like a yawning pit.

Beetlejuice scratches his crotch, then “gets up to piss”.

Chicks equal trouble….. misadventure leads to “the same damned place”. You can’t “take it with you”, even if you earned it. And storms rumble on the wing, a whirlwind of manic crescendo as the parking lot now starts getting pelted with hail.

Good day “to stay in” and whack-off. Happy Birthday, cretin.

That success will kill ‘ya!

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Bachelor Flop-House

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…….

Nether-Hours in PARTY-WORLD

Not all of the after-life can be drudgery, can it? Midnight at the ball and Beetlejuice would inevitably pose “as a valet”, driving off with people’s cars in a chauffer’s hat. The vehicles would be turned into twisted Tim Burton sculptures at the graveyard junk lot, incidental to the Bio-Exoricist sign down at the office. Crazy carousels and pitch-black skies, “just a night down at the bug-zapper” or just a fool’s paradise in unincorporated purgatory…… sleazy and corrupt like rotten nutball commercial time, graveyard hours only. I wouldn’t count on it, but “paid sandworm rides” aren’t a good idea in the “snake farm” business to recent arrivals. Don’t walk through strange doors and never lose the handbook…… you could die, laughing.

 

Nether-Hours in PARTY-WORLD

“Otho” of THE ARTS

  

Glenn Shadix plays “Otho”, the masterful interior decorator with a jowly air of presumption and tremendous self-control. “Just so”, with hints of Alfred Hitchcock and lugubrious, droll wit.

I see a lot of Charles Addams in this guy—as the culture required boundaries and class distinctions to make such a world to exist, kind of a “mirror image” of the uncanny, propitious, classy, and weird.

The actor who played Otho “has passed on”, but that isn’t to say WE COULDN’T FIND AN IMPERSONATOR to make a cameo, perhaps in a low-rent “infomercial sequence” that shows you, even in The Netherworld, that “the more things change the more they stay the same”.

Ambulance chasers, “medical malpractice” shenanigans—the low-rent man is impressed by the trappings of class, if even the yuppie Dietz’s “lulled by appearances”.

Do the funky art school robot, German expressionism and severe artifice to dazzle, beguile, and confound. “A paranoid Android?”, Lydia would relate to this……

“Otho” of THE ARTS

A Montage of Industry Politics

       “Joker, here……”

 

   

1) “Accept no Imitations or Substitutions”

2) “Writer’s Room, by Committee”

3) “Premiere, Audience-Tracking”

4) “The after-math”

5) “Spun-off to Netflix”

 

 

“The horror, the horror!”

  

…… Don’t let that happen to your franchise!

A Montage of Industry Politics

DEAD-ZONE, ROUTE 666

   

Hell…… when there is no more room, “THE DEAD WILL WALK THE EARTH”.

Exurbs, countryside…… intergalactic elevators unto hellish, degraded, LOWER forms of non-existence.

Bleaker landscapes, stormy alien worlds……. uncanny, sure. Gray crud, a mountain of cancerous, ossified skulls like mineralized intestines, BURN BLACK.

Uncanny, sure…… as “a symptom of the sick, sick universe”.

Elaborate systems, wheels of time—if not five-pointed pentagrams and general unpleasantries as described by ancient occult orders. Returning, “by hearsay” with a crude road map of scribbles and strange-signage, like an old crumpled bus schedule.

Or even a community bulletin—“the trash pick-up service” as provided by the local netherworld municipality and other bureaucratic lore.

“Bring out your dead!”

No luck for “working stiffs”…… or even the husks of those whom “died” in the after-life.

For surely, they will be recycled into the flittering, antenna mind of a stag-beetle in this burrowing earth of mud, death, “and overall shittiness”.

Molten gold, leering goblin-faces, crystal skeleton keys….. so it is written.

Hierarchies of demons are described in dusty grimoires, a kind of neo-Roman army of legionnaires, trumpeters, prefects, captains of the guard along the walls of “DEATH CAPITOL”, the mountains of Hades rising in the distance…… but one has the sneaking suspicion that despite all the pageantry and ritual, your cremated bones will be pounded to ashes “and that’s the end of you”.

A cold shiver running down your greasy spine, like the root-evolution of a knotty horseshoe crab and nerve endings like the roots of a sub-world tree….. the BIG, LONG NOW like an endless droning silence as “the punch-line” is a ghoul pulling off their face to reveal a screaming skull.

The dimensions of reality “curl back in on themselves” like a riddle, a spiraling demise, a sacred geometry. An ironic punishment, but “with no answer”.

A form reveals itself…… Beetlejuice hanging off the trash-truck, out for “a joy ride”. Along the Helldarado of bones, BORN TO RAISE HELL and TOO YOUNG TO DIE. Though he’s over 700 years old, his infectious laugh plagues the pilgrim, the tourist, the lost.

Don’t hitchhike, Lydia. I’d turn around and shuffle away “fast as you can” in those funereal black rags and mourning garb. Draw a door in the air with your finger, grab the knob-sketch, and walk back through from whence you came—like Dorothy clicking her ruby slippers together and figuring “THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME”.

Spoken “3 times”…… NO, DON’T SAY IT!!! Not the “B-word”.

But there’s another word, “B” for “Box-Office BUSINESS”.

That’s 2 “B’s”. There…… at a sequel near you.

There’s more where that came from…… Keep watching, kids!

DEAD-ZONE, ROUTE 666

“Could Be”……

Credit where credit is due……

https://movieweb.com/beetlejuice-2-trailer-fan-made/

  

Smoke ’em if you got ’em…… no more reflective than a maggot at feeding-time and twice as verbal. Ashes-to-ashes & Dust-to-dust as the property is not dead, only “on break”.

And remember, hell is Universal– only worse for “fresh meat”, right-off the slab in the misbegotten scheme of things.

Life is a gas station and a bag of chips. He puts “The Jerk” in beef-jerky and will jerk-around “the cast-off’s” hapless enough to say the name of he-who-cannot-be-named.

  

“Video Graveyard”…… Netherworld Obscura…… Do you call on the dark?

 

Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!

   

“Could Be”……