By the rules of some strange, inverted geography. . . . . .
And stranger still, echoing through the twisting halls of the dead. . . . . .
Like “13 steps” to nowhere. . . . . . you’ll end up SOMEWHERE.
Beetlejuice infests the outback and pops-up in the little model of the town. The rolling, green hills against the pin-pricked darkness of stars, whether standing outside in the open air or tiny and shrunk beneath the rafters of the Maitlin’s attic-space.
You’ll find him “haunting the premises” and setting-up his equivalent of an E-Z finance, bronco-bustin’ used car-lot and open ghost audition like a lasso-waving cowboy.
The midnight-madness hours of zany after-life circumstance. . . . . you’ll be sayin’ “hot-diggity-dawg ALL THE WAY HOME” but begin to regret the contract you hold in your hands after making all but two steps off the lot of the proverbial “fast-sell”.
Faster than your head can spin!
And on to another “spin-off” property just down the road, swampy Florida’s own “Sausage Castle”.
If you ever thought “ole’ Beetlejuice waltzin’ off to THE WHOREHOUSE” was pretty funny, you’ll be equally as stunned by this depraved “party house” and 24-hour backyard BBQ.
Equally off-the-grid and a living natural disaster where freaks, misfits, and weirdos party “at a real clown-house” of depravity and “Dollar-Store” accoutrements like kiddie-pools, one’s feet soaking in dirty water as you down serial pina coladas and a turd floats by.
Beetlejuice would crash the premises and stay up all hours. Find him sitting in a lawn-chair, grilling meat at 7 A.M. and chuckling to himself as he turns over the pork with a pair of tongs and a fork.
Pleasure Island, or “just hell on earth”? You’ll be that greasy, crackling morsel frying out on the bbq-pit of the damned, sandworms in chef-hats serving out your ass as the best metaphor for “falling out of the rat race” AND INTO THE FIRE.
If you’re “looking for action” it should sooner be taking up the holy robes of high religiosity, even as Beetlejuice throws-up in the bouncing clown-house and staggers over to the outside porta-potty.
Just his luck that a gang of miscreants tips it over and he washes out in a torrent of sewage like a dead fish.
They’ll have to “shower him off” with a garden hose as he spats-up water and washes behind his ears, his hair in a reeking tangle as the sun shines “way too bright”.
In America it’s your right to be proud, ignorant, and free as respectable society beats a respectable distance and holds its nose.
I think there’s enough fetid material here to bring back “THE JUICE”. Let it not be “poop-juice” but he’s going to be pretty sick and too hung-over to come into work the next night.
That’s what A.A. is for, or “After-Life Anonymous”.
Make a name for yourself. . . . . . and support this new documentary coming out that explores the actual Beetlejuice movie source material from 30 years ago. Say “his name” three times OR BE A VAGRANT ON THE SIDEWALK OF LIFE.
Too hot to handle!
“The Sausage Castle” BURNED-DOWN. . . . .