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”…..


The Netherworld Comet

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…..


“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:


Clown College for Dummies

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

“Undead” Fan-Property.


Not dead which eternal lie

Stranger AEON, death might die…..


A second life, through The Fans……


Contribute to their crowd-funding campaign “or be a vagrant on the sidewalk of life”…..



“Undead” Fan-Property.

Lobster Man from Mars…..

Down a video aisle near you….. according to the forgone graveyard of VHS Flea-Market gems for one’s stupefaction and bargain-basement delight.

A movie about “A really bad movie” shopped around to a sleazy Hollywood Mogul who seeks out a box-office “tax write-off” to dodge the wrath of the hungry IRS.

The filmmaker screens his film and the potential distributor– sitting there pulling his sweaty collar with a giant medallion– is shocked & amazed.

Like he’s privileged to witness the next “Citizen Kane” of drive-in pictures and exploitation bait, “as the market goes”. . . . . and call this a PG-rated grindhouse of zonkers fun.

The poor kid wrote, directed, produced, and edited his “bedroom-tinkered opus”.

It’s the kind of thing Beetlejuice would watch in his scuzzy dirt-mound of a dwelling at 4 A.M. on a Friday. . . . . hitting the road afterward to grab a huge sports mug of French Vanilla coffee down at the local 24-hour Quicktrip.

It’s called NEET– “N.either E.mployed, in E.ducation, or T.raining” across the rolling scrub-lands and apartment complexes of glorious marginality.

Here, the world is early-dawn-gray like a television tuned to a dead channel.

Ahhh, the joys of social-security disability.

Just don’t break into cars and find oneself in the back of a squad car or even featured on an episode of “COPS”.


Lobster Man from Mars…..

Nightmare Before Christmas


“Nightmare Before Christmas”. . . . . and we’re not talking BLACK FRIDAY super-sales and crowd riots.

In fact, the internet has taken much of the bite out of retail shopping as surely as the spirit of Christmas has turned into consumer-crazy pandemonium.

Nothing but jolly Christmas jingles for six weeks straight, scarcely when the forks and knives have clattered down on Thanksgiving plates and Americans are already out the door and descending on the mega-malls and box-stores, products of instant gratification bigger than the maniacal eyes as gloved hands beat against the plate-glass windows, waiting for the stores to open at 5 A.M.

And what about your local retail mall outlet?

Well, some are blessed more than others. . . . . . but this one is nearly-empty.

And there is “our Batman & Robin duo” IN COSTUME

Yes, Beetlejuice subcontracted out as “Santa Claus” with Lydia as his helper assistant, a surly elf in a jingling green cap stubbing out a cigarette as the manager waddles by.

It’s yuletide redneck commercialism, with the jet-black volcanic edge of a punk princess on the far-flung experience of what makes America such a strange, deth-rocker juxtaposition of roof-top aerials, local cable-television, and sin.

No, Lydia won’t sit in Santa-Beetle’s lap but she will stand to the side, her arms crossed and her eyes rubbering around at the cat-calls with her own righteous sense of absurdity.

And there the foul demon sits on a throne surrounded with puffy cotton-snow, knocking back from a bottle of whiskey and ripping his snaggle-toothed, mush-mouth with the back of his hand as he leers, calling out to customers and laughing like a Mardi Gras fiend.

He shakes an empty, wrapped box—festooned with striped-wrappers and a red-bow, and hurls it off to the side where it rolls and knocks in the back of Lydia’s green, buckled boots with the twisting toe-curls.

What did she do to deserve this?

In fact, it’s an extracurricular project for her college anthropology class on the subject of Santa redneck zombies and the American fool. Her dissertation—namely that zombie and monster films “are about keeping the lurching rubes” away from the citadels of civilization, like bourgeois fear of the hard-pitted country yeoman “CRASHING THE PARTY”, eating your brains even.

Not unlike the phenomenon of the Tea Party in American politics, though she puts “the liberal” in LIBERTARIAN as a matter of course, with little skull and “Hello, Kitty” pasties.

In her Christmas canon, Santa is a robot “and lives on the moon”—as derived from a Japanese animated series, dubbed into English and played on her iPhone.

Last year, ole’ Beetlejuice ran “a failed tree lot” when the scheme was basically stealing the Christmas trees right from living rooms when the owners weren’t around, dragging it out the busted window with the scrunch of branches and falling Christmas ornaments and flickering lights as he drug the cord behind him and out to his idling pick-up truck.

PRE-FAB Christmas trees.

Fabulous? Hardly.

But Lydia snapped pictures. Her “strange, unusual friend” and partner in “field research”—more like a dark trailer in the middle of unincorporated St. Louis county on the outer heaths of this Midwestern hell, the river like a sluggish, glinting worm-slick and above it all, the shining star of near-past winter solistice.

“Zombies ate my neighbors”. . . . . or maybe just “fascination” stalls your but, mostly-untyped manuscript as she fulfilled her inner voyeur for the sullen, sordid, outrageous, and vaguely criminal.

An indifferent “second party” to all the madness, as the spherical dome of world & sky “had no comment”, other than her chuffing breath fogging the air as Beetlejuice cussed and swore and violently swept aside the nest, acorns, and squirrel shit that had invaded his aluminum-tin domicile.

Be his name, “SATAN CLAWS” as hapless oaf of dark principalities and Wiccan prayer-god of “smoke, and glowing red coals” like a demon of destruction and vile oaths, like a laughing miscreant flicking a BIC lighter next to an unlit forest fire.

(Maybe it was just the septic tank, blowing-up like a mushroom cloud)

But here at the mall. . . . . MUZAK. The meat-blossom of the fetid air and the hell of subcontracted wages as she could think of better places to be. Maybe the “Meow-Hawns” cat café, where you could play with adoption-friendly shelter cats while glugging down steaming espresso brew and staring off into the endless sidewalk of night on the other side of the glass.

It was said “the mouth of hell” was guarded by a lion—and maybe it was just the blonde, tangled nimbus of Beetlejuice motor-mouthing the anti-climax of the season. . . . . even as “Edward Scissorhands” tended shop at the “Sally Field’s Cookies” in a cap and apron, snipping his fingers together in idle misery.

It was a Tim Burton world, baby. Watch that festive snake-head poke out of the package like a jack-in-the-box jester and freak out the custodian poking at the marble floor with a mop.

Only the guards behind the security monitors “knew if you were naughty or nice” but they were mostly snoozing under a collision of doughnuts and sweets.

That tinsel glow, “just so”. . . . .


Nightmare Before Christmas