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”.

GOD BLESS AMERICA, “PATRIOT”.

Lobster Man from Mars…..

“KILL THE SUNSHINE”: A GHOST STORY

 

What a bender. . . . . .

Beetlejuice hunched over the toilet on his hands and knees with a party-hat.

The kitchen was just as putrid, down in the ole’ “Beetle-Hole”. . . . . . roach scabs laying around like potato peelings amid mountains of Everclear bottles and a dish of honey-roasted peanuts (– mostly decimated)

May the spirit be exorcised, as Beetlejuice staggers back in and hurls green/puke/gak right into the sink.

He slid, slumped against the cabinets and broke a long, slow wind. His dog mosied by and stopped at the water-dash, slapping up nourishment with the flap of its jowls.

A dog-day afternoon. (3 P.M. in fact)

Out here on the first day of the year—the rest of your lives—FOR AN ETERNITY—“because there was no more room in hell”. Returned to earth in fleshy form, like a swollen and rotted piece of fruit about to burst out of its own skin.

(What a party)

Meanwhile, up in a more ethereal abode—Lydia was more delicate about “the feast of souls”, a few too many wine-cooler’s leaving her curled-up in bed, in her customary gothic pile of rags as her pet pig nestled-up to her softly panting breath and oinked.

It was “Glenn”—her Vietnamese pot-bellied pig named for the singer of “THE MISFITS”. Saved from pork shiskabob as a special boutique pet for the pale and punkishly “OUTLAW”.

Call it whimsical “artistic license” though she couldn’t care much now, whether she’d wear a beret and leather jacket or just the spiky hair-dress and Medieval-apparel.

A hipster photo-blog? Check out FACEBOOK. Or a DIY fashion-channel. Check out YOUTUBE.

The malls “were dying”. (Her kind of place).

Lo, curdled cottage-cheese complexion and arachnid-black acrylic nails.

That place would be called “Hot Topic” or the boutique-chain for disaffected young girls, as if stranded on “The Alien Ant-Farm” of exurban development.

A darting gaze—“eyes without a face” as people didn’t notice the strange and unusual.

In this latter-day, Lydia became (re)acquainted with Beetlejuice in an online chat-room.

(Don’t stare just because you’re fascinated)

Co-conspirators of morbidity, as Beetlejuice “mostly stayed in” some nights and scrawled-out messages IN ALL CAPS.

But she wouldn’t type-it. . . . . or even SAY IT.

“Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice! Beetlejuice!”.

Better leaving “that genie in the bottle” and keeping it rated-PG.

Of course, Beetlejuice could always dial a 1-900 HOT-CHAT number and get the paid attendant “to say whatever he wanted”.

But it’s just not the same—the spell doesn’t work if the magic words are stated “out-of-context”.

Like a key in search of a locked door. Otherwise, it was like palming the key with no place to put it.

Don’t take that us “a double entendre”, but Lydia wasn’t stupid.

Your Pandora’s box might as well be the shit-show of “contestants” nabbed on “TO CATCH A PREDATOR”.

Even Beetlejuice has to get some credit. Or else this would be “a very unfunny movie”.

Down in his ole’ hole he crawls forward on his hands and knees, as if rising and falling to salute “Elvira: Mistress of the Dark” or at least the cardboard stand-up of her.

That was more “his speed”.

KILL THE SUNSHINE. . . . . and how about “some hair of the dog”.

Well, okay. His dog.

His literal pet-dog—an old, blind poodle in a black-coat with a giant scrotum “that swung gruesomely” and held court like a beatnik hipster.

The one thing for certain is that “Man’s Best Friend” would always be there, “when Man’s FIRST CHOICE” was geographically out of the area “or seeing someone else”.

Click your Ruby Slippers three times, but Lydia sat with her arms folded on the windowsill—staring out over the countryside and wishing “things weren’t as DEAD”.

An emoji for your thoughts, but Beetlejuice was tolerable “in small doses”.

It was a nice place to visit, “though you wouldn’t want to live there”.

Jean-Paul Sartre once said “hell is other people”. She’d agree totally. . . . .

Late-night Talk Radio– THE PROTO-INTERNET for “Lost Souls of RadioLand” and YOU……

“KILL THE SUNSHINE”: A GHOST STORY

BUBBA THE REDNECK WEREWOLF

Bringing you quality entertainment the next town over from Beetlejuice’s Rockin’ Graveyard Revue. I sense “cross-over” material in that godforsaken south county apartment, like a play-pen of sin and bleary-eyed malfeasance. United “UNHOLY FORCES”– the meeting of the minds. It’s all “yonder Highway 44” on the outskirts of St. Louis. . . . .

  

 

Visit this gnarly animal here at: http://www.bubbawolfmovie.com/

BUBBA THE REDNECK WEREWOLF

Day of Doom at Hand– Comic Relief at the Election Horror Show

Judgement Day, THE DAY OF DOOM AT HAND. For this horror show called our 2016 Election, we wish to post a video that seems to comment on the Beetlejuice 2 experience in these parts. Rest assured, Beetlejuice does not vote– never had the inclination or interest. As dogs die, people die– the affairs of state bear little interest in the march of time. Along the margin, he only cares about cheap gasoline and the ole’ “Dollar-Store” keeping open. And keeping one step away from the skeptical, ticket-writing cop. Keep taxes low, and you’ve about channeled “The Red State ID” around these parts– like all-night food bars at the local gas station and watery A.M. fundamentalist radio by the dashboard lights. Haranguing and damning, as most low-lives go about their business in hand-to-mouth bleariness, left to negligence and living in splendor or on nothing with equal, greasy ease. Heavy metal– and then again, “Satanic panic” as you don’t think most out here really have the wherewithal to form much of a conspiracy, other than “a confederacy of dunces” staring at Elvira’s cleavage on “Mistress of the Dark” hour. Evil talks, evil walks. . . . . evil SNORES, passed-out on booze, pills, and candy. Sin lives in a hole-in-the-wall apartment and mostly keeps to itself. Civic virtue, it ain’t. Bum a cigarette off you? Pass those Swisher-Sweet cigars as life down here is DIRT CHEAP below a sole, dimly-swinging lightbulb in a buttermilk glow like roaches beneath a red-flashing neon sign, “Beer, Pool, Fun”. A noggin as dense as a cinder-block building, crushing beer cans against his forehead. For his next trick he’ll flip a toothpick between his teeth and jack-off. America, tis’ of thee and providence bless us, each and every one.

tumblr_nvrmju0xxv1qedb29o1_500  electric_guitar

Make America Great Again. . . . . Vote Beetlejuice 2. I’m with him!

Day of Doom at Hand– Comic Relief at the Election Horror Show