Wheels of Time, Scales of Karma

  

“Heh, heh heh”. Takes a bite, don’t it?

  

“Another World” of Management

  

 

“Ah, the old rat-race”…..

 

“Keep the boss happy”…..

 

“There’s got to be a better way”

  

“I know– Infomercials!”

  

“Hello, Junior College– here I come”

  

“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice”

  

So begins a crash-course in eternal wisdom…..

Form follows function in this after-life, as true as a dung beetle up to its task of maintenance crew like a worm pit of reincarnation and renewal.

Let the scales of COSMIC JUSTICE fall where they may.

Chained to the “Karma Factory”, so to speak as dead wage-slaves trudge into work—your immortal relationship with the nature of eternity.

Further impacted into the stark burial of cycles, you’ll quickly learn “that death is no holiday”.

No rest for the wicked, nor solace for the deathly grind.

Death….. drudgery…. taxes….. SMOKE-BREAK.

Pull your own weight or disappear in a puff of smoke….. like Sylvia Sidney as Juno in office garb and pearls as she draws a jaded puff off of her cigarette and gives you an empty stare.

“Well, what did you expect?”.

And you can bet that the paperwork is horrendous– beyond the veil of the unseen—“behind the scenes” as platonic forms are given reality in the give-and-take “around death’s door”.

“We need a union”…..

There, strewn across the land-scape of hell of red-rock, ashes, and cinders amid rocky paths of career advancement. Adjust your clocks, set your engines—pay the price “and meet your spend-down” as an Elvira-like hostess gives you the video tour on the screen, there in the waiting room.

  

Death, your scythe-wielding recruiter. Satan, your middle-management. The CEO of the system, an evil, sucking, parasitical “vampire squid” which about describes “the beast in the details”.

Maybe “the spry” escape….. but only LIVING ON BORROWED TIME.

Can you outpace karma? Well certainly, Beetlejuice tries…. as a gamely parasite whom feasts off the naivete “of the next chump” who drops by his graveyard trailer. Like a bad 1970’s relic of discounted, horrific leisure-suits and used car-salesman tactics.

Refinance “a new lease on life” with this guy? Think again—he’ll be the fiend stirring over a vat of putrescent, rotting juices with a stick.  “Bad credit”, or “no credit?” HE’LL TAKE EVERYTHING “BUT THE SQUEAL”.

Like “turning shit into gold”….. your carcass “has to be worth something”.

Your “soul-salvage” guarantee OR NO MONEY BACK. Your market-clearing price.

We don’t make the rules, as you’ve got about as much luck as the prize vomited out of a gum-ball machine in a little plastic egg.

“WE MANUFACTURE IGNORANCE” and hold the key to death’s door, the flyer “should say”. He also moonlights as a bio-exorcist or “rented party-clown” whom drives out the living “for a song”.

He’ll even show up at shopping mall openings and sign autographs.

If you think he’s a shit-magnet for sinister money-making schemes, you ought to meet his nephew. Curdled-up and soured with a worthless community-college degree “like the younger, faster, smarter” tech-savvy side “putting the OLD SKOOL out to pasture”.

Suckers work retail….. enterprising bastards rig-up a kind of Bitcoin mining-operation when “a fake, homeless torso” gets kicked off the pavement of any street corner—a kind of “automatic beggar” covered with a blanket to mask its animatronic flimsiness, the cup of loose change overturned and emptied by opportunists.

Meanwhile, sharing rent with Uncle Beetlejuice when he would otherwise be fishing a dead possum out of the pool at some dead-end roach motel, LITERALLY.

There, a work-bench of thrumming, stripped-down computer components “sucking away” at every spare penny “in the ether of cloud-computing”, as dubious as any elaborate justification of NAPSTER-style downloading and curdled consumer parasitism or identiy-theft.

SPAMMING plays a big role, here. Dregs of unemployment, law of cyberspace.

Above it all, the twinkling stars never setting on this mysterious, glowing earth-ball and for what it all means other than the shifting tides of gravitation and appetite slowly and surely “grinding us down” with friction as we choke on exhaust and our own grime.

For he’ll hold the globe in the palm of his hand, like an evil grinning joker.  Don’t knock the pulsing, cosmic-waves out of cycle…. losing extra seconds and threatening to bring the fabric of existence crashing down. Geometric occult mysticism? Fractal time-wave ZERO? Or just a solar riddle?

Find out more in the sequel to Beetlejuice currently percolating in development…..

  

    

Wheels of Time, Scales of Karma

“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

Fan-Play with the Most!

Great impression!

So I’m not the only one, rehearsing old “Beetlejuice-lines” rapid-fire in my inner sanctum. Manic, frantic– I’ve watched those scenes so many times I’ve been got-down the correct inflection. It’s a great party-gag, if you can rip-out with that in front of an approving audience though I never did-it in a wig and pin-striped outfit, like this guy.

A simpler-way to get-by with a Beetlejuice costume is an old coat and dirty shirt, maybe a cap to make you look like an edgy Riverboat Captain down the haunted fast-ways of bullshit. White face-paint, and don’t forget those morbid black circles beneath your eyes, as the whites of your pupils will seem to fleck, faster with the contrast.

Continue reading “Fan-Play with the Most!”

Fan-Play with the Most!