Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

  

Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

“Just another number”.

Be there “no Karma about it” but THE RECENTLY DECEASED will hit that old after-life office with the thud of paperwork.

(Reminds me of the ole’ Social Security office)

Franz Kafka couldn’t have said it better, whether just the victim is mad or “THE SYSTEM”, itself is even crazier. . . . . and remember, that guy in the “Metamorphosis” story did turn into an insect. OR EVEN A BEETLE.

A lot of people “kill time” in the waiting room, bearing the incarnation they took when “struck-down, mortally”. The visual cue—its own kind of karma whether you’re a shrunken-head on the leash of a witch-doctor as it didn’t end well for the big game hunter.

Don’t go smoking in bed, either—or take poison which will turn you into an icky, translucent green like the secretary behind the sliding window.

Perky, pert, and sarcastic—if not despondent in this perfect illustrated example of the mind/body and material/spiritual splits that cleaves the world into an alienated hell.

Ole’ Beetlejuice pops his head in and takes a seat. I’d imagine him probably sticking his hand down the front of his pants like Al Bundy in “Married with Children”. Half-resourceful or maybe just fool-hardy “no one will notice” as he lopes across the parking lot to grab a cooler of beer.

You’d imagine he’d only lose his place in line.

Solely the balance between evidence and lyricism can allow us to achieve simultaneous emotion and lucidity. . . . . but there he hollers at his loss.

In this last week, we’ve lost Chris Cornell—the singer from Soundgarden—and Roger Ailles—the chairman of Fox News. Only out of an episode of “Adult Swim” could these figures every encounter each other.

The moody rock singer leans up on the chair, hang-dog with his hands stretched over his knee while the right-wing chieftain tries to bluster and glad-hand his way out of federal commitment for dinner reservations “elsewhere”.

There’s only a few things certain in this life. . . . . death, taxes, and irate constituents.

End up here and you have to meet your quota of lingering, ghostly “overtime” back on earth. Spook the hell out of the living for a spike of adrenaline and ecto-residue that kicks into your early retirement, building enough parasitically-fueled power to ascend up the spiritual pyramid to eternal bliss.

Sounds like Medicare and Social Security.

You’ll pay though. . . . . they’ll take everything “but the squeal”.

Death. Taxes. Hollywood sequels. . . . .

Welcome to America. You could die laughing. . . . .

 

“No dream”, kid. This was your life! Remember to Linger in the graveyard and pick the daisies before summoning for pizza on the Ouija board.

Karma, Purgatory, Bureaucracy

Death by Scientific Misadventure

 

Top secret military-research installations. . . . . particle accelerators. . . . . . chalkboards full of twisted math.

If you poke around scientific news, the world of theoretical “mad science” physics becomes ever more alarming. Half of it may be true, and scary to think. Curved space, holographic projections of hidden dark matter, black hole “event-horizons” that all wrap around and fold back into itself only a few like Albert Einstein can grapple with.

Of course, just what that has to do with the chunky Claymation “netherworld” of spiraling hallways and leering sand-worms is not immediately obvious.

But we take a bit of artistic and scientific license.

Still as mysterious as ever, the world of theoretical particle-things presents a barrier of the sheer unknown that twists-upward with crazier implications—but for the rest of us it’s Pay-Day Loans and teller’s windows—if not poking around the internet for the odd, strange, and unusual.

The world “just is” and pity to think that existence could collapse in on itself with strange misadventures in doomsday science. Mix that in with the internet “singularity”—or the idea that we’ll morph with our super-computers to form a cybernetic post-humanity of bits and bytes.

No doubt, someone will stake their claim to all this cloud-based “online information” and become a super gate-keeper, or broker, or master of earth through “the internet of things” or predicting where everyone and everything will all be at once.

Just think about it—if this cyber-wind of various bits n’ bytes and columns of numbers inside databases could be harvested by minute fractions of a penny—then turned around into currency speculation to eventually “call the shots” through warring banks of computers. . . . .

Scarier than you would think, especially when Beetlejuice’s nephew—a no-good fat shit in an evil clown-suit—ditches the technological retardation of his namesake uncle and takes his mischief-making freelance. There’s a certain smarmy sort of hacker or internet pirate you’d definitely remember from the early days of illegal “Napster” downloads who’d lean back in a chair and sip a jumbo Big Gulp from 7-Eleven and “live it up”.

Why? Because he can! Along with these little online screeds or declaration of cyber human-rights that sketchily justify why the internet can go on doing “exactly what it was doing” by illegal file-sharing and putting record companies out of business.

It’s THE MAN, man as morality has as much legal ground as that which can be whittled down by 1st Amendment arguments and stances on computer science.

Somehow through all this theoretical scientific and cyber-mayhem, if not a satellite-dish pointed toward the stars, a mist descends on this localized source of mayhem as dragons fly in and out between the St. Louis Arch in the nighttime sky as the fate of the world falls into the hands of Beetlejuice to clumsily “correct things” and be a hero—or else the netherworld and the living world “will be no more”.

Battling it out with Hugo—as Lydia and friends scramble around to fight an enabling corporate outfit that wants to turn St. Louis into a toxic waste-site as part of a bigger tax write-off scheme, closing down community broadcasting and the downtown homeless shelter.

Worlds collide, as Beetlejuice has been sucked down to Earth and gets entangled with one of Lydia’s harried “shut-in” fans, a caper gone wrong with a stolen suitcase of money as local bikers get involved and THE PLOT THICKENS to all collide downtown on THE NIGHT OF HELL as history sometimes calls upon “one man”, but Beetlejuice is laid-out in the sewer, jerking-off.

If the stakes couldn’t be any scarier, it’s comedy gold with the world in the balance in this rambling, unlikely tale and product-placement romp. Truth is stranger than fiction and inspires the development of this crazy script into something wholly original and bizarre.

Keep watching kids—and Beetlejuice will never disappoint. If you believe in him and say his name 3 times hilarity will ensue for first-rate bargain-basement entertainment.

Never outdone or out-matched, the blog continues like sheer mental masturbation

“Dirty Balls”, have I.

 

Death by Scientific Misadventure

“Beetlejuice 2” According to “Funny or Die”

Eternity has “no Shot-CLOCK”. . . . .

Seriously– can we do better? Stay Tuned as we wade through “UNDEAD” DEVELOPMENT HELL LIKE THE SCRIPT THAT WOULDN’T DIEEEEEEEEEEE!

More to follow, “Take a number” and ENJOY “THE NIGHT-CHILL” as Beetlejuice takes a smoke out in the parking-lot. By the stripes of his professionalism “IT WILL BE SHOW-TIME”.

“Beetlejuice 2” According to “Funny or Die”

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

Handbook for the Recently-Pranked

images  disgust

Someone sent me a link on Facebook, one of those “memes” that pastes images over text as I wish to imitate the idea in the truest form of homage by remixing it right here.

So it’s the “Handbook for the Recently Deceased” chucked in the direction of the newly-dead and spiritually-orphaned that proved to be an eerie plot-point in the original “Beetlejuice” as newly-weds Barbara and Adam Maitland found themselves marooned in the hereafter. Funny, it “read like stereo instructions” or even the legalese of the dusty tax code as tomes fall on the table and frighten you with their finality.

If you moved a passed-out drunk into an attic and locked the door– leaving out nothing but “The Handbook” would it dawn on him, paging through the book– that maybe he was deceased? What a dirty trick. . . . .

. . . . . as there was once a story out of The Arabian Knights about a peasant in the city who was drugged and woke-up in the sultan’s palace of pleasures, led to believe he was really royalty all along. Then drugged again, and waking up in his usual humble lodgings. He began handing out orders and raving when no one would listen to him.

Of course there’s the story when a sultan played a prank and had his victim drugged, waking up in a pit of wild animals that had their teeth and claws removed. Rousing into consciousness and scurrying around with the growls of beasts following him.

What else do you do for an encore? Maybe we’re all victims of a big cosmic joke when you think about it– a theater of the absurd as then again, Beetlejuice is not one to go off quoting Shakespeare or anything. To be or not to be, is the question.

We answer it with this website.

The rules of the universe wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy haunting!

uncle_v   wpid-satori.jpg

Handbook for the Recently-Pranked

Halloween Make-up Tips

When you wish upon a star. . . . .

Halloween Make-up Tips

Tales from The Crypt

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Attention, K-mart shoppers. ‘Tis the season– I remember it, well.

And who could forget– daisy baskets wrapped in orange & black crepe paper and the whiff of pumpkin-spice as the whole community came-out to celebrate Halloween as a children’s holiday. You had all the daffy classroom mothers dressed-up in cat-ears, slipped over their head like canted sunglasses and a purse full of car-keys.

And how kids stamped-around in the all-school parade, as safe and wholesome as the crossing-guard giving us supervised passage as that was the “G-rated” version, at least. It wasn’t “horrific”, exactly– but sappy and age-appropriate.

And then the adults had their fun. . . . .

Halloween was like the funereal version of Mardi Gras around these parts as you descended deeper into the gray, concrete wonders of city-limits. It was the season of moody autumn that looked like a Flemish painting as the gates at the entrance boded welcome in our skeletal season of menace.

And oh, what a crowd assembled around “Johnnie Brock’s Dungeon”. Wall-to-wall with costume racks that adapted flexibly through the passage of holidays in the aisles of this huge warehouse space. With the winking skyline looming in the washed-out sky and happenstance of casual traffic, it was a real night out on the town for what any occasion could be, taking the trouble to get out here where Halloween-goers went.

Nighttime– full of wild, animal spirits that brushed-up against something “vaguely disreputable” with its carnival atmosphere like ale-houses and burlesque theater without question of mature judgement or taste. Coming together in this culture of cars and tail-gating parties as you came here to be reminded of something you maybe knew years ago as a young teenager with hormones and bright, nervous sweat of inexperience.

To gain experience, or jab at the underbelly of splattered-death with the fake, rearing rictus of rotting teeth in molded foam-rubber. Flirting with extinction– like danger, or chainsaws sending scarecrow legs flying in the strobe-lights of a haunted slaughter-house as it was all lurid chills and the feeling of vague criminality. . . . . like gory Metallica shirts and grinning, skeletal repose in overgrown, yellowed-over wastelands of beer cans and empty chip bags.

It brought back memories–  the nauseous sick of candy and any hint or sign of romantic intrigue, or other novelties that hold kids’ fancy like those glow-in-the-dark figurines you’d fish out of a box of “Cap’n Crunch” cereal as you’d come here for inspiration, the fount of youthful energies “that never dies” and perhaps a bit of something that would jog your creativity for this “Beetlejuice 2” idea I have.

One time, years ago my younger brother and I were wandering around a Target retail store in November and spotted a “KISS” Halloween mask on mark-down. It was wispy haired as a black-maned skunk, nasty– with a long red tongue dipping down like a hot poker.

We mounted-it-up on a tin of Christmas popcorn as it looked like a severed head in some chamber of cheery horrors. We were howling with laughter, yet were ignored as tired drudges pushed their shopping carts, past– oblivious. It truly amounted to “the night of the working-stiffs” as we had our makeshift, vandalized pleasures. . . . . even pulling the mask over a pumpkin-scarecrow by the display near check-out so now you had this crucified fiend on a mismatched jean-denim body and bib-overalls.

Wal-Mart or “Wally-World” as others call it, like a theme park of family-fun as “oh, the joys of retail”. In “National Lampoon’s Vacation” the mascot for this Disney-Land like getaway was not Mickey Mouse, but Marty Moose as you pressed the button to hear a friendly message.

Cross the two at a Wal-Mart display, and you’d have this goofy moose transformed from a hapless corn-shucker to something Beetlejuice befouled. . . . . the friendly mascot now a grisly fiend in a flapped hunting cap with blood-shot eyes and a rictus of grinning teeth, bent over flung-around pork-steaks and tampons with a juice-streaked machete.

“H’yuk, h’yuk!!”

“Come dick along for the asshole savings and show two proofs of purchase as we motherfuck for lower prices, ALWAYS”.

Not only is the prerecorded message sabotaged, but the public shopping experience goes off in unscripted directions as Beetlejuice takes over the intercom– the manager slamming his fist against the two-way mirror glass.

It’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas”, six-weeks of holiday-themed savings as I guess “Beetlejuice lost it”. Would you?

poppedeyes   marty_moose

And so we leave you with Judge Alvin Valkenheiser for an old, hoary night of ooky-spooky irascibility and local ole’ fishing-hole justice. . . . .

Tales from The Crypt