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. . . . .