1) “Accept no Imitations or Substitutions”
2) “Writer’s Room, by Committee”
3) “Premiere, Audience-Tracking”
4) “The after-math”
5) “Spun-off to Netflix”
Lost. . . . . . “in the neck of the woods” of something VERY BEETLEJUICE.
The first musical **ever** about a regionally-famous cannibal of the old American West named Alfred Packer. Brought to you by TROMA FILMS (“of courrrrssse”) and reflected by the micro-budget.
Yes, Trey Parker and Matt Stone— writing & filming “what they know” from a small mountain town up in Colorado and one of their earlier works before they got famous for SOUTH PARK on Comedy Central.
So you could see Beetlejuice up in the mountains in a checkered shirt and his wild nimbus of hair “like untreated mental illness” and a fine example of rugged frontier spirit.
Death comes riding down “on the ole’ Thunder-Chief” with plenty of tourists, off-loading with their bags as Beetlejuice befriends them. More are always coming to “Dead-Wood”.
Not only a land of pioneers but the requisite parasites “preying on naïve city-slickers”, be this clopping horse-hooves and a pinch of gold dust as he infests the trading post “prospecting” for victims before “run out of town on a rail”.
America was built “on fast talk” but he’d prefer HOT AIR to “hard labor”.
Why, he just “picks-up” for the next town with a miserable hang-over, plucking out the tarred-feathers and flopping down with the pigs. Living on plunder or absolute poverty “with equal ease” as he chews on a leg of mule-meat, explaining how he gets “hungry as a bear”.
Wal-mart. . . . . box-store of enchantment. And number 1 employer of what you and I know as “THE RED-STATE EXPERIENCE”. Never has someone had to show such gung-ho, merry customer service for serfdom as you otherwise have employees in blue-vests singing “Zippity Do-Dah” out of their assholes, “Mousketeer” style– with a kazoo.
Maybe “working for someone else” is merely getting yourself forced along “by someone’s obsession”, be that customer service or the retail mission statement like giddy “Jim Jones” cults for customer savings. Indeed, irony has little place here and even Beetlejuice has to “get with the program”.
Cribbing a bit from the fellow Warner Bros. property, “National Lampoon’s Vacation” you had “Wally-World” standing in for Disneyland with a cartoon moose as company spokesman. The happiest place on earth– open 365 days a year. Only in the movie, the family straggled in to find the park closed for a couple of weeks for maintenance and repair. . . . .
But make no mistake, Wal-Mart is open 365 days a year.
Why not call it “Small-Mart”? Yeah right, the largest box-store of its kind that stretches several football fields in length. You’d better keep Beetlejuice supervised amid all that “moral hazard” and easy thievery.
Smile, you’re on surveillance camera! Believe me, if someone thought of it– store security has set-up countermeasures to stop “shrinkage”. Think of a poster in the break-room of a troll-toothed bulldog brandishing a hockey stick and batting away “free scores” to keep the larger “goal” of staying competitive. Rolllff!
Of course, that doesn’t stop some mischievous cretin to hacking into the intercom system and playing the sound-FX from pornographic-movies while the manager scurries-around, trying to shut-down the public address system.
All sorts of stunts back there in the stock-room. Nailing a wallet to the floor and tricking some sucker into bending-over and straining his back.
Or kicking-around empty boxes like a deranged soccer match as the electronic board side-sweeps “Work is Fun!” across the sign. Tape up a piece of cardboard with work is (F)ucked squiggled in with a marker to give it an entirely-different meaning.
They don’t even have the easy jobs anymore where a retiree sits in a wheelchair and greets customers at the wide front-doors. Instead you have receipt-checkers halting customers to prevent “more shrinkage”. Such, such are the ways of the corporate retail world.
Lower prices, happier savings. . . . . ALWAYS.
Greetings from St. Louis. Either your little piece of “cloud-9” or your mere ice-cube lot besides the cold Midwestern heart of hell.
Yes—we’re frozen-solid down here. Which means—time for blogging!
Trapped in the house—as I can’t help but share this little item from our local alternative newspaper that describes the fickle heart in our “state of emergency”, usually called-off in the due course of things.
Read it, know it, feel it. It’s about all summed-up there.
We have the street department out in force, and Beetlejuice serves his purgatory working for the local street department in the salt trucks. There—sbadowed in the cab and taking a sip from a hip flask of whiskey in a parka—his hair tangled-up in a nimbus as the gray afternoon darkens into nightfall.
As you know, dead souls “die” in whatever smooshed death and pay their dues for the fee of reincarnation. If it wasn’t being devoured by a sandworm, he may as well be gnashed in the teeth of Satan, himself at the very bottom circle of hell—the giant devil frozen in ice who mewls at the bottom of all nightmares.
Oh, well. Instead, this is just an inner-suburb of St. Louis with the overpass, railroad trestle, and corner of bargain commerce. A gas station—a discount clothes outlet in the same expansive parking lot as the American Contacts & Eyeglasses, the DMV, and “Little Caesar’s Pizza” by a little dog-walking park and trickle of a sunken stream by the hilly, wooded houses.
He could do way worse—WAY, WAY WORSE.
The fate of the community lays with men like Beetlejuice and he’s paid well for his 12-hour shift.
No—don’t park there! Pulled across the street from the pool-hall as a prostitute opens the door and climbs in the cab.
Just a slow day—as hell freezes over. Dead season—and cause to stay indoors.
Beetlejuice knocks his gloves together and lights a cigarette under the halo of the streetlight. Just a barnacle on the underbelly of civic business. The night is his home and soon he’ll be alone again with his festering thoughts.
THE KING OF BEERS.
And so long as you’re snuggled in. . . . . . we present you a teaser for the Beetlejuice 2 script BEFORE HELL FREEZES OVER. Pass it out far & wide like the billowing snowflakes across the region. And enjoy it as the dark necromancy of “he-who-cannot-be-named” leans against the tombstone with his ankles crossed. KILLING TIME.
Click on this link here. . . . .