Bachelor Flop-House

Well, I guess “that marriage arrangement” didn’t work out.

Here today, “gone to hell”.

Even as Beetlejuice sits morosely on a lawn chair in an apartment complex, moping like a little boy. All you needed was a pink flamingo in the yard—halfway between Las Vegas & Florida, maybe just here in Missouri for wild, spun-out times.

In a state of twilight “hangover”, his SUPER POWERS aren’t too super at the moment. Maybe just need some whiskey and a snort of cocaine to clear his rotten cobwebbed head, halfway dead “and right next door to hell”.

Just like “a piece of meat that keeps on living” as he ought to lay down on the mattress flung in the corner. Or maybe just watch some low-rent daytime t.v. with the ambulance-chaser ads and “for profit” rip-off colleges as “the big score” was a bust, this time.

As if looking up in the air and apprising “a better reality”, perhaps MORE VIGOROUS than cheap “family feed-barn” all-you-can-eat pizza buffets and the prizes you win out of gum-ball machines.

Life is like an empty beer bottle……. “you always know what you’re gonna git”.

For it’s THE GRIND of “living death” as society sets you loose with E-Z credit financing and no safeguards on huge Visa/Mastercard bills. Narrowed options on the marginal side of Jerry Springer existence, unresourceful and sensationally-vacant.

Slithering further and further down the cultural drainpipe….. as the inviting ground gives off the stink of rotten mortality like a yawning pit.

Beetlejuice scratches his crotch, then “gets up to piss”.

Chicks equal trouble….. misadventure leads to “the same damned place”. You can’t “take it with you”, even if you earned it. And storms rumble on the wing, a whirlwind of manic crescendo as the parking lot now starts getting pelted with hail.

Good day “to stay in” and whack-off. Happy Birthday, cretin.

That success will kill ‘ya!

Bachelor Flop-House

All Gravel Roads. . . . . Lead to “El Duce”



If all gravel roads lead somewhere, you wouldn’t be surprised to pass old, broken-down trailers in the neighborhood. And a fixture of riff-raffery, some of Beetlejuice’s low-down neighbors poking around a grill like a whiskey-guzzling musk-rat.

Brutal, lordly. NSFW– (“Not safe for work) as if a dude like this even worked.

It’s “El Duce” from the shock-rock beer-belly set. You’ll recognize him for his sadomasochist stylings, concealing his objectionable identity with a black hood and guttural offensive charms as he fronted “The Mentors” like THE KINGS OF SLEAZE festering on the Pacific Coast.

Langouring trailer-park women in leather and garters, his presumed harem as he bulges out his eyes like bonk-headed, glazed space mutants in foam-rubber monster costumes “demanding to be gratified”.

Indeed, “a threat to health, wealth, and morals” whose raunchy lyrics were presented before Congress in hearings by “The Washington Wives”, calling for restraint and decency in the music industry. Good luck with that– the only thing they succeeded in doing was getting “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” stickers on tapes & CD’s and probably just making the offending music THAT MUCH MORE ENTICING.

No matter what, you’ll always have the bottom-feeders like ole’ El Duce putting on shows and selling underground records out of a car trunk, a slap on your shoulder and an ice-cold beer in the other hand as he yuks it up like an unsubtle statement about America.

Just another misfit in the world of Beetlejuice “who fits”.

Call him “Uncle Perv”. . . . . though I think Lydia would remain wary to the proposition of returning to a motel with his guy. After all, she broke-off the marriage contract with Beetlejuice in the movie, spared from obscene fate, an X-rated boast.

If even from El Duce– who once sensationally claimed that Courtney Love offered him money to whack Kurt Cobain. Maybe a nugget of some off-color joke “grows with the telling” but watch as everyone attempts to cash in.

Like a dubious character witness, I wouldn’t trust him either as you can’t forget Beetlejuice “selling used cars” at the cemetery lot with the giant lit sign– the giant arrow pointing to “dirt-low” credibility, the rotten truth in all “the fine print”.

A foul trickster, free speech for the dumb as you can’t “outlaw evil”. Keep this movie PG-rated, IF YOU DARE. Or else my name is Jerry Springer. . . . .


Don’t “Shake Hands with SNAKE”

All Gravel Roads. . . . . Lead to “El Duce”

Monster Trucks for Jesus

In paranormal news the author of the original “Exorcist” novel has passed on.

(We need not mention again some of those peculiar St. Louis origins)

And another item laments the passing of “The Greatest Show on Earth”—Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey service is packing up its tent for good.

(St. Louis was another railyard on the circuit)

Spirituality! Showmanship!

Combine the two, and what you almost have is the common variety mega-church. . . . . and they’re not going out of business anytime soon.

You sell spirituality with showmanship—and next you have “Monster Trucks for Jesus” Night down at the ole’ arena. And throw in some death-defying motorcycle riders leaping through the air as they spin in circles, the squealing tires spitting up mud, and you have a show!

The audience holds up those giant foam-rubber fingers, pointing to heaven in the cacophony of blaring speakers—and next they’re throwing down popcorn at Beetlejuice—just another “rodeo clown”.

If he wasn’t aping-it-up on the crowd, it would be back at his other job operating amusement park rides at a traveling carnival.

A rough life, it is—always on the road with just a few dollars allotted a day to buy beer and snacks at roadside convenient stores, if not sleeping out under the stars and traveling hundreds of miles a day.

So how did he get this job? Call him “a spiritual wrangler” or all-around “straw-headed dummy” as he otherwise works up the crowd when he’s not busy doing odd jobs for the company.

(– Or working the merchandise booths out in the curving cinder-block hallways outside the main floor)

If he’s not put-out by fire extinguishers, it’s practically getting mowed down by “Grave-Digger” the monster truck. Let assured, he’ll get carried-out on a stretcher before the night is over.

If it’s not a “special effect” using lights, spiritual wraiths fly all over the arena dome like tissue-paper and gusts from fans as an evil voice cackles. Dark forces apparently.

Forsooth, a moment where all is lost. But wait!

Next, a giant wooden crucifix is lowered from the rafters as the crowd comes down and lays hands on each other’s shoulders, “Old Glory” playing on the mega sound-system.

A light show and holy crescendos as Beetlejuice holds his hand to his heart, his hair in a tangle there in an old filthy coat before he wanders off to take a piss.

Demons and devils are at hand. . . . . later shoveling out all the trash that piled on the arena floor.

There’s always next season. He could work for the traveling rodeo.

(If he doesn’t set-up shop next season with a booth at the flea market)

My America, ‘tis of thee—free land of liberty—and the grand open road.

It’s “a Missouri thing!”


Monster Trucks for Jesus

Your Cable-Box “Vast Wasteland”

It’s here. . . . . bonkers, foam-rubber shock-rock and cosmic villainy like all-screwed-up trash t.v. Notice that it fits in fine with a revamped Netherworld where Beetlejuice and the dead roam like lost television signals in the night.

Apparently, Beetlejuice’s face “has ended-up on a milk carton” as no one knows where he disappeared off to, probably being digested “for a thousand years” like in that gorping sand-pit mouth from Star Wars: Return of the Jedi as he crossed too many people.

Betty White takes over for the irascible old caseworker from 30 years ago as it’s a bitchy-drag off a castigate like a jaded old casting agent as the tale must be told– getting the audience “up to speed” with media cameos across the modern landscape of cable-news and the grind of syndicated “human interest” shows, or even a cameo from “Judge Judy” as they make their case against an absent-chair.

We’re greeted by cameos from other haunted franchises– even a disgusting-looking  “Slimer” from Ghostbuster’s gobbling donuts from the green room and rolling his eyes like a sick dog as a long line of characters complain. They’re quite unhappy, as you come to meet all the lost souls Beetlejuice ever screwed-over.

But one thing will bring him back– the premier of “Beetlejuice Returns”, or a movie not even shot yet as cosmic board-room politics at Warner Bros. carry-on, like a conversation with Darth Vader as they deliberate over “how to make the movie”, as the audience is watching the real movie– and how their deliberations screw-around “with holes in the plot” like occasional commentary and studio-interference.

Shit happens. . . . . and Beetlejuice will find himself at the middle of it.

You like this idea? Tell your friends and lets start a grassroots revolution. Bring it to St. Louis– this film can be made!

wpid-wp-1444570684700.jpeg  lydia_photography

Your Cable-Box “Vast Wasteland”