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.
Buy American. We send prices down to hell
Though understated in the original movie, there’s nothing like white trash/low class mayhem as a picture is forming where Beetlejuice comes from.
One way to understand it is watching Texas metal barbarians, Pantera “tear shit up” back stage with drinking and drawling depravity unto the home jack-off session of tour pranks.
There was something about the ’90s. . . . . maybe it was wider communication or the plethora of Wal-Mart knock-off merchandising for dollar-store value, but you could see the endless novelty of things as the underbelly burbled-up in full view on “Jerry Springer” t.v.
From standing in a garage in the middle-of-the-night with all the gear plugged in, too hip-hopping around a bunch of neighbors by a magazine of exploding fire-crackers, you just know Beetlejuice is somewhere in the neighborhood.
Action, excitement– as things are otherwise “very slow” as the cinder-block liquor store full of goodies is a couple of blocks, over. Be 21 or be gone. . . . . or have enough holes in your brain development to go off “and get crazy” anyway.
Just watch it go. . . . . and we make no disclaimers otherwise to tell you–
DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A false rumor has been circulating for the last day or two THAT THEY WOULD BE MAKING BEETLEJUICE WITHOUT ME.
Oh no, but listen to the insectile-screech of “the little guy” protesting that he won’t have his dream crushed. Such is the tale of “the little guy” as I may yet give my movie studio overlords a pause. Strange things are afoot in St. Louis, wonderful things like Dr. Frankenstein’s bizarre laboratory of UNDEAD SEQUELS.
Onwards to 30 years later. . . . . can we pull it off?
I say Beetlejuice should have a lot of screen-time, with a thicker exploration of the weird & wonderful netherworld like haunted t.v. signals and defunct “Dollar Store” plastic knock-off’s that’s true to the world of white, blue-collar squalor.
Where the highway meets– not far, yonder your local Wal-Mart, junk yard, waffle-house, and carnival. Beetlejuice lives in the hills of south St. Louis county– and we must do the character justice in this vaunted region of podunk majesty, like spangled rhine-stone cowboys.
To see it is to believe it, to know it is to love it. Coming soon to a completed screenplay near you. From tea party misfits to firecrackers going off in apartment complex parking lots, thy name is chaos– thy name is America– thy name is BEETLEJUICE!
Like other buzz-words 5 years behind the times, “DON’T GO THERE” but we will as Beetlejuice goes and busts-a-move! Lydia will be there to roll her eyes with ethereal sarcasm “keeping it real”. Ooops, did it again.
So check in, we’ll be back soon or else Beetlejuice isn’t working behind the counter at fast-food. Rather, he’s running-fast from the gorping mouths of sand-worms as the after-life comes with a certain grim ecology. . . . . . like poetic-justice and THE FINAL WORD ON FUNNY.
Here’s to Quality & Cleverness and a Wonderful World Wide Web Audience!
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.
“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?