Sometimes after my ex-band would have a bad show – playing in front of 3 people or something – I'd often say in mock defeat, "Fuck it, let's give up and become rapping clowns." What is the point of trying hard to be creative and do things that have merit, meaning, or both when America has already proven that you will be A) exceedingly famous and B) wealthy beyond your wildest dreams simply by pasting on some cheap costume makeup and rapping about things of interest to the average adult WWF fan? One almost has to admire the simplicity and brilliance of Insane Clown Posse. You know, the "Fuckin' magnets, how do they work?" guys. If they've been off your radar for a few years, it will please you to learn that they went Christian.
Here is a photo album of Juggalos shot by a very good professional photographer. I picked out a pair to convince you to click through. Come on, it's Friday. You're desperate for things to do that are not work.
I can barely wrap my head around such things. You know those ICP tattoos are still going to be there in 20 years, right? I suppose, however, that when you drop out of high school at 15 and lay around a trailer all day watching a black-and-white TV with a coathanger antenna and tending to your 28 year-old mother's meth lab, this sort of fantasy world for the illiterate must look pretty appealing.
That is no excuse, though – I repeat, none – for a Juggalo funeral complete with an infant casket decked out in ICP decals. Click here if you dare to hear the mother's take on her baby's death (hint: it had nothing to do with the Xanax and weed she consumed during the pregnancy).
We have failed. I'm talking about mankind. As a species, we have failed.
The entire purpose of this entry is to make you feel better about yourself…and about your hillbilly relatives for that matter, about all of whom you can at least say, "Well, at least they're not juggalos."