Here’s what excites me- genuine insight into things I’m interested in but which occur in locales or within cultures where I fear tread. Have you seen thejuggalog.tumblr.com? One of my many dogs of war posted this link in the sock drawer (which is, for you new folk, the name of the comments section located beneath each post. There is ALSO a radical splinter faction ‘sock drawer’ that’s located elsewhere on the internet, comprised of radical freedom fighters [terrorists?] who felt, perhaps rightly, that the sock drawer that your benevolent dictator [yours truly] provides wasn’t packed with enough mindless bullshit and special buttons) and it (the juggalog, that is) is awesome.
Some poor fucker got it in his head that working for ICP for something like ten or eleven weeks selling tshirts to tubby juggalos and jugalettes would be a great social experiment. Now, I too, would probably think this, and I too, had I not been turned onto the juggalog would probably even consider doing it, just like this poor, poor man ended up doing. But MAN oh man, some of the photos and passages are genuinely haunting and dark. It’s, believe it or not, completely fucked up. This little excerpt from today’s entry may whet your whistle:
“When I look back at the last 10 weeks of my life it’s hard to admit to myself that everything I remember actually happened. Just to put it in perspective for you: The amount of time that I have been protecting myself from (over-generalization) over weight, drug infused, uneducated, mindless, brainwashed, closed minded, soda soaked clowns with the shittiest make-up that I could possibly imagine is just short of the amount of time that it would take for you to complete one semester of photography class at your mid-level art school.”
Yipes, folks. That’s what sometimes happens when you immerse yourself in a strange and depraved culture. You go batshit insane. But this guy and his expose may just be the catalyst that the juggalos need to start a true subcultural civil war where they break out their hatchets and take back what’s theirs; namely the KFC’s, Taco bells, Hot Topics and hockey jersey manufacturing concerns. It could become one of those situations where clowns stop being polite and start getting real. They could call their new country Juggalarica, Or Juggalo-ville, Oooh! Juggalosreal. Oh, yeah. That’s what they should call it. But, nah, they’d probably just call it Shangri-la. Dumb fucking juggalos.
This leads me to something that I find irritating: the fear of clowns. Everyone reveals this phobia like it’s some sort of iconoclastic fear that proves that they see the real essence of terror in this otherwise-thought-to-be-docile-lovable and, you know, for-the-kids incarnation, but listen up dildos: for as long as there have been clowns, they’ve been portrayed as scary. You aren’t outwitting the matrix. You’re in it, man. Ever fucking hear of Pagliacci? Look, my point here is, as long as there’s been the idea of clowns there’s been juggalos, kay? You got it? Great. So, no more bragging about clowns being scary. That’s like saying rapists are scary, or minorities. WOW. What a bold new fear you’ve cooked up there.
Okay, look. I didn’t mean to go off on you guys there. I’ve been having problems with my manservant Claudio for the last hour or two. He took off on the Monitor’s life blimp with that dildo from the Cobra Ships or whatever the fuck they are. Apparently our meeting in Tibet the other day made quite an impression on Claudio, and just this morning he told me that he’d rather listen to children’s dance music than talk about opening NRO accounts, or Hulbert’s Financial Digest. I told him that without that shit, I’ve got ads, no revenue, no Monitor and no money for menservants and you know what he said? Get this. He said “I don’t care, sir. It’s dull.” Then he took off in the life blimp. It was pathetic, really. Just Claudio, floating out there like some sort of chick clasped in the talon of a fat goose, disappearing into the arctic sunset above the ice floes and…excuse me a moment.
No, no. I’ll be fine. After all, I still have my trillions and Dick Branson and I are meeting tomorrow at a Stuckeys outside of Oklahoma city to talk global finance over some chicko sticks and milkshakes. Should be a pretty cool time. Maybe I’ll get one of the waiters from the main restaurant on the Monitor (the steakhouse) to fill in for Claudio. Or, maybe Claudio will come back. Who knows anymore? Okay, I’ve got to go. I’m hunting polar bears from up here with some Russian, ahem, businessmen, and I’m up.
Good luck out there. Let’s rap tomorrow.