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Because you aren’t funny!

I don’t know; it’s a good point, it’s a very very good point, but the column’s terribly earnest, and anyway the Joker’s beef has to be sympathetic or else the discourse doesn’t work, you know? Do you really want to give them that card? —And besides, what we’re talking about here are useful idiots who’ve been ginned up to protest the fact that their health insurance companies will be forced to abide by the terms of their policies. The same useful idiots who earlier this year marched against their own taxes being cut. We aren’t talking Heath Ledger. We aren’t talking Jack Nicholson. We aren’t talking Cesar Romero and we’re certainly not talking Marshall Rogers. We’re talking Gathering of the Juggalos.

Still: turnabout, fair play, and my his eyes look creepy when you brush away the fake remorse:

The face of conservatism.

—Filed 5572 days ago to .

  1. Kevin Moore    Aug 8, 02:38 pm    #

    Hey, man, you owe Juggalos an apology. What’d they ever do to deserve analogy to birthers, teabaggers and Beck-Palinists? They just wanna party. Is that so wraawwwwnngg?


  2. Kip Manley    Aug 10, 04:14 pm    #

    Yeah, upon reflection I’d have to say the Juggalos know exactly what it is they’re after and where to find it and how to go get it. No false consciousness there. So on that score, yeah. My bad.

    I left Brad to check in on Daff at the Hatchet Rydas tent, but found him crashed in a lawn chair while the rest of the Rydas were scrambling around in a near panic. Kent stormed into the tent trembling with rage and began dousing his hands in sanitizer.

    “The camp owners said we’re this close to losing this site for next year because of all the trash,” he said. “Psychopathic’s people asked us if we’d help with the cleanup, because our spot is so neat, but dudes keep kicking over trash cans and being like, ‘Yo, why are you picking up all that garbage?’”

    I started to look around for scraps, but then the Wanderers crested the nearby hill and, momentarily torn between helping out the Juggalos’ five-percenters and reveling in the absolute, undistilled essence of adolescent vacancy, I rejoined the ranks of the dumb. At the bottom of the hill three of the Wanderers kicked the living shit out of a garbage can.

    By 4 AM, we’d made it back to the original Wanderers’ campsite where Pyro, who had run ahead, was busy filling a tent with gas-soaked trash (and a table).

    “The guy who owns this asked me to get rid of it for him, so we’re going to set it on fire.”

    He unspooled an entire roll of toilet paper, we thought to use as a fuse, then bunched it up, lit it, and shoved the whole flaming mess under the table. The tent was fully ablaze in a matter of minutes.

    As the flames and awful-smelling smoke rose into the night, a large SUV pulled up behind us and the tent’s owner rolled down the passenger window.

    “Man… that’s tight.”

    —“In the Land of the Juggalos”


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