The Last of The Juggalos

AUTHORS NOTE:

There have been many battles against ICP, for their enemies are many. Their most recent entanglements have been with 'the scientists,' who in their eyes ruin all the magic in the world with their logic and common sense. Many a historian has transcribed their battles in lengthy texts, most of which the ICP have never seen, for many still know not how to read.  The following tale isn't much different, though I must say its got more gusto, and pretty pictures to look at.  Its events are as accurate as can be humanly possible, for not all of the proceeding was seen with mine own eyes. Nonetheless, precautions were made to ensure the authenticity of the tale, for the sake of entertainment and history.

THE LAST OF THE JUGGALOS

The United States of America has been home to many tribes of a people with faces painted white, with noses all different but usually round and red; of a people with giant shoes, hyperbolic in every way, along with their every person: the hair flammable in color and obtuse in size, the cheeks like swollen cherry tomatoes, their shit eating grins the size of The Brooklyn Bridge.  They are the dimwits of art and theater who's calamity brings joy, who's tears bring laughter - those people who's lifestyle is so infrequent and onto itself that those who practice it can be considered their own breed; a race of people known as fucking circus clown.

Creepy. . . 

Chief among their tribes are the people of Barnum & Bailey, who in the last hundred years have formed a mutual alliance with the people of the Ringling Bros.  Other tribes exist as well, though hardly as worldly recognized as the two previously stated. Their people have taken up the names of the regions they squandered from decency, dispersed like kindling in the wind. So many of their brothers and sisters have splintered into the deepest crevices, the highest mountains, the lowest valleys and everything in between.  Though so thinly spread, the resolve and determination of each component of the whole hardened each of them, allowing them to live out semi normal lives despite being complete and utter outcasts.  However, these days deliberations are made around the campfire of Barnum&Bailey and The Ringling Bros. on an evil enemy who sullies the blood of his brothers with antics that include not pie throwing, nor the sudden loss of one's pants due to a suspender malfunction.  They speak of an enemy who though featured like them, operates very differently than themselves.  Here in the red and yellow striped tent, amongst the elephants and the smell, their people gather, for a deliberation on rather serious subjects.

Their chief had risen first silent as the multitudes waited with patience. Although he had a station of superiority over the others, he very much resembled his kin.  When he walked his shoes squeaked comically as if stuffed with dog chew toys, and the flower which bloomed from his breast pocket boasted virility without the need of water or soil.  This chief had been named Skid Mark, for his act included an over sized pair of pants hemmed for a man much fatter and taller than he, so they often slipped from his person, revealing a pair of stained drawers -- and living up to his name his pants dropped upon reaching the stage.  Picking them up he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Our brothers in Detroit have been proven to be anything but family.  They sully the name of the Ringling and Barnum & Bailey.  The black and white faces dare to say they walk with our brothers, yet they have never taken a pie in the face, and instead choose to bathe in sugars of Faygo.  They speak of Family, but there's is not our own, and is spiteful of the Shiney Red Nose in The Sky."

Sounds of agreement came up from all those listening, namely the honking of plastic noses and the ringing of bicycle bells.

"They deceive our own children with false hopes.  They sell them the defiling of the mind, body and soul. . . Many a season have our people found peace, and have pursued all avenues to ensure it, but they sing of war, and idolize weapons like hatchets.  To the juggalo the first remedy of any problem is war, and all his tales tell of blood spilled, and hatred . . ."

The wise words of one of their elders had been rudely interrupted by a recent outcast in the village, a clown with hair colored red from the blood of his kin, his garb that of a yellow one piece with sleeves striped red and white, his over sized red shoes laced in yellow.

"Eject this miscreant at once!"  Skid Mark flicked his wrist in a sign of instant disgust.  "The clown of McDonald has betrayed his people, and profits while he feeds our children poison."  The coward was dispatched of, his feet dragging as his captors took him out to rot with the dogs.

yay.

The Chief then paused, allowing the disturbance to pass under the weight of his fierce gaze.  In the silence the interruption was soon forgotten, and all eyes once again fell on the Great Skid Mark.

"The severity of the situation has required the wisdom of our eldest father, who in his many years has gained more knowledge than we could ever hope to obtain.  He was around when our people emerged from the bosom of the earth and only the white face carried the distinction of clown.  It is a rarity that one of our own should live so long, it is the workings of The Great Spirit. . ."

It was then the ancient clown emerged from his caravan, his likeness on the side fading, the paint having chipped in a disordered fashion from the vigors of passing seasons.  In short, his vessel appeared more to be a tomb than the home of a great chief.  Age had eaten away at his hair, though he still possessed red tufts of matted fur on both sides of his head.  His frame seemed crumbled as he walked a parade that more resembled a death march than a procession worthy of a dignitary. Painted black eye brows gave the appearance of perpetual shock, though his features beneath sagged and were life less.  Upon reaching the spotlight, he stopped to regain his strength.  It was then that he made an effort to stand up, and it was then, with the sound of old and cracking vertebrae that the tribe looked on their most knowledgeable - a clown simply known as Bozo.

He spoke, his words dry and papery.  Every word an effort.

"I have seen many things."  Bozo said, deep in thought.  "Yet I have never encountered beings such as this."  A gasp arose from his collective listeners, as it was believed Bozo knew everything, especially all matters regarding clowns.  "Their tongue I find unrecognizable.  They bring no joy - they make a mockery out of the time honored tradition of making a mockery of oneself!"

Sounds of approval.  Horns and whistles.  Bozo struggled, breathing heavy.

"In short, they're. . . they're. . . retarded."

And with that he spoke his last word, one which serves greatly as an umbrella term for all that is stupid, and breathed his last breath.  His head dropped, his eyes void of any life.  Lifting their fallen comrade, the clowns carried him out of the tent in a somber procession fitting of a funeral. Reaching their destination, they dumped him in a grave fit for any clown - a ditch not far from their camp, where bones mingled with garbage and noisy flies.    

Scaring children since 1928.

"Brothers, we must avenge the death of Bozo, our wisest chief.  It was thought of the black and white faces that seized his mind and stopped his heart!"  Skid Mark said.  "Our Fathers will never be at peace until they have been avenged and the blood of the Detroits flood their cities and drown the seeds of their fathers Chief Violent J and Chief Shaggy 2 Dope!"

Loud whoops erupted from the crowd, and with newfound tenacity they emerged from the tent a mass of angry clowns wielding crude weapons of their own creation.  With determination they met their enemies who were already expecting them, as word from their scouts reached their lands before their enemy.  Chiefs fought among their men in mass - the clash of opposing forces was so great it resembled the crash of the surf.  Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J appeared amongst their kin, and as clowns and juggalos fell about their feet, they were content to spill blood.

Skid Mark found the opposing forces and with the skill of a marksman beheaded a juggalo with a sharpened pie tin, the head falling clean from its body.  Shaggy 2 Dope on the other side had taken one of his CD's to the face of a clown, and with pressure popped his eye out of its socket.  Still Skid Mark pressed on.  Violent J had found a target and was unleashing his kicks on a fat clown's nut sack.  Still Skid Mark pressed on. Killing enemies on his way he met Shaggy 2 Dope, who welcomed him with eager eyes, and quickly they were engaged in a struggle.

"Whoop whoop."

The war cry of the juggalo rang out as they witnessed one of their leaders engaged in deadly combat.  Encouraged by the vision the juggalos fought on, killing many a clown with a veracity that matched their hatred.  The battlefield became one of mixed emotions, a thousand dead clowns lying there on the ground, their happy painted faces contorted into expressions of pain and shame, cemented in death.  Colors were everywhere, but predominate was the color red; the color of blood.  Skid Mark had engaged in a struggle with Shaggy 2 Dope, the both of them wrestling in the mud as men from both sides fought and died for their side.  Choking Shaggy, he gained control, and taking a sharpened horn from his back pocket he raised it and buried it into the Juggalo Chief's chest.

The impulse to honk the horn was strong, and as Skid Mark gave it a couple of squeezes, Shaggy 2 Dope died.  -honk honk-  Rising in victory, his eyes then met those of Violent J, who had lost some vigor in light of seeing such a loved brother slain in battle.  Skid Mark advanced slowly, Violent J back stepping as he did so, to prevent his enemy from gaining any ground.  The circus clowns seemed to be winning.

Yet amongst the din, a piano began to play over the frightful music of men dieing.

I dare yah. . .

Family. . . 

JCW. . .

Family. . .

I'm a bad, bad man. . .

Imagine the clowns surprise when an eight year old emerged from the destruction. . . whoop whoop:

Riveted by the appearance of the Last of The Juggalos, Violent J charged his enemy with the pride of a father content to eliminate the evils in his son's world.  Charging Ski Mark he was met with little resistance.  After the clown was slain, his red nose was taken as a trophy and raised above the head of the victor for all to see. It proved effective in rallying his troops, even the young Violent JJ, who proceeded to hurricanrana clowns and elbow drop fallen foes, much to the juggalos enjoyment.  Once again, the war cries of the juggalos rang out: whoop whoop, whoop whoop in a savage cry they alone posses.  They continued killing circus clowns, lead by their only head chief and his prince.

When victory seemed apparent the sirens rang out and painted the landscape red and blue red and blue.  The combatants scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on.

The cops opened fire, guns blazing through the night in tiny explosions of death, and often they didn't miss.  The casualties were great, far greater than the combat that had ensued prior.  Violent J had fallen, and so had many of his comrades.  The circus clowns too, suffered many a casualty, many still crawling on the ground with holes in their bodies.

All that remained was Violent JJ, who's small person deemed more difficult to hit.

Twas the day I witnessed the last of a vile and retarded race of the Juggalos.  

The clown is a descendant of the jester; a creature so small and feeble he would be killed on a whim.  And often for a laugh.  To pursue to be one is retarded, even if you try and deviate it with rap music and weapons.  In the case of Violent JJ, it is apparent that juggalos, though they claim to be a loving bunch just looking for acceptance, are very much indoctrinated in violence. . .  You can't tell me this Violent JJ kid isn't going to grow up to be the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth.  I mean, he's already made of poor stock (I think he's Violent J's kid, I don't care enough to get the facts straight,) but now they've already got him 'wrestling' and walking around emulating the bullshit actions of the 'grown ups' around him.  Sure, you may claim that ICP and all of that shit really has a good message to preach, one which only juggalos seem to be able to decipher, and hey, lets assume for a second that this is true, but this kid doesn't understand it.  He's just a kid.

Let him be a kid.

Seeing as how this is all the same garbage over and over again, I have but only one diagnosis to give.  Thickheaded as they may be, surely I must be making some ground, right?

Due to the nature of ICP and its recurring retardation, iR declares ICP and Violent JJ, repetitively retarded.

The Last of The Mohicans was a book written by James Fenimore Cooper.  The Last of The Juggalos was a shit blog written by yours truly.

John Wayne Gacy was a serial killer who gained the nickname "Killer Clown" after he made appearances at children's events dressed as a fictional clown he created himself....

Killer Klowns From Outer Space is a shit movie about. . . killer clowns, from outer space.

Pennywise is the name of the monster/clown in Stephen King's It.

Coulrophobia is fear of clowns... if you have it you probably never made it through this shit.

Logophobia is fear of words... if you have it you definitely didn't make it through this shit.

love,

iR