Magnets, fucking miracles.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how much ICP sucks, hell it doesn’t take an obsessive thirteen-year-old with Beiberfeaver to know that they’re the biggest blow-hards in history and that they’re fanbase is made up of clownfags and Joker-wannabes. What I can’t wrap my brain around is how in the hell are these guys still around? I mean, it’s not 1997 anymore and the Hatchet Man should’ve died when the Y2K disaster didn’t happen.

I have come to the conclusion there is someone out there, and this person knows me very well, that is hellbent on torturing my eyes, ears and mind with the constant reminder that there is so much awful shit on the plant that is only here for one purpose: To make me whine. This person, whoever they are, is making a killing off of my pain by bludgeoning today’s market with things like MTV’s Jersey Shore (see last post), Insane Clown Posse and Ben Affleck. But most importantly, in today’s post, ICP blows.

To ICP I issue a message:

Please stop. Please? God only knows how much you mean to…uh, Juggalos, but please just leave. Everyone who isn’t a juggalo wants you gone and you’ve really overstayed your welcome. Thanks so much-America.

 

But in all sincerity, I can’t have any respect for a “group” of people that preach “Magnets, how the fuck do they work?” And in response? “Fucking…Miracles.” Oh, and Juggalos. Dear God, I don’t even want to start.

This became more of a personal blogpost. Hmm. Well here’s the essence of ICP.

(also, I promise no more personal blog posts or pop-culture for today…I promise. Sort of.)

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