Juggalove: Finding Love the ICP Way

As we near Valentine’s Day, we are reminded of how important love is to each and every one of us.  Yet, I’ve often found it hard to believe that anyone could love a certain posse of face painted buffoons whose pastimes include candlelit diners, Faygo Showers, and break dancing in clown suits. This select group otherwise referred to as “juggalos” and “juggalettes” are followers of the influential ex-cons-cum-troubadours: Insane Clown Posse.  I set about satisfying my clownish curiosity the way most people do, online.

 Juggalove.com is the ICP interpretation of PlentyofFish except with less middle aged mothers of three and more teenage mothers of three. Thus, armed with my love for comedy, childhood clown related trauma, and a kinky penchant for grease paint, I decided to venture into the twisted romantic labyrinth of the Juggalo.

Step 1: The Identity

            After watching a 12 hour marathon of Jenny Jones, Ricky Lake, Maury, Jerry Springer and Montel (the thinking man’s midday trailer talk show host), I was ready to venture into the heart of Juggalove.  Like most juggalos, the website introduced itself via panhandling. Juggalove.com begged followers to save their Faygo funds and donate with the intention of updating the site to a 2.0 version. This pinnacle development in software – the likes of which Isaac Asimov ne’er dreamed – would offer adult photo albums and “more juggalettes!!!”.  Pioneering this path to singularity were ZING and DJKittieX, members of Juggalove who had already donated 250 dollars to the greater good; quite a feat considering Wal-Mart pays minimum wage.

            After giving a cursory look at the volume of neck tattoos and dropped g’s in the user profiles, I figured “Jordana Globerman – McGill U1” might be a little too elitist a persona for Juggalove. I decided to go undercover.  With the suave mystique of a Dana Carvery’s Master of Disguise, I assumed the virtual identity of Candie Rice, alias shaggysgurl. Candie was my dream juggalette: young, borderline illiterate, and looking for love – specifically the type that can be traded on craigslist. She spent quality time “jus chillin” and “hangin out with her fellow los and lettes.” Her use of emoticons was almost erudite in precision, underscoring her thoughts and feelings with meaningful expression. X’s and O’s lingered after her name like subtle perfume, a stolen kiss, or a distant memory. Candie xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo.

Step 2: The Lure

Two days had passed and still no one had “hit Candie up”. To make matters worse, her member status was “scrub”, and it is common knowledge that a scrub is a guy – or gal – “who can get no love from me.” Candie’s lack of profile picture was a turn off. However, I hadn’t given up on my alter ego.  With the help of “personal information” questionnaires I hoped to truly convey Candie’s Juggalescence by answering questions like “How much do you enjoy oral sex?” and “How do you play with food during sex?” I wish I made up the following questions, but their staggering genius is solely the property of the great minds at Juggalove.com:

My personal favourite:

“What STDs are you comfortable with your partner having?”

q Genital warts?                               q HSV Type I?        q What about type II? 

q STD free (tested regularly)?   q HIV positive?        q AIDS?   

q Hepatitis?                                      q Gonorrhoea?         q Syphilis?  

q HPV?                                           a None of the above?

Step 3: The Soulmate

Candie’s still clownless. I try to tell myself it’s not me, it’s them; but getting rejected by a bunch of guys named Bubba tends to take its toll on your self esteem. I filter through potential suitors for Candie over at the “Hot or Not” section of Juggalove – a sort of soulless customer satisfaction survey where Candie can rate other single pierrots. Here we find such lookers as mrBones, posing in a hockey mask a la Jason. I stumble across one upstanding jester whose only criteria for soulmate is a gal who celebrates 4:20 everyday. There is also some potential in one candidate; sure his face is half obscured by his bandana and his grammar is less than MLA but he’s kind hearted and he says he could make me laugh just by texting me, which I assume will be a regular occurrence when he’s in jail.  “I like pain,” he writes. “I like to be bitten. It’s a must.”  Ok, I get it. We all have our things, but is this really how you want to introduce yourself? Does your resume read “Personal Skills: open communication, able to multitask, owns a ball-gag”? Candie’s becoming a nun.

I thought of messaging some of my fellow Juggalos but I could never bring myself to do it. It seemed cruel. Going into this I had made up my mind about Juggalos; they were a pathetic excuse for a subculture, one step below Furries one step above fans of Michal Bolton. I let my bias against bands signed to the same label as Bubba Sparxxx overrule my impartiality as a journalist. Candie taught me a very important lesson: deep down, every one of us wants to feel accepted.  We don’t want to be judged by the color of our face-paint or the brand of our sugary pop drink. Are we really so different?  Does the tired business man differ so greatly from the single mother working at Arby’s, or the hotel heiress spreading her thighs via internet, or the poor disenfranchised youth who paints his face like a clown each morning, before grabbing his hatchet and heading off for school?  I think the real moral of the story here – the ICP universal truth – is that we are all brothers, and that it is our actions, not our outward appearances, that will determine our lot of neden received in Shangri-la.  Let us join hands and proclaim: I will be down with the clown until I am dead in the ground.

                                                                                                                               ~Jordana Globerman