I can’t with this.

All two of my readers know that if there is something that I just can’t even for one second tolerate, it’s hippies.

Thank you, but no.

First, both Mother and Father Bean were dirty, icky, Woodstock-attending hippies in their day, so whenever I see two flower children erotically swaying on each other while tripping, I have to think of my parents doing the same, and it bothers me.

Secondly, hippies are empirically annoying. You can care about the earth (even though I don’t) and be progressive while giving the whole patchouli thing a miss. Their aesthetic is just so very incorrect. Everyone has to construct their identities, and that’s fine, but what are you expressing when you wear corduroy cargo shorts and a Guatemalan hoodie?

Nothing I want any part of.

So it was with great loathing that I read this Sunday’s NYT Magazine article about freegans, who really manage to take the sanctimonious up a notch, especially considering that their entire lifestyle is made possibly by the very thing they claim to hate. I read the entire thing, shuddering quietly to myself.

I suppose everyone is entitled to do what they like, and this obviously makes them happy, so who am I to judge? That being said, any time my life seems like it’s going poorly, from here on out I will remind myself that at least I am not squatting in Buffalo. Also, the entire article was worth the price of admission for this one quote:

The line between this help-yourself mentality and a more freewheeling spirit of communal property isn’t always so clear. One resident, Brianna, remarked to me that her stuff often goes missing and that “everyone just thinks everything that’s here is up for grabs.”

One morning, after I had been hanging out at the mansion for a few days, we were about to have breakfast when someone noticed that all the forks and spoons were missing.

“What happened to all the silverware?” someone asked.

“They got turned into a wind chime,” someone replied nonchalantly. Sure enough, moments later, we could all hear the sound of forks clanging in the breeze.

If there is one thing I dislike nearly as much as hippies, it’s wind chimes. This place is my personal hell.

ting ... tingtingtingtingTINGTINGTING ... ... ... ting.

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Magic EVERYWHERE in this bitch!

OK, granted, everyone has already blogged about this, but I just can’t let it pass without comment.

Insane Clown Posse (hereafter known as ICP) is best known for their horrorcore, which is an abortion of a genre that combines rap and metal with satanic themes into something that you couldn’t pay me to listen to.

I just ... can't. No.

But they are now exploring magic and miracles in their new song, “Miracles.” Miracles like pelicans. And rivers. And rainbows. And magnets — how the fuck do they work?

What THE FUCK is going on here?

If this description hasn’t convinced you to watch the video, enjoys these lyrical snippets:

“I’ve seen miracles all around me/Stop and look around its all astounding/Water, fire air and dirt/Fucking magnets, how do they work? I don’t want to talk to a scientist/y’all motherfucking lying and getting me pissed.”

Some other scientific phenomena that is ascribed to either magic and/or miracles: Oceans, stars, mountains, trees, the seven seas, everything chillin’ under water please, hot lava, snow, rain and fog, long neck giraffes, pet cats and dogs, UFOs, a river flows, plant a little seed and nature grows, Niagara falls and the pyramids, and fuckin’ rainbows after it rains.

Violent KJ goes on: “There’s enough miracles here to blow your brain/I fed a fish to a pelican in Frisco bay/And he tried to eat my cell phone/I ran away.” That’s the way with pelicans, Violent J.

Sadly, the ICP has roundly rejected the scientific community, so it appears that these miracles will be forever unexplained to the legions of Juggalos … you know, hardcore ICP fans who paint their faces.

I ... just ... but ...

Anyway, if all of this hasn’t convinced you to run and not walk to the video, then I don’t know what will. Except maybe linking it right below. Here it is!

And, if you haven’t seen SNL’s hilarious and mean takedown (“Blankets! How do they work?”) then it is also required viewing.

P.S., ICP — 15,000 Juggalos in one room is not a miracle. I don’t know that there are words to describe what it is, but a miracle it is not.

Discussion question: What would you do if you found out your favorite uncle is a Juggalo? Your favorite auntie a Juggalette?

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