Don’t watch the whole thing. Just a little bit. Skip around on it.

Anyway, for your consideration, here’s the epic fourteen minute infomercial for the 10th annual Gathering of the Juggalos:

It’s hard for us to understand this lifestyle, but then again, you and I may not be among “the most misunderstood people in the world.” I also recommend watching these dudes talk about the Helicopter rides featured at the Gathering. Because! Only at the Gathering of the Juggalos could three normal dudes experience something like this:

If you’re not familiar with the term Juggalo, you’ve probably at least heard of the Insane Clown Posse. Musically, they’re kind of the black metal of rap. Meaning rap—incredibly popular musical pastime and essential cultural building block of the Black American experience—that has been stripped of its integrally black qualities, it’s “soul,” you might say. I say it’s the black metal of rap, because many have pointed out that the largely-Scandanavian genre is what happens to Rock when its black roots are, unlike it’s name might intimate, again removed. This is the name of ICP’s game: it’s not rap, it’s not rock, it’s the monster Fred Durst—or possibly that goatly-bearded skinhead from Anthrax—created in the late 90s: Nu Metal.

When you crack them open, subcultures like this reveal a lot of racial and gender insecurity. The music is enjoyed primarily by young white men, a social group psychologists have said is often attracted to metal for its themes of violence and personal power, a sentiment matched by equally harsh guitar-based music. The same group was attracted to gangsta rap groups like NWA and Public Enemy, for similar reasons. There had always been white rappers, Vanilla Ice being the most notable, but it was not until the arrival of Eminem as a legitimate radio hitmaker that angry middle-class white men had a voice that sounded like themselves. It was only a matter of time before two of our most culturally rich artforms were stripped bare of the culture that defined them and twisted to a nu purpose.

I threw up some combos once. Pizza is awesome. So are pretzels. But just because two things rule it does not mean that they should be mashed together and consumed concurrently. What you end up with is something incredibly inferior to either of its ingredients, a bastard snack ten times lesser than the sum of its parts.

It’s handy for my metaphor that Limp Bizkit sounds like something you might buy at a gas station. I don’t need to post any of that band’s music. What I’d prefer is to show you the backlash to the genre, composed by Ben Folds.

Genre-bending is not bad. But it’s important that you honor the heritage of the traditions you borrow from. The Beastie Boys are the best example I can come up with of white-produced rap/rock that stays true to the black heritage of both genres. The same argument could be made for Rage Against the Machine, but that argument is weaker. The latter remains relevant solely for the fact that they often have a very specific thing to tell a very specific audience. ICP manufactures a sonically similar product. Its failure is in its lack of productive thought. When you listen to it, it’s the sound of frustration, the incongruency in growing up powerfully lopsided, the keystone of the bridge that high school graduates walk across to monetary gain and self-fulfillment, the arch dropouts walk under safely as they seek employment in some kind of manual labor. The music does nothing but reinforce white frustration, opiating their ambitions and augmenting their primal instincts. Hardcore fans of Insane Clown Posse don facepaint and baggy clothing, calling themselves Juggalos. They’re dirty inarticulate warriors, slapping a window cling on the back of their cars that features a dreadlocked youth scampering left to right holding a hatchet, an emblem made in their own image.

Watch this:

What you’re watching is the be-all end-all of the failure of this medium. Shirking education and emotional depth, this song by “misunderstood” rappers (We learn here that they’re fathers, too) that can’t wrap their heads around the world outside they’re poisonous subculture, is what happens when you’ve made it to 37 and still haven’t grown up. I feel like we’re watching a spiritual adaptation of John Gardner’s Grendel. These are the same kinds of kids that shoot everyone in their school libraries. Many of them can be found trading homophobic epithets on Xbox Live. They respond to a world they’re willfully unable to understand with violent frustration.

Much like attending night court, it’s sad, but perhaps moreso, hilarious.

We laugh, because we aren’t them. We respond to absurdity with absurdity. It’s not really productive, but then again neither is Let’s Spell Together. That’s not why we do things like this. We do this because it’s funny. It’s the best reason to do anything.

One more:

Good day.