One of the most sacred events at ICP concerts is a sort of communion known as the “Faygo Shower.” Basically, band members spray members of the audience with soda.
But not just any soda. Faygo is a soda brand local to Detroit, where ICP originated— they even reference the soft drink in their lyrics. And so, as part of their devotion to Juggalo life, fans drink the stuff by the bucketful. Faygo tries to keep a healthy distance from Juggalos, but the company certainly benefited from the face-painted consumers.
ICP has helped a company thrive, a company started by Jewish immigrants.
Faygo is short for Feigenson— yes, really. The Faygo website euphemistically describes brothers Ben and Perry as “Russian immigrants,” but a quick Google search will confirm the obvious. In 1907 they began their bottling business, and soon began flavoring soda water with frosting flavors (they were originally bakers). And like something out of a novel about Jews making it in America, they shortened their name to something completely alien sounding to help the product sell. The company stayed in the family until the 1980s, and while it now belongs to the National Beverage Company (they own the likes of LaCroix and Shasta), Faygo is still headquartered in Detroit.
And so, the Insane Clown Posse, admittedly unwittingly, votes with their pocketbooks, and in their semi-obscure, highly regional, and affordable beverage of choice is one brought to us by the very people the Neo-Nazis stand against: Jews, and immigrants.
this is an amazing article but it gets one very salient point wrong: shaggy 2 dope isn’t white. he’s cherokee. he’s very proud of his heritage. important context
I would like to share this beautiful passage with all of you, it’s long, but worth it. And I swear to god I didn’t alter any of this.
….
Her long hair, still wet from the shower, had been combed down her back in a wet swath. Hilda was sitting on the floor, her round, wet boobs still wet from the shower’s water. She dried off the water with a towel, which then became wet.
Hilda gasped when she saw a reflection in her bedroom mirror: through the slightly open door, she caught a glimpse of the chiseled abs and square jaw of the mysterious stranger who shared her cabin. She stood and spun around, her breasts swinging heavily with the momentum. She grabbed the door and flung it open, revealing shirtless Torolf (which is seriously his name) quivering with desire in the hallway.
Torolf was ashamed at being caught, but his shame made him even hotter – hotter for sex. He stepped into the room, and his bulging abs accidentally smushed into Hilda’s rich chest.
As Hilda’s buttermilk bosoms squished up against his granite abs, Torolf almost had a dick aneurysm. “Hilda,” Torolf murmured thickly, his throbbing meat wand pressing against Hilda’s warm thighs. “There is a secret I need to not tell you: You are my forbidden desire.”
Hilda had been waiting to hear these words. Her heart was lifted on golden wings and soared toward a radiant sun of perfect joy. She saw herself and Torolf happy together, bathed in the golden light of love. Her snooch got all warm, too.
“Torolf,” Hilda moaned, her lush teats straining with desire. “I need you.” Torolf, coarse abs pulsing softly in the moonlight, stood silently. Hilda looked at him expectantly. “Oh, sorry,” she added. “Torolf, I need you – sexually.”
At hearing those beautiful words, Torolf flexed his rough-hewn abs and Hilda found herself being guided to her soft bed by the sheer force of Torolf’s undulating midsection. She parted her thighs in anticipation, exposing the soft pink petals of her clunge.
Torolf entered her like she was a lottery. His engorged pecker pushed inside her and she felt fulfilled with sexual fulfillment.
Hilda clutched at the bedsheets with lust and ecstasy and her hands. Her spongy love mountains hurled to and fro with each pounding. Her body was like a beautiful flower that was opening and somebody was pushing their dick inside it.
Then Torolf moaned, arched his back, and suffered from dick Parkinson’s. He pumped in all of his hot pearlescent sperms as Hilda spasmed with so many orgasms!
The two lay still for a moment as the stinky scent of lovemaking billowed around the room. Hilda got out of bed, still shimmering with orgasm. She glowed with contentment, like a cat who ate the cream of the crop.
She walked across the room and picked up her towel, still wet with shower water. “Torolf,” she said softly, “there’s something I have to tell you…”
But her bed was empty.
Torolf was gone, escaped out the bedroom window. In the distance, Hilda heard the fading sound of galloping abs.
….
DICK
ANEURYSM
GALLOPING ABS
Who told this lady she could write?
Why did she ever stop?
IT GETS WORSE THE FURTHER IN THE PASSAGE YOU GO OMG
i fukcing lost it at meat wand
How could I NOT share this
IS THIS REAL LIFE
If you need some self-confidence in your writing abilities, read this!
Each and every fanfic I have ever read, including even those written by me, are so, so much better than this hahaha
“HER SNOOCH” “HER CLUNGE”
sandra hill absolutely knew what she was doing, and what she was doing was getting paid by the word while her editor was out sick.
argue about ‘my immortal’ all you want, but never doubt sandra hill wrote this crack migraine on absolute purpose
she may well have been drunk on night train, flipping double birds at the sky in between typing fits, or she may not, but i guarantee there was cackling
Random Headcanon: Ronald McDonald regenerates when killed, horror movie monster style, but the Burger King’s immortality is dependent on serial reincarnation. That’s why the latter tends to disappear from the public eye for a couple of decades every now and then; when Ronald loses a fight in their eternal struggle for dominion over all fast food, he’s fine in like a week, but when the King goes down, he needs to wait for his reincarnation to grow up.
(Though this would seem to give Ronald an insurmountable advantage, it’s less decisive than you’d think, because Ronald is actually kind of terrible in a fight. The knowledge that he only needs to win once makes him sloppy.)
Quite so. The Colonel is older than Ronald, and even the King, but his reach is bound by the fact that he can’t affect the material world on his own – he’s strictly limited by the capabilities of his current corporeal host. Like all elder ghosts, however, he can cast a mean curse, so it’s best to tread carefully in his court.
Wendy’s a tough one to pin down. Once a mere figurehead empress, she’s taken a more active hand in the politics of the Fast Food Wars since her father’s mysterious disappearance scarcely a decade past. Nobody’s quite sure what her deal is; to all appearances, she’s a perfectly ordinary fourteen-year-old girl – but she’s been fourteen for a long, long time.
Collecting a variety of requests:
The Taco Bell Chihuahua is gone. In her hubris, she challenged the Colonel to single combat, who unhinged his jaw like a snake and swallowed her whole. Nobody’s quite prepared to say she’s dead, since the powers of the Fast Food Wars have been known to come back from worse, but it’s been fifteen years now, and few expect her return.
The Five are a sinister cabal who eschew personal names and identities, being known only by their collective title. The secret to their power is that they’re actually a telepathic hive-mind; though their members are technically mortal, the collective itself can recover from individual losses as long as at least one of them survives.
Despite its icy clime, the Dairy Queen’s kingdom flows with milk and honey. Her subjects are well-fed and happy and want for nothing – but there’s always something brittle about their smiles. In truth, beneath her jolly facade, their glorious sorcerer-queen’s heart is as cold as her realm: all shall love her and despair.
The Caesar is an anomaly in the Fast Food Wars: a mortal who contends with gods. What he lacks in personal prowess, he makes up for with his vast armies and spy networks. The title is non-hereditary; the current Caesar ascended to the throne in the traditional fashion: by literally stabbing his predecessor in the back.
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick – though the Fast Food Wars’ fields are bestrode by giants, all know to fear the Giant-Slayer. Cursed by the Old Gods to the form of a child’s toy for some forgotten jape, Jack rules still from his castle in the clouds. A wildcard in the Wars, he’s as likely to decimate his own realm in a fit of pique as he is to march against others.
It has latterly been revealed that the previous Caesar survived his assassination, making his way in secret to the frozen lands, where he became vassal – and, some whisper, consort – to the Dairy Queen. The mark of his successor’s poisoned spear remains upon him, staining his skin a sickly ocher, and for this he’s known as Orange Julius.
Make a campaign world based around the lore of The Fast Food Wars.
This is the best Demolition Man prequel fic I’ve ever read.
the subway isn’t a person, as far as anyone can tell. it’s a strange underground realm filled with jaunty steampunk citizens. but none of the others dare set foot there. it neither attacks nor defends. it simply runs on time.
“Patty Jenkins worked really hard with her team to design a style of fighting that was incredibly badass, and believable. Where Batman will punch somebody in the face, and that’s effective,
that’s not how the Amazons and Diana fight. They have a disciplined
specialized, collaborative fighting style. They work together as a team,
and leverage each other’s strengths. They are mighty, they are beautiful. And as the Germans learn, this new breed of badass warrior women are deadly.”
the highlighted area is where Jason Derulo knows what the girls want. london to taiwan.
new york to haiti
greenland is right out
ummm no offense but new york to haiti should be measured as the area between the two latitudes, not the longitudes. this graph is incorrect and vastly underestimates the total region of the earth in which Jason Derulo knows what the girls want
Even measuring that way, Greenland remains right out, as does the entirity of Brazil.
Have we considered measuring by neither latitude nor longitude but in all area that would extend perpendicular from the diagonal of the two places?
There are many different interpretations of the data, and until more is available, we ought not conclude anything at this point.
In light of that, I posit this alternative map of regions where Jason Derulo is potentially claiming where he knows what girls want:
As we can see, if we assume that model, the vast majority of the area where Jason Derulo knows what girls want is either open ocean (the Atlantic, the Mediterranean Sea) or sparsely populated (the northern Sahara, the northern Arabian Desert, various desert portions of Iran and Afghanistan, and the southern Tibetan Plateau). Four of the ten most populated countries on the planet have no territory in it (Nigeria, Brazil, Japan, and Indonesia), and two which do have relatively little territory in it (the US and Russia). It is suggested that for all his boasting, Jason Derulo does not know what a probable majority of the world’s girls want.
Perhaps Jason Derulo’s intention was never to proclaim to be omnipotent to the interests of the female gender. Perhaps he was instead expressing his humanity, or the limits of his knowledge. I applaud Jason Derulo. Jason Derulo is not just another 2 dimensional character. Jason Derulo has depth.Jason Derulo has limitations and has come to terms with them. Jason Derulo knows Jason Derulo. Thats why he makes it a point to say his name so much.
I suppose there’s at least one silver lining for us executive dysfunction sufferers: you can’t normalise problematic behaviour if you never do anything.
just moving along like everyone else 