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If You Didn’t Want to Attend the Gathering of the Juggalos You Shouldn’t Have Put Me in Charge of Planning Our Honeymoon

Yo babe, are you serious? You really wanted to go to Disneyland after the wedding? Then why didn’t you just say so?

Oh, you did a million times but I just nodded as if I was listening and continued to spray Moon Mist all over the apartment? Fair enough, but in my defense, if you didn’t want to attend The Gathering of the Juggalos why the hell did you ever entrust me with something important like planning our honeymoon? Whoop whoop!

I’m not blaming you per se, but you also did specifically tell me that you’d be cool with any destination that was unique and interesting. And that’s exactly what the GOTJ is all about. Frankly, I’ve already sacrificed a lot of my customs by agreeing to hold off on the face paint until after the church service and to not stick anything between my butt cheeks until we were off the plane.

Of your extreme reaction, I’m starting to question whether you love me at all. You know I was down with the clown when we met, and I guess I just wished you would meet me halfway into the dark carnival. I never judged you for your unhealthy fascination with The Mouse House and all those times you forced me to watch Frozen. Just imagine how embarrassed I was having to admit to my friends that my fiancée was into Disney and preferred Fanta.

Just reserve judgment until after you compete in the juggalette beauty pageant I entered you in. Or after we spend a romantic walk along the drug bridge while the weed and salvia smoke wafts around your exposed cans, my popsicle and nizzos dangling in the afterglow of the numerous trash fires raging out of control. Of course, we’ll be naked and my butthole will be out, what kind of question even is that?!

Maybe our differences are too much to overcome and I should just take my hatchets and fireworks and fuck off. Or maybe I can stay if we promise to come together and embrace all of me, from the tips of my Osiris sneakers to the top of my krazy ass, filthy spider braids.

Fine, but I’m huffing nitrous on Space Mountain.