I HATE Your Kids

Childbirth is a plague. It’s an algal bloom blanketing the planet in ear shattering screams, sticky fingers and a general mucus-like ooze of annoyance. Social networking has inflamed the problem further.

Everyone has a voice these days. Every half assed retard with computer access wants an audience to inflict their baby pictures upon. The social contract states we’re all supposed to give a fuck about your annoying children, cooing and aaawwwwing at their insignificant achievements.

“Oh! Look at little Timmy bashing a kick drum, very, very loudly. He’s developing an interest in music. Isn’t that fascinating?”

I hate your children. Collectively, I hate your children. En masse, they form a subculture of mediocre political correctness that forces its way into my life, regardless of how much alcohol I consume, pornography I watch or narcotics I shove into my hateful face hole.

They aren’t fucking cute. They’re just goddamned annoying. They fuck up what should be a quiet dinner. They ruin what should be an enjoyable movie. They bring chaos to what could have been a nice Friday evening. Even when they aren’t in my presence, the infuriating little assholes choke my field of vision and I have to LOOK at the fucking things.

One of the many, many things I hate about children is the bitch-ifying effect they have on adults. Show me a parent and, 9 times out of 10, I’ll show you someone who once had a personality they could claim as their own.

Remember the person you used to party with, go to concerts with, curse with and indulge in life’s deviant pleasures along side? Well, that person has been swapped out with a pudgy, boring, uptight dickhole who has the balls to think you or anyone else should give a squirt of piss about that yowling, shaved howler monkey they take to the park daily.

Your kids aren’t cute. They have sticky digits they want to place on ALL my expensive stuff. Your kids have nothing to contribute to a conversation because they’re inarticulate retards. Your kids aren’t even people yet. They’re embryos with the ability to form rudimentary words and poison the atmosphere with noise, noise NOISE!

These days, you weak willed yuppies lack the fortitude to kick them up the ass and shout “Shut the FUCK up, Timmy! Shut your fucking whore mouth right this moment or your picture is destined for a milk carton, Bitch!!”

Fuck your kids and fuck you for polluting the earth with them.


Crack Attack

It’s been awhile since I’ve submitted various, miscellaneous musings from the brainpan of a junkie and social leaper. No better time than the present.

Blake (my brother and creative collaborator) and I have been hard at work on the second issue of our comic book – the H-Boyz. It’s an autobiographical essay on our lives as hard rock’n narcotics abusers, sexual deviants and all around reprehensible bottom feeders in the aquarium of society.

Our comic serves as a punk-rock style middle finger pointed in the general direction of pop culture. We hate a lot.

One of my favorite stories in issue two is one written and pencilled by Blake. It’s called ‘Crack Attack.’ It’s about smoking crack. Brilliant, I know! I don’t need confirmation.

‘Crack Attack’ as an illustrated retelling of one of our countless journeys down the blighted path of smoking rock cocaine. Sure, we punched up the dialogue for comedic effect, but rest assured that every moment of this harrowing tale is true.

Roasting your first boulder of sweet, sweet ‘butter’ (as our drug dealer, Barney calls it) is like the soft embrace of a lover. That initial hit is the inhalation of a celestial cloud. Your brain fills with white lightning as a flood of endorphins wash over you in a gentle wave of euphoria.

That sensation lasts…oh, I would say…five seconds. The warm, fuzzy feeling is immediately chocked like a defenseless kitten and replaced with a clawing, hateful need that screams inside your skull with rabid, wanton, feral desire.

“More! More! MORE!” is the unending chorus in your mind, looping in a cycle of hunger that can’t be sated, even if you’re ‘fortunate’ enough to have another rock at your disposal.

I know that sounds bleak, but the comic is hilarious. If you want to check out the first issue of our comic, visit www.hboyz.com and order an issue. Issue #2 is being worked on and will be available soon.

Until next time, this is Clay Hatrison from the H-Boyz, reminding you that if it feels good, most likely it’ll get you into trouble, therefore you shouldn’t hesitate. Peace!

Work Sux!

“Do I have to do this shit again?” is the defeatist mantra I mutter every day I have to trudge into this soul murdering retail nightmare.

My failure to follow through with a college degree or apply myself in any credible way lead me down this path of misery. I don’t remember raping a baby, because that’s the only act that would justify the karmic backhand I tolerate every day I work at a toy store.

Being face fucked at knife point by a clown is a worthwhile analogy. Imagine a bright, colorful clown raping your mouth hole, spraying jizz all over your face, then tossing glitter all over your tear stained, cum splattered mug. That’s what a day in the toy store is like.

I get through my daily rigor in different ways. For instance, when the frustration reaches a fevered pitch, I’ll grab a random stuffed animal off the plush aisle and rend it asunder, replacing the eviscerated critter back with his peers who are still in tact. No one has discovered who the mystery plush toy murderer might be. They have their suspicions though.

Murder is a fantasy I indulge. My disdain for all humans is palpable at the job. Sometimes I’ll imagine launching myself across the counter, wrapping my clawing digits around the throat of the first cunt who behaves as if they’re royalty instead of botched anal sex at a drunken high school prom.

I imagine coming to work with a razor-sharp machete, rampaging up and down the aisles as I separate little heads from shoulders in an incredible ballet of homicide. The daydream is so visceral and complete that I can feel the warm spray of childrens’ plasma as it coats Barbie dolls, stipples Monopoly board games and soaks bargain action figures of popular super heroes.

My imagined spree would continue into the food court, where patrons would be struck silent with the horror of a blood marbled grim reaper in a red polo shirt and name tag, his eyes pinholes of insanity, his face a twisted joker’s mask of kill-crazy euphoria.

I fathom the gunshots as a distant sound, hardly associated with the sociopath who’s currently bathing in the life fluid of fuckable teenagers and morbidly obese consumers. My skull would explode under the concussive shells of multiple high powered rifles, my body slumping onto the boot scuffed tiles, a pool of crimson that matches my red shirt perfectly in tone. The machete would still be gripped in my fist as rigor mortis sets in.

But alas, I never carry out my hateful vengeance on the mall. I’ll know it’s time to make a lateral career move the minute I find myself actually shopping for the machete.

(Un) Happy Endings

I know I’ve made this abundantly clear, but I’m an addict. I say that completely guilt free. It’s a redundant, pointless statement, because I think we’re all addicts. It all comes down to what degree you’re addicted and how negatively it impacts your life.

For me, sex is as debilitating of a habit as hitting the pipe or plunging a needle into a plump vein.

Last night I squandered precious resources on yet another shameful visit to an Asian massage parlor. Those places are all over this slimy town. The hypocrisy of the south is blatant. In Atlanta, prostitution is damn near legal. It’s ignored to the point of being decriminalized.

However, if you’re caught with a nickel bag of shitty dirt weed, they’ll drum on your fucking skull with their billy clubs and toss you into a cell, where you’ll immediately get your ass packed to capacity with swollen, black cock.

At least that’s what happened to me, but I digress…

The ads for these massage parlors are vulgar lies. If the service they offered wasn’t mired in shame, I would sue them for false advertising. I’ve never, in my entire life, met a lady at one of these establishments that looked even remotely like this picture. I’m no noob, either. Over the years, you could fill up a swimming pool with the amount of man membrane I’ve blown in nasty ass massage parlors.

I don’t know why I go to these places. The number of times I’ve walked out disappointed and thoroughly disgusted with myself outnumber the good experiences by a significant margin.

The woman I met last night was astoundingly ugly. I’m a realist. I know not to expect a goddess, but gOD-fucking-dammit! This woman (and I’m testing the limits of my optimism by assuming she was born one) was donkey dick ugly. She had the wide back of football player, forearms like Popeye the Sailor, and a nightmare-inducing visage that made me want to cave her head in with a boot heel.

Despite all that, I engaged my penis in our usual dialogue.

“Okay, penis, can we do this?” I asked.

“Dunno yet,” my cock replied, shrugging.

"What wrong? You no like me? Him all soft like lomein! Why chin chin no spit up foam?"

“Don’t fuck with me dude!” I snapped, peering down the front of the rough towel around my waist. “You’re not obligated. If you wanna bail, we’ll just get a massage then politely leave. Don’t embarrass me again like you did last time. I can buy an Xbox for the amount of cash we’re pissing away here. You at least have to squirt!”

“Okay! Okay!” my penis responded. “Let’s do it. It felt pretty good when her hand ‘accidentally’ brushed against the ‘ole wrinkly men during the table shower.”

So I paid her the money, got on the table, and she proceeded to yank on my semi-soft noodle with the rough, iron-fisted grip of a Russian power lifter on a cocktail of steroids. The entire, sad process took over fifteen minutes, resulting in chaffing, uncomfortable grunting and absolutely no orgasm. I muttered feebly, put my clothes on, and left, repulsed with myself yet again.

If you need me, I’ll be inspecting my balls for pubic lice.

The Darkness 2 Review by C. Hatrison

This is how every line of dialogue sounds to my ears.

In addition to the buffet of illicit substances I enjoy, I’m also a rabid video game addict. They’ve been a constant strain on my pocket book for most of my life.

The most recent game I picked up was The Darkness 2. I don’t have the patience to waste a lot of words on lengthy explanations and backstory, so I’ll try to be brief.

In the Darkness games, you play a cliche, Italian mobster douche who dispatches other ridiculous, trite characters with guns and scary eel monsters that eat peoples’ hearts.

I could go into a boring, typical dissection of the gameplay and how it compares to the first one, but I try to avoid sinking too deeply into the septic lake of geekdom. The Darkness 2 is a fun game, but it’s frustrating as fuck when you run out of bullets (which happens constantly) or when some jagoff is hitting you with a spotlight to disable your powers (which also happens constantly).

The comic was cooler...way cooler.

Those minor quibbles don’t frustrate me nearly as bad as the abundance of Sopranos style mobsters and the gawd damn dialogue. I  hated the Sopranos. I fucking hated it. If I see one more a typical Italian stereotype waddling his fat ass around in a jogging suit, slurping mouthfuls of pasta and saying “fuuuggetaboutiitttt” one my gawd damn time…!

So, my recommendation is to wait for this one to hit the bargain bin. It’s not awful but it’s pretty damn mediocre. Super Mario pretty much dominates the video game universe when it comes to obnoxious, banal, overused Italian characters.

Maybe we should level the playing field of unacceptable racial stereotypes by having…I dunno…how about a black man with a pet bird that lives in his afro? That sounds like the most racist shit I’ve ever heard of. Luckily no one has the gargantuan balls necessary to do something THAT fucking inappropriate, right?



As usual, my Friday evening spiraled pathetically out of control. Actually, that’s not really accurate. A story that begins with a rapid fire, Aronofsky-esque montage of drug abuse, shifts quickly to a scene of blistering sex then climaxes with a jaw-dropping police chase would be a story to take pride in.

But Friday – Friday was just pathetic.

Self annihilation should be conclusive and quick. The ever deepening pit of substance abuse is just sad. I think the reason most junkie assholes like myself refuse to get their shit together is because they’re too ashamed of the dumb DUMB shit they’ve done.  Sobriety is the worst hangover. As fragmented memories come trickling in, inevitably I’ll face-palm hard enough to illicit a nose bleed. Maybe sharing this shit will give me the motivation to clean up and stop being such a douche.

Our dealer is an obese black dude called Barney. It’s fucked up I’m saying that because it’s his real name. We call him ‘Black Barney.’ We do this because Barney is a black man. Not very clever, but the nickname pisses him off, which delights us.

Every drug dealer has their speciality. Barney’s is rock cocaine. He calls it ‘Buttah.’ Barney suffers from a debilitating speech impediment. All of his words jumble together into an indecipherable mush of vowels. It’s pretty funny.

ImageTo celebrate the weekend and pay day, Blake and I went to score a jumbo, but wouldn’t you know it, peoples’ tax refunds are starting to trickle in so there’s a deficit of narcotics at Barney’s residence. All he had was a scattering of pills, which he gave us at a discount.

“Takewhutcha’llwun’njusgimmetwenny,” Barney breathed heavily, his big belly heaving. “Mandissniggahungry…m’getabucket.”

We grabbed a handful of miscellaneous pills and got home before Barney could rethink his offer. Once home, Blake and I poured our bounty on the coffee table. A scattering of small milligram hydrocodone, half an aderol and xanex were mixed in with mints, cough drops and baby aspirin.

Threatening to burn Barney’s house down, Blake left, slamming the door. I heard the car speed away with a crunch as Blake demolished our mailbox. Rage boiled in my gut as I tossed a handful of what I considered to be worthless and weak narcotics down my gullet.

ImageI wasn’t expecting to even get off. What I didn’t realize at the time was that a hit of lsd and a roll (ecstasy) was sprinkled in to the pill cosmopolitan. It was currently dissolving in my guts, turning my brain into molten fire.

Well, needless to say, the battery of drugs floating around my bloodstream made me leave Earth’s orbit and travel into the ether of hallucinatory fantasy. I’ve never mentioned this but I fucking HATE ecstasy. As a fiendish sex addict, a de-inhibitor is the last fucking thing I should injest.

Long story short; I spent the evening jacking off in a frenzy, pulling my tomato-red dangler like taffy until I was swollen and throbbing. In between self-abusing like a drunk bonobo chimp, I cowered in the corner of my room, terrified by the hellhound in our front yard.

The next morning I realized this beast from the netherworld was a decoy our neighbor puts out to scare away free range chickens that escaped from the Croatian man down the block. Don’t ask me to elaborate. Blake had ‘borrowed’ it and placed the thing front of our house so he could laugh at my folly. Fucking asshole.