Rock ‘n Roll!

The H-Boyz (WWW.HBOYZ) is a comic book and rock band project. It’s the brain child of myself and my older brother, Blake. What we’ve done is taken our love for music, our shared desire to create offensive comics, the punk aesthetic and stitched the whole blasphemous creation together into a Frankenstein’s monster of hate.

The H-Boyz is an assault on the reader and listener. It’s an examination of drug culture that’s equal parts hyperbole and public confessional.

Psychotic rock ‘n roll violence is a theme we revisit quite often. The drawings displayed here are from issue one and two (coming soon) of the comic. They’re some of my favorites. We both love capturing the raw energy that goes into one of our shows.

‘Fist Fight’n Fugger’ is a tale from Issue 1 retelling the story of a gig we played in Alabama. It may surprise a lot of people, but heavy metal and underground music is huge in the South. It exists in subterranean dungeons, packed to capacity with seething, smelly bodies. The South is a marsh of unrest, it’s community of malcontents driven mad by ceaseless humidity and inbreeding.

Our drummer at the time was Reginald “Retard” Randy. His cousin (a DJ) helped get us the gig. Weeks prior, Blake and I had broken into Randy’s apartment, stealing his drum kit to purchase narcotics. Randy was borrowing his cousin’s record tables to lay down beats and bass tracks. The whole affair was doomed to failure.

We went on late to an audience that was already drunk and surly. Crackling currents of vengeful energy surged around the place in a mist of body heat and beer sweat.

My introduction of “Hey Alabam…” was punctuated by a beer bottle traveling at roughly the speed of sound. It disintegrated against my chin in an explosion of pulverized glass, blood and fragments of teeth. Through the blinding stab of pain, I bellowed into the microphone, my rancor a white hot beam aimed directly at the crowd.

“So you slack jawed genetic fumbles wanna get down do ya!?” I barked, blood trickling down my cheeks. “This one is for you survived abortions! It’s called ‘Fist Fight’n Fugger!’ We’re gonna play it double tempo, you bovine fucking pieces of refuse”

Randy queued up the drum loop. The speakers thundered. Blake struck a mighty power chord, dwarfing the hostility of the crowd in a howl of feedback. I launched into the song, blood marbled spittle spraying my mic.

“Got a chip on my shoulder
And a bone to pick
So keep flapping yer lips
Ya big, fat fucking prick…”

I leapt into the audience, a thrashing windmill of bony elbows, thrust kicks and roundhouse punches. I clocked some fucker in the mouth, feeling a satisfying crunch as his nose flattened. My left hand found the plump globe of someone’s breast and squeezed, her yelp cutting through the din. Wrapping my mic cord around an unfortunate victim’s throat, I pulled as hard as I could.

My tornado of destruction was truncated by the flat, hard impact of multiple fists as security descended upon me like a black cloud, blotting out all sight and sound. I slipped into the slumber of concussion.

I awoke in an Alabama hospital to a body throbbing with pain, where I stayed until they released me a week later. It’s amazing how quickly doctors consider you rehabilitated when you’re uninsured.

On a positive note, I was able to snatch some pain killers from the hospital, which I happily chopped into a fine powder and sucked up my big, German nose. When life hands you lemons, ya gotta make lemonade.

To order a copy of our comic, go to


A Career in Freefall

Making the proclamation that you hate your job is often a queue to the universe. It’s a prompt for the universe to demonstrate just how big its cock is and just how painful it is for said cock to bury itself in your ass.

I got fired from my horrible job at the vitamin store. I was fired on Friday, of all days. What regional director of sadism came up with the policy to shit can an employee on Friday? That’s totally fucked up. There are few things that sully a perfectly acceptable weekend like unexpected unemployment.

It was a drug test, or my refusal to take one to be more accurate, that sealed my fate. As I arrived at the store, I was greeted by several senior members of management. The fact that I was fifteen minutes late and noticeably hung over was grounds enough for dismissal. Since they had taken great effort to bring a drug test with them, why not use it?

Apparently, some customers had complained about yours truly. Several scandalous phone calls were placed to the head office, claiming that the sole employee in the store was rude, disheveled and reeking of marijuana. If I knew which customer had ratted me out, I would be tempted to burn their fucking house down to the foundation.

To make a long story short, an official looking man in a slate gray suit presented me with a cup to urinate into. I countered his request with a wad of spittle in his right eye and a shrill yelp of “Suck your father’s wrinkled ball bag you butt fucking corporate cock sleeve!”

I was dragged, thrashing and shouting, out of the mall. The patrons of the food court seemed to be quite amused watching the sad episode unfold.

One of the fortunate (or unfortunate) facts surrounding shitty jobs is that they’re plentiful. The sun had barely set on my recent exodus from the working world before I found another awful job.

I hate this one even more than the last. I’m working at a fucking toy store of all places – a god-fucking-damn-loud-as-fuck-with-screaming-children-mother-cock-sucking toy store!


I Hate My Commute

I hate my horrible retail job. Nothing demonstrates someone’s personal journey of failure quite like fielding questions on bowel movements and acceptable penile rigidity. Working in a vitamin store blows wart encrusted horse cock. Go to college, Kids. Seriously.

Somehow, the dead end, soul leeching positions that are conveniently located near my home were all taken, so I have to commute. Few things fill me with more consistent rage than sitting in traffic, dying slowly so I can eventually arrive at a job I abhor.

If Atlanta traffic were a person, it would be a whore who fucks all your friends, gives you a scalding case of chlamydia and steals the rent money to buy her pimp heroin. Atlanta traffic is a penis hungry prostitute who loves it in the ass, and my gOD, do I hate the bitch.

Every morning, as I sit in my mobile coffin of misery, I curse my father for not decorating Mom’s hairy butt crack with his seed. Instead, he loosed me into the world, to sit in traffic. My car’s radio is broken, the A/C is temperamental, I think the transmission is starting to slip and the interior smells like fetid Egg McMuffins and stale farts.

So I’m left with nothing but my fantasies to entertain me. What I imagine is a car straight from the deathlands of the post apocalypse – a hateful demon of rusted metal and barbed wire spewing black soot as it thunders down the highway at unfathomable speed.

My carapace of destruction would be fortified like a Sherman Tank and fitted with an indestructible battering ram on the front bumper. I imagine the satisfying crunch of folding metal as my ride thunders down I-75, sending SUVs and pickup trucks skyward in a blossom of fiery death.

Commuters’ cell phone calls would end abruptly with a whoosh as gasoline ignites. Their wails of anguish will be obscured in the roar of cataclysm as giant tires pancake their flimsy vehicles. My swath of blazing ruin will stretch for miles. News helicopters will view the massacre like hovering insects. My rampage will look like the debris left from Godzilla’s vengeful footfall.

I also imagine myself hovering above the ground, granted the gift of levitation by my own incredible powers of telekinesis. Cars would sail through the air like Matchbox cars being hurled by an angry infant. They would tumble, end over end, the sound of collapsed lungs, pulverized glass and rending steel filling the polluted Atlanta air like a symphony of genocide.

My fantasy is always cut short by my arrival at the vitamin store. Time to unlock the gate, turn on the lights, activate the register and await the arrival of customers. Their placid faces search for easy answers to a lifetime of bodily neglect. They hope to reverse aging with a pill. They wish for vitality in the form of chewable vitamin c.

I hate my life.

Fat Fatty Fat Fats

"F" stands for "FUCK! Stop eating!"

Working in a vitamin store (a job I completely detest by the way) puts me in direct contact with a lot of fat people. Naturally, they’ve waddled into my small corner of retail hell to look for a magical bullet to remedy a lifetime of binge eating and sloth.

Over the years of working in this shithole, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend. Weight loss isn’t the singular obsession that it used to be. I’ve noticed the same slow transition in pop culture. Recently a popular brand of jeans came under fire because they ran an ad saying “Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes” that displayed three women who were all hot and slender, with varying ass sizes.

I consider political correctness to be a plague that’s devouring our nation of entitled consumers. Celebrities receive millions of angry emails for a semi racist comment. Jabs at homosexuals and minorities are met with waves of disingenuous outrage. I’m not saying racism and intolerance is cool, but fuck…lighten up you weeping little cry babies.

No where is the devastation of political correctness more obvious than in our approach to fat people. I swear, it’s become acceptable to be a shambling mass of melted cookie dough that no longer resembles the vague proportions of a human.

We used to mock fat fuckers, and for good reason. They’re gobbling up more than their fair share of finite resources. A complete absence of willpower is a worthy subject of mockery.

We’ve gone from an unreasonable standard of beauty to being completely apologetic towards behemoths. Frankly, they’re fucking disgusting to look at. I’m sorry. It’s not nice, but if you’re really fat, then you’re fucking gross. Fat is gross. Obese people aren’t beautiful. They look like shapeless bladders of goo.

This is the wretched, buttery slop that's sloshing around inside that wretched vessel you call a "body."

I often entertain the fantasy of our world after the collapse of society. Tribe cultures would be the natural communities that we would gravitate towards. Naturaly, food would be scarce. Can you imagine how quickly this horse shit, politically correct attitude towards paunchy bastards would disintegrate?

In the Road Warrior world, these elephantine specimens of indulgence will be hunted for sport. Bipedal whales will be made extinct because they’ll either slim down out of necessity or they’ll simply get their greedy cake holes filled with hot lead or shoe leather, when bullets become too valuable to squander.

I know this seems unnecessarily hateful and harsh, but these gargantuan creatures need to be put on notice. They’re embarrassing our national community. Europe is fucking laughing at us! Y’know…the folks who swill dark beer and eat deep fried dough rolled around sausage? Those pricks are laughing at us. That’s unacceptable.

So fuck fat people. Short of harassment or violence, let’s remind them that their self hate is justified. If you’re offended by this, then you’re probably part of the portly problem and you need to get your jiggling ass on an elliptical machine.

Hotties like this will earn a place in my harem by collecting at least one cutlet from a fat bastard.



I’ve identified myself as a cartoonist my entire life. From the moment my pudgy little digits could manipulate a drawing tool, I’ve been creating comics. My parents, who were obviously overcome with an irrational mixture of pride and optimism, encouraged my craft and even sent me to art school.

This ‘favor’ is something I’ll always resent them for. They should have scolded me mercilessly as a child, smashed my crayons and threatened to break my fingers if I ever had the audacity to scribble such infantile nonsense EVER again.

I was a pretty mediocre illustrator upon graduation. My attitude towards anyone in a position of authority didn’t work in my favor towards accomplishing my dreams of a career in comics either. When attending comic book conventions and speaking to editors, the portfolio critique would normally end with “Go fuck yourself” or “Yeah, well I boned your Mom in her asshole, you piece of shit.”

I’m a combative prick with a lackluster skill set. No wonder I was doomed to failure.

Around that time, I also came to the realization that most working cartoonists are malnourished, miserable, opinionated assholes. Really, they’re bad people.


This represents your typical comic book reader. Just add the eye watering stench of stale farts and Dorito crumbs.

We’re talking about a culture of people who never grew out of Saturday morning cartoons, never learned the health or social benefits to proper hygiene and who regard busting three self inflicted nuts to their favorite tentacle anime as a worthwhile night of lovemaking. Cartoonists are sub human scum who deserve systematic elimination. Aligning myself with these drooling retards would be a recipe for lifelong misery.

The bottom feeding cretins who make a living as editors and art directors – the guys who shit all over your portfolio and prevent you from getting published – they’re even worse. My limited vocabulary can’t express how much I hate these fuckers. They reek of fetid milk and are horribly apathetic from spending their entire high school career being verbally and mentally abused. And you know what? They deserved it. Fuck em!


Matt Groening either knew this guys or WAS this guy. This character is so close to reality that it's hardly a's an infuriating examination of a sad subculture.

My unabashed disdain for the comic book culture (of which I’m a member of, ironically) and my openly hostile approach led to me being banned from the popular convention that happens every summer in Atlanta. While I remain very, very bitter, I realize it was just one more confirmation of my fate.

I am an underground cartoonist. Where else can I properly vent my awful, dysfunctional revulsion for all humanity than in the comic my brother and I create? There’s no editorial control. There’s no censorship. There’s no boundaries.

There’s also no fucking readers, which sucks donkey balls, but we’re working on that.

So read our comic. Or don’t. I’m sure we’ll hate you either way.

– Clay Hatrison


I feel I should start this whole blogging thing off on the right foot by attacking the controversial and thought provoking topic of explosive flatulence.

I work at a vitamin retailer, selling placebo to gullible idiots who believe a pill made of corn husks will cure acne, reduce the girth of their fat asses or give them diamond-hard erections. Fucking morons.

Since my boss is a lazy asshole (with a pussy that reeks of rotting cuttlefish) I’m often there alone, without supervision. I use this time to meditate on life’s many failures, steal from the register to supplement my gnawing drug habit and, of course, blow a ceaseless explosion of gale force wind from my asshole.

I’m not sure what’s wrong with my digestive system, but every meal consumed produces a series of bowel rattling fulminations. After I’ve let an especially pungent fart escape into the general atmosphere of the vitamin store, a customer will, inevitably, wonder in.

Each time it’s the same. They’ll interrupt their own query about diet pills or methods to clean out their urine prior to a drug test. The customer will make a sour face and say something to the effect of “Boy, it sure smells like feces in here.”

I’ll stifle a laugh, blame a nonexistent, previous customer, and then politely direct them to an aisle of snake juice that best fills their imagined ailments.

I hate my fucking job.

No dissertation on the compelling topic of hot ass air is complete without a mention of my brother’s inspired “Fart Museum.” As I’ve mentioned, we have a rock band, my brother and I. The home studio is set up in his home, far off in the mountains of Tennessee.

For the next album (we’ve yet to release the first) he’s recorded a song called “The Fart Museum”, which he describes as the culmination of his life’s work. It’s roughly two minutes of him farting loudly into a microphone. He records these magical little entries every time he has a particularly large fart brewing in his intestines. It’s impressive because he has to switch the machine on and press ‘record’ before the fart gains premature release.

To add to the hilarity, he added stompbox effects to each fart, such as echo delay or reverb. Also, in post production, he included the sound of audience applause. I thought the whole thing was pretty gawd damn funny until I realized he was shitting into the same microphone I use to sing into.

If it gives you any indication of content, the Fart Museum is probably one of our LESS immature songs.

We aren’t exactly known for our sophistication or high mindedness.

A Brief Introduction

What’s up? Until I gain the coveted readership that all blog-fags seek, this will be an exercise in creative masturbation. It’s a shame, really. Our modern world facilities a soapbox for every half assed, quasi intellectual with a lofty opinion.

I should introduce myself. I’m Clay Hatrison – the co-creator of the H-Boyz. The H-Boyz is a rock band/comic book project. Here:

Much of what I write on my little one-man circle jerk here will concern that. This project means a lot to my brother (my creative partner) and I. A lot of it will also contain my random musings.

I have to warn you, this blog is going to be consistently vulgar, childish and gross.

So, having said that, enjoy the show

Until next time.

– C. Hatrison

This is me in the midst of a breakout. It's only a cold sore, that my penis shares. My penis has a cold.