Music Video/Random

The H-Boyz First Video

Here’s the first video the H-Boyz have done. We’ve got a lot more footage, but it’s on the camera and I remain too drunk to compile it all. A big pitfall in the whole D.I.Y. mindset is that YOU’VE GOT TO FUCKING DO IT ALL YOUR FUCKING SELF!

Check out our video. Give us love.



Politics Shmolitics

My stance on politics is partisan, inflammatory and, most likely, based off gut reaction way more than research or ration.

Reading back through my childish diatribes, I realize that the words “I hate” are used with more frequency than “the” or “and.” I would like to say that will change, but a move towards positivity would be disingenuous.

As a ‘liberal fag’, living in the South is a daily recipe for an impending heart attack. I’m surrounded by bigots and retards. Sure, Atlanta is somewhat of an oasis, but human nature dictates that I focus on people I hate rather than the ones I like. So, I’m going to do that.


Now, I don’t hate Republicans specifically. Let’s not get it twisted. Sure, I find many of them to be deluded, willfully ignorant, thinly veiled racists and nut job religious zealots who fuck their siblings and shit out gaggles of future rapists. That doesn’t mean I hate them, though.

No, I hate the PARTY of hate. Just look at these guys. Really, just look at these three pasty, white douches objectively. Imagine you know nothing of their politics. Imagine you’ve never even seen them before in your life.

Your natural reaction should be “Who the fuck are these saltine, cracker-ass-cracker mother fuckers, anyway? Are they the new, more palatable faces of the Klu Klux Klan? The one on the right looks like he dresses up in a clown costume on weekends so he can rape little boys in his ice cream truck.”

I have an immediate, visceral reaction to the Republican party. It’s sort of like the explosive gas I get the moment glutton hits my stomach. I’m allergic to the Republican party and they give me the farts.

So, I implore you – tonight cleanse your mind of any prejudice and watch FOX news with an unbiased eye. Just watch it. Pretend you’re an alien from a distant star and this is your first visit to our planet. Imagine FOX News is your introduction to human culture.

Then, after watching five minutes of that horse shit, tell me you wouldn’t want to hop back in your flying saucer, boot up the plasma laser, and eradicate this entire hiccup in evolution.

Art by Per Johansson

Hungover Like a Mother F$#*er!

I feel like a leaking bag of shit today. The staccato drum of pain in my temple feels alarmingly like a series of mild stroke. Acidic bile is percolating at the back of my throat as waves of nausea threaten to blanket retail customers in a column of vomit.

Calling in sick to a month old job is probably a bad idea. Fuck it. One of the few benefits to a shitty, minimum wage retail job is the freedom that comes with not giving a fuck.

So, staying loyal to my apathy, I decided to go to work anyway, hung over, smelling like fetid garbage left in the hot Atlanta sun, and openly unpleasant to the customers.

“Do you have any black Barbies?” some disembodied voice cuts through my muddled thoughts like the sudden rattle of a jackhammer.


“BLACK Barbie dolls!” the fat woman snorts, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “All the dolls here are white. Do you have any dolls of color?”

“No,” I sneer, fighting back the mouthful of yesterdays toaster pizza. “This store is run by white supremacists. They think black people are inferior.”

Her outrage renders the woman blissfully silent, allowing me the opportunity to stumble to the bathroom and retch violently.

Last night was a transient slur of booze fueled rage. Blake and I decided to practice, something I was convinced would improve our less-than-stellar live performance. I queued up a drum beat I liked and we got to it. Inevitably, things quickly degraded into bong hits, chopping up lines of prescription drugs, alcohol binging, then fist fighting as a nightcap.

Thankfully, Blake’s roundhouse jab missed my face, striking me on the side of the head. A painful lump the size of a small walnut is concealed by my hair, which is convenient. It’s important to maintain a professional level of presentation when working a shitty job you hate. It just won’t do to have a black eye or split lip when you’re selling action figures to spoiled children.

Despite my state of walking death, I’m glad I came to work today. Shit, I’m typing this blog on my phone while children turn the aisles into complete bedlam. I need the cash. Since this isn’t a full time gig, sick days are unpaid. As we all know, narcotics cost money.

An eight ball on payday is looking mighty tempting. Fuck rent.

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.