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.