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.


(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.



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.

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


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.