Fuck Special_Olympics By Tauhid on 03/29/06 5:59pm EST

You want me, you filthy ass-jacket? Well you got me.

In a similar vien to the one being explored here (heroine track marks and all) I want to talk about killing things and people. People in particular. Andrew Hussie in specific.

Here's an interesting peice of Gang Bunch trivia boys and smaller boys: Andrew Hussie, a.k.a Special_Olympics, a.k.a Esso, a.k.a. Cock-handler SU-fucking-PREME ended my goddamn marriage. Yeah Tauhid is getting a divorce from his white woman because of Andrew Hussie. Now... now I know what you're thinking. "Tauhid, you're obviously very upset about what's happened to you and you've got alot of misplaced anger..." and that is exactly when I Spinning Cresent kick you directly in the base of your spine. Why? Because shut the fuck, that's why. Just shut the fuck. Esso caused my wife to leave me and he will pay.

Maybe you'd like to know how he did this. Well I'll do better than tell you. I'll show you:

http://www.spellsandwhistles.net/swcomics/00078b.Guest_Week_2.jpg

What the fuck is that shit? What kind of sick mind puts pen to paper and produces such an abortion of descency without first turning the pen on himself and embracing the sweet release of the justified suicide for the greater good? A fucking monsterously misguided and sociopathic one, that's what. Similar thoughts must have crossed my wifes mind when she first logged onto my website, no doubt beaming with pride, to show her boss just what it is her husband works so hard on all day long. The horror was palpable, I can only imagine.

You see my wife... excuse me. My EX-WIFE and I are descent people. We watched "Friends" together on Thursday nights and laughed every fucking time Ross said something nerdy, Phoebe said something clueless or Joey enjoyed a meat sandwhich. We pay our taxes and willing participate in the bullshit psuedo-friendships that you develop with the drive-thru workers you encounter while picking up lunch at your favorite fast food restaurant every day on your lunch hour. What I'm saying here is that we are normal. We are normal and in this world there are things so fucking abnormal that there is no way to rationally explain them to other normal people. I found myself in the unique position of trying to explain exactly why this particular peice of neurotica is somehow funny and not just a really, really fucked up thing to set upon that portion of the human population cursed with the ability to see through their eyes.

Needless to say she didn't buy it. I was given three days to vacate the premices and currently find myself living with my mother. Obviously there were more factors involved than merely this "Portrait of Madness" but it was the straw the, propelled by hurricane force winds, lodged itself in the jugular of the camel's neck and as we speak grows dark with the witless animals blood.

Thanks for that you Champion Taint Massuese. You have no idea what you've done and may well never know. But I forgive you. I forgive you because we are Gang Bunch, you and I. Centuries old institutions of commitment held sacred by men and women under God, may come and go... but Gang Bunch is forever.

Also, Betel, call me a'ight? It's time we stopped bullshittin'.

Tauhid Bondia is a very nice brown-colored man. By S_O on 03/30/06 3:04am EST

I don't take umbrage at Tauhid's personal attacks against me. You see, we are both black belts in the byzantine discipline of Hate Kwon Do. It's nothing so coarse and pedestrian as a friendly exchange of barbs, or some smarmy roast of an old friend. Nothing even so blase as a game of one-upsmanship, a stinging duel of wits. Those are all fraudulent practices, because just under the charade is the glow of warmth and good cheer. Beneath our sparring matches, there is only hate, and under that is some more hate. Just beneath that is a mass grave of countless innocents slaughtered in a long forgotten war. Under that? Yeah. Hate. Each word, turn of phrase and punctuating symbol is invested with a limpid kind of hate that would set like concrete in our vains were its flow to falter. Our exchanges range from passive-agressive, to aggressive-aggressive, to nuclear-holocaust aggressive (like the time I mailed his wife a damning photo of Tauhid getting comfortable with a real live Humanimal.)

Yet somehow, through this attritional siege our arrangement can best be described as a genuine friendship. Not so much technically friendship, in that M-W would have you believe that friends tend not to hate each other with every cellular protein our metabolisms can draft for the cause. But the overall arrangement alludes to a very convincing friendship, like an armature, draped with very professionally and affectionately tempered hate. Imagine a shit sculptor so adept with shit, he managed to make all his sculptures perfectly realistic, and not reminiscent of shit to even the trained eye. Exhibit guests would frequently be heard saying "I cannot BELIEVE these sculptures are made of shit," and "Wow, shit? Really?" and "Why does it smell like shit in here?"

Naturally as our arrangement is built exclusively on hate, any deviation from this is a shock to the system. While statements of aggression do not cause the slightest ripple in our emotional constitutions, statements of genuine kindness and praise actually hurt. They're like poison, since the friendship's lifeblood is acrimony. It's a bit like being undead, or at least undead in an RPG. Feed a zombie some poison and he's liable to spring into a giddy bout of the Charleston, or click together his mushy heels. But cast the divine blessing of holy light towards him and he sautes like a sea bass. If Jesus Christ French-kissed a zombie, I imagine it would instantly turn to foul gravy and propagate outward at the speed of light. I don't think either of us could handle this, and rather than tempt fate we've embraced a staunch policy of "strictly asshole".

Until now, that is.

My gloves are off, because this is the last straw. (You will also note that I am playing the severely maligned party, despite the fact that I am the one responsible for ending his marriage. Just another byproduct of the backwards universe in which our "undead friendship" dwells.)

I will say some nice things, and they will be ACTUALLY SINCERE. They will be audited by third party sincerity expert firm, Fleissman & Straub, Inc. This will take every ounce of my concentration on my part, but if executed properly, Tauhid will be dropped to the floor like a 90-year old woman with a taser to the face.

Alright, deep breath...

"Tauhid, I absolutely LOVE your hair! It's exquisite!"

I think my liver just squealed like a pig. This is going to be physically taxing, but I must press on.

"Tauhid, you are an amazing artist. Day-in and day-out I am blown away by your clean lines and pitch-perfect commercial style. You continue to grow in leaps and bounds, and I have no doubt you will one day be a force to be reckoned with in the creative world. Way to go!"

The bodily fluids are beginning to revolt. It's not pretty. But if I am suffering this much damage, just imaging what he's feeling. It's the only thought that's keeping me going.

One... last... push...

"Tauhid, I was truly sad to hear about your divorce. But stay strong, man. Sometimes these things are for the best. There will be some tough times ahead, but you will emerge once more as the strong, confident, beautiful man I've always known you to be. I think in such times it helps to count the blessings still with you. You have a wonderful daughter who, with your love and guidance will grow to be a beautiful, proud woman, and will never forget the inspiration you've provided, and never willilllluurrrrrgleuuuUUURGBLEGHURGLBLLUuuuuhhhhrr

Still Fuck Special_Olympics By Tauhid on 03/30/06 5:27pm EST

Keep your pretty words, homewrecker. Don't waste your time trying to deflate my wrath as if such a thing could be done even under the guise of so viscous a mental assualt. All you have succeeded in doing is exposing to me your pimply unwashed underbelly.

I am wishing desperately for your oh so timely demise. I am wishing as hard as I can. Before I lay my head down upon my pillow I mouthe the words to a prayer. One that goes a little something like this:

Dear God,

Please kill S_O.

Amen

Not only does this prayer carry me off to a fitfull slumber but I've taught it to my daughter. I have a notion that God turns a slightly more attentive ear to the prayers of small children, you see.

You're going down and I don't mean bobbing for manbutter so you can get that grin off your face you cockholster. I mean your ulitmate destruction. And if I do not meet it out personally I will do everything in my power to be there when it happens. I will stand over your broken mind and body fully satisfied that your end represents a bitter vindication for injustices that I have suffered which, yes it has occured to me, actually have very little to do with you in the grand scheme of thing.

You see, you have taken a certain measure of pride in pitting your self against me over the years and I must admit I have enjoyed our little "Tit for Boob". So can you really be surprised when I find myself in the grips of a truly dire situation, one that rocks the very foundation of the party which in turn rocks your body, that my mind sends out pshycological members to probe like tentacles searching desperately for someone... anyone to punish for what, I admit, can almost be seen as innevitable when one has all the facts? Can you be surprised when one of these tentacles seeks out and alights upon you and proceeds to squeeze with such feroscious might as to bend you into a comical hourglass shape? What a perfect fulcrim for all of my concentrated venom. I delight at how you absorb it like some sort of venom sponge filling to the brim but privy no syringe mechanism with which to deposit it.

Yes. You'll do nicely. You will suffer until I see fit to make it stop, which will be, I might add, long after you have come crawling to me upon stumps pawing at my clothes and begging for me to make it stop.

But I do forgive you, I'll say it again. My efforts to destroy you are only an attempt to restore some simliance of balance to the universe. This is not in the slightest bit personal.

Mad shout outs to my Dawgs Firman and Byro. Do yo' dance, boy!

One luv

T.

Ok. By S_O on 03/30/06 7:02pm EST

First of all, what THE FUCK is not funny about that comic I drew? That's what I want to know. I just don't understand how someone could not get it. I mean, I do understand that people DO "don't get it". The bottom line is, those people are idiots. No offense, but your wife is an idiot.

Whatever bullshit you stammered to your wife about that comic, you obviously got it all wrong. No problem though, you were probably too distraught over who would get custody of the... whatever the hell it is you own. African tribal masks? Whatever.

What is not loveable about a friendly muscular man with hooves and an udder? What is not heart-warming about his playful and wholly platonic invitation to get into bed with him? What isn't infectious about Grayle's enthusiasm, and his power thrust at the sight? Look at the tasteful positioning, the way he confidently splays his legs, and pushes his pliable udder, conveniently concealing his genitals. And the fact that the ripe udder has double the usual teat-count. What isn't funny about using an udder to keep a bed warm? That's what I'd like to know. Can you tell me it doesn't evoke questions in the mind? "I wonder how warm that part of the bed is?" "Did it get milk on the sheets? Probably." "Will he move the udder before I try to climb into bed?" Oh yeah, and who could forget the little touch of Moe?

I feel bad your wife left you and all. But she needs some sense talked into her. I think I'm the one to do it. Maybe once she hears it from me, she'll realize how dumb she's being, and maybe even rush back into your arms despite your mountain of flaws that are only loosely related to me.

So here is an open letter to your wife. Show this to her, or give me her email address better yet, and I'll send it to her. If she doesn't get back together with you after this, I will owe you 10 guest strips. No, make it 20. I fucking swear.

Dear Mrs. Bondia,

My name is Andrew Hussie, sometimes known in the internet world as Special_Olympics. Recently I was dismayed to find that one of my comics caused you and your husband some grief, and for this I am truly sorry.

Tauhid did not put me up to this letter. Quite the contrary, I will probably have to pull many strings to get him to permit me to send it. The last thing I wish to do is meddle in your lives, but I must say that if my ridiculous comic served as the impetus for your recent falling out, I believe you've made a mistake.

Yes, the comic was a vulgar, bizarre piece not suitable for polite company. I know this, and Tauhid knows this too. The problem is, the dynamic of our friendship is such that I could not offer him a guest comic that is anything short of horrific, and he could not refuse to accept it. For either of us to do so would embody a kind of "defeat" in our peculiar rivalry. I suspect that it was with a heavy heart that Tauhid unleashed that monstrosity upon his loyal followers, and consequently and quite inadvertently, upon you and your boss. If he later made a clumsy effort to defend the work to you, it was only out of an extraordinarily stubborn tendency artists have to defend the integrity of artwork, particularly that of colleagues, even if the work in question actually has no integrity whatsoever. Tauhid himself, you are probably aware, has an impeccable record for producing very tasteful, highly entertaining, and potentially mass-marketable work.

I don't pretend to know the details of your life with Tauhid, but I do know as his friend he will be devastated by the dissolution of his family. There may be plenty of reasons besides this to warrant this outcome, but I strongly advise this issue not serve as one, let alone the deciding one. The bottom line is, those were my perversions imposed on his website, not his. And even closer to the heart of the matter is, he is an artist. Artists will always think and act in ways that not everyone will understand, often including the people closest to them.

But anyway, come on! I mean, the guy had an udder! How is that not funny??

Best wishes to you and your family,
Andrew Hussie

That Bitch By S_O on 03/31/06 7:33pm EST

Subject: " Re: Greetings" on Fri, 31 Mar 2006 13:27:22 -0800 (PST)

Fuck off.

--- S_O <S_O@teamspecialolympics.com> wrote:

> Dear Mrs. Bondia,
>
> My name is Andrew Hussie, sometimes known in the
> internet world as Special_Olympics. Recently I was
> dismayed to find that one of my comics caused you
> and
> your husband some grief, and for this I am truly
> sorry.
>
> Tauhid did not put me up to this letter. Quite the
> contrary, I will probably have to pull many strings
> to
> get him to permit me to send it. The last thing I
> wish
> to do is meddle in your lives, but I must say that
> if
> my ridiculous comic served as the impetus for your
> recent falling out, I believe you’ve made a mistake.
>
> Yes, the comic was a vulgar, bizarre piece not
> suitable for polite company. I know this, and Tauhid
> knows this too. The problem is, the dynamic of our
> friendship is such that I could not offer him a
> guest
> comic that is anything short of horrific, and he
> could
> not refuse to accept it. For either of us to do so
> would embody a kind of “defeat” in our peculiar
> rivalry. I suspect that it was with a heavy heart
> that
> Tauhid unleashed that monstrosity upon his loyal
> followers, and consequently and quite inadvertently,
> upon you and your boss. If he later made a clumsy
> effort to defend the work to you, it was only out of
> an extraordinarily stubborn tendency artists have to
> defend the integrity of artwork, particularly that
> of
> colleagues, even if the work in question actually
> has
> no integrity whatsoever. Tauhid himself, you are
> probably aware, has an impeccable record for
> producing
> very tasteful, highly entertaining, and potentially
> mass-marketable work.
>
> I don’t pretend to know the details of your life
> with
> Tauhid, but I do know as his friend he will be
> devastated by the dissolution of his family. There
> may
> be plenty of reasons besides this to warrant this
> outcome, but I strongly advise this issue not serve
> as
> one, let alone the deciding one. The bottom line is,
> those were my perversions imposed on his website,
> not
> his. And even closer to the heart of the matter is,
> he
> is an artist. Artists will always think and act in
> ways that not everyone will understand, often
> including the people closest to them.
>
> But anyway, come on! I mean, the guy had an udder!
> How
> is that not funny??
>
> Best wishes to you and your family,
> Andrew Hussie


Run Tauhid. Run like the wind.