The Abusive Clown Stroking His Shit Interview
The Two-Headed Beast Behind 'Dope Clown Comics' Tells All
The smell of a USB stick burning on a stove top. A nail pierces through the tiny bones in your foot. Human poop is excreted from the source (onto your head) as Slender Man flashes you top bush. There are no more pages to collect. There's barely empathy. In this four-paneled world, there's only an Abusive clown stroking his shit. And he's watching you.
But he's chill about it.
Maybe you've seen him.
Maybe you haven't.
He's been crawling across my Twitter feed since last summer.
The webcomics are crude, brash, and decaying. Haphazard, barely conscious—just bastard motherfuckers—do everything violent before they weep.
Something foul, but familiar about the modern condition emits from the page. The art is angry and scary, but a deep earnestness feels trapped inside its bleeding heart. Or maybe, that earnestness is the black hole, sucking in all of the stars and lights that flash tortured stick figures, chaos, and a crazy, clown character who's forced to watch it all.
On a cold January night when we were all probably balding, I got to speak to the account's two admins. I was transported into the shitty room they call a studio.
"This is my favorite room to make comics in," said the first. "The light in here is from a ceiling fan, but it doesn't have the bulb cover or any of the blades anymore. That's my favorite lighting. I'm staring at hoards of fucking equipment. I kinda feel bad describing it. We're passing this wine bottle back and forth… Grassini. Where is this from? 711?"
"It's very fancy."
"It's from 2015."
They're sitting in the open spaces on couch and floor where piles of discarded shirts are not. It's the merch they've been selling online—all cursed with the page's artwork.
"I'm a failed painter," the first admin says. "This is my job now. I print shirts. I draw clown shit. I make clown money. But I feel like your job is cool. You work a trade. I'm like a gay retard who draws."
Admin 2 is a car mechanic. "But I don't want to be doing that," he says. "I just want to be drawing. And every time I draw, it just turns out like shit."
"You're a perfectionist, you're a perfectionist," Admin 1 repeats—simultaneously caked to the carpeted bladder that said perfectionist calls a home.
"My house is kind of a dungeon," he says. "It's really dim in here, really dusty." The ammonia fisting their lungs brings back hallucinations of their past. It's summer, when the page first started.
"We were living in this nice '70s-ass house with this huge beautiful window … We're sitting there, playing fucking Elden Ring on a bean bag. It's sweltering outside. We're just fucking locked in."
South Park and Aqua Teen are playing on a monitor. A constant humming of peasant groans and nasally, cartoon voices echoes. But it's peaceful. I imagine Admin 1 glued to the screen. He comes out of his trance hours later, summoned by the moon.
"At night, we drove UberEats. We made no money. And then we'd come home and drink fucking jack, hanging out with nobody. We're not going out, doing anything. We're not making friends. We're just in this place, and we're setting up this arena where we PvP people."
They laugh, remembering the joy that the slaughterhouse gave.
"Then we'd go get these really solid burgers and fries, and drink some jack and cokes, and get mad, and draw, and throw up in the shower a little."
"Yeah, that's kind of how the clown was born. It was a mixture of all that."
Birth of the Abusive Clown
The two-headed beast, on hot summer nights, squeezed its body into a suped-up car to deliver UberEats. Not DoorDash. Not Grubhub. That green logo with the German prefix. 1 would pop out. 2 would drive. They'd split the cash on rent and booze.
"At first we were drawing from the persona of this one, singular, sad, chud guy who's driving UberEats, who's developmentally stunted. We ditched that idea pretty quickly."
"We would get really mad and dangerously need to piss. We'd go pick up their fucking Nobu or whatever and deliver it to a mansion. And we'd be like, 'Well, this guy has no right to get mad at me pissing on his tree.'"
"And then we'd draw someone jacking off when we got home."
"Yeah, we'd draw someone getting killed, and then kill people in Elden Ring. It was a release from the fact that we made $500 and spent it on ten bottles of LeBron Hennessy."
"That was a crummy experience."
But on one fateful night, there was this guy under an overpass…
Read the rest of our interview with Abusive clown stroking his shit on the 65,000 website.