To celebrate reaching page 100 of The Abaddon – a special competition: Leave the weirdest, most senseless and bizarre comment on this page. The author of the most original comment will win a package of goodies; including a Bet Pinup, two signed posters, signed Abaddon postcard and an original signed drawing of a cast member of your choice. Guidelines: Try not to use too many profanities, and try to keep it Abaddon related. Winner will be picked and declared monday Jan 2nd.
I have come to terms with Vic’s maniac ravings and decided that hurting him is the last thing I want to do. Mind you it’s still on the list, but it’s at the very bottom.
!sdne ti woh or tiaw t’nac. tsiwt taerg a s’ereht tuo derugif ti evah i nehw dna!ti daer i emit hcae erazzib erom dna erom steg ti! cimoc siht evol i!noddabA eht rof tsetnoc a!looc ho
It’s obvious from the irrefutable facts that politicians are exclusively honest.
I wish I was back in apartment 282. The people there were nicer and the cat tasted better.
The Abaddon is but a mere square. Yet I find it strange to say that it is a mere square, because square is the color of evil. Therefore I am stating the the Abaddon is evil due to square being the color of evil. How can square be a color what one may ask, but let me ask you… how is the Abaddon not a square? Every triangle a new chapter is released, and each user views each chapter to their pleasure… though when shall the next triangle occur? Where are we? What is the Abaddon if it is square, the color of evil?
I no longer thirst for nothingness. I find the desire to be pretentious; that my existence is null, and my desire for everything to fade is egotistical. I didn’t choose to remain here. I did not ask to make choices. I do not want the consequences. I do not want the guilt of living so well. I do not want the warm embrace. I do not want the murderous intent. I have no choice, however.
Sackly, I draved to keep a filial hegemony lurking pornishly upon my keybone.
Chickens mame tirelessly in the whimsical setbacks of yesterday’s tomorrow. Though our generator builds trust around the greatness of the goatseed, it seems the key to all problems is harrowing. Needless to say, if everything grates to your rhythm and the art is good enough to pave, give it to a kick and wait for it to shimmer. Tree stumps are given thumbs enough to laze but only limits can be peeled.
They have taken it all from me, first the white, now the red, then what? The greens? THE BLUES?! No no no no no no no. Impossible no. No no no no. They could never find them. No they are safe and they have been taken. They are gone and forever lost and I am now without. Alone. Found! Abandoned. Discovered! Broken. Mended! Mashed! Swept! Hiding under their noes! Their toes! I tickle at their feet as they pass by and they laugh and I do to. I feel so alive when I laugh. LAUGHTER! Oh! Before I forget! The List! 195, 021, 72, 9. Don’t forget! Don’t forget! Do! Not! Forget! Must not forget! Please. I don’t want to forget.
Existence favors the slugs for they are the kings of the hidden society of mollusk-people that lurks beneath the noses of the sentences known as “The Man Beasts” who believe they are the rulers of Planet Playground. When a slug has salt poured on it, the shrinking is due to a release of joyful energy the likes of which The Man Beasts could never understand. Poor bipedal monstrosities. They will never know that the Mollusks could wipe them from the playground at any time, but are amused by their struggle for meaning. “Meaning for beasts?” they think. “How impossible.” …And so they watch.
Wait, isn’t that what we’ve been doing all along?
To me the abaddon isn’t a physical space. It’s ones conciousness at that moment when time doesn’t exist as you are passing, life flashing before your eyes to have you consider the path to life or death and whether you have the strength to or if it’s worth switching the time back on.
massen af rummets fylde
er lig med
rævens indre øje
der forgæves prøver at kigge efter
Garfield’s ghost hunts the walls of limbo’s laboratory , slithering vent-wise to leer on Bet’s butt
But fear the beer once tasted, most queer
a murderer here snores sated, who chained the near damned sorrowed soldier(sneaks harrowed seeings of scribblings, hidden in hell-hole) , .
This comment is not part of the competition, but I assume the play mentioned in panel 4 is J.P. Sartre’s “Huis Clos” ? (or “no exit” as it is known in English)
I suppose so too.
“Loquacious lunatics!” cry malfeasants into echoing halls filled by past and future din. “Thou art of THIS and to THIS you will return!” you scream to brand them, a high throated chorus unknowingly partaking in the ceaseless cacophony that will be my worlds unmaking. “Take off the patent leather skin that binds you.” scrawls a child wearing naught but her existence, the stones and soul no different from one another. With nothing left to anchor this ship upon, we cast out toward ignominious luminescence.
This is not a comment.
I’m just surprised that all of these chipmunks believe they are ghost people. I’ve never seen such vivid animal dreams, so full of mocking wrestlers, sexy fauna, and grey tones. I hope that soon god’s obese blunder, the greta jidmoonh, descends into total madness. What microcosmic horror!
The Abaddon, or rather the abandoned, for surely that is what we all are, locked away forgotten by the world. Or is it us who have abandoned our humanity, living in a closed loop of our worst selves, running ourselves down until death. Yet here we cannot die. As a result we work away our very souls as if still flesh.
and so it was, it was early, very early, so early that it was the previous day, and i wondered, i wondered for an eternity, yet it still dripped, still waters in my mind, like memories of stone
the door is fake, the beer lies and i’m probably a hologram why do they come to me to linger why do the come to me to loiter
An omer is one-tenth of an ephah, which is half the amount needed to get drunk from Ecto beer.
People of the web, I do confess I have kept many secrets from you and this is my sin. Yes the tis the sin of distrust, and truly a terrible sin it is for we live now in the time when we must all be intimate with each other, there must be no secrets all so one day we will be one mind. Yet we must refrain from human contact at all costs (example:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanukkah) . This is why I’ve boarded up my all my windows and doors and refuse to eat. I send emails everyday to the CEOs of every major computer and software companies, neurologists, biochemists, crypto Zoologist (http://www.foxnews.com/opinion/2011/12/26/my-search-for-jonbenet-ramseys-killer-15-year-anniversary-retrospective/) and bio technician, that my physical death is at hand and I require the technology to merge with the internet soon for I have done all they ask of me.
Mr.Shadmi was one of the first to teach me the truth about bodily doom of all things non-digital. This story “The Abaddon” serves as a parable for why food and in person company will Ter us apart, but if tear would only try to know the minds of is fellows they might achieve higher knowledge of all things as one and many. I shall continue to rd myself of secrets and in turn my identity and in turn sin. I hope you will do the same and join me in the heaven of zeros and ones.
i can hear my organs rotting
i keep burping up clumps of live blowflies
am i sleep eating them?
-detráS de nuevO, me arrepiento Ya-
-de haber causado who mi hombre beu ha olvidado Your cockpit, situating yOurself-
Christmas in the trenches, mother. I can’t see most colours any longer thanks to the gas. My world is mostly blue as is my mood these days. Ha, blue Christmas… Help me, mother. please
the weirdest most senseless comment
He wondered if what he had done was a symptom that he was going crazy. He wondered if the symptom was to ask himself.
Lamp. Lamp is the key the key to this hell her hell his hell my god the lamp. My dear dead daughter please god nothing but cake and his knife, his blood on my chest. Nothing’s the same dear god who is this who am I can you hear? I can hear her… Breath. Breath is the lock is the key to her home my home. How can I sleep? When can I see it? I know this life.
I can feel her in me. She won’t get out.
As we observed the test subjects it became readily apparent that they were not at all aware of their situation. We had injected the corpses with an artificial virus and successfully reanimated them. They seem to interact as if they were alive, groaning at each other as if they can speak their own un-dead language. It appears at times, as if they are trying to recall their previous lives, however, they don’t seem to notice their decaying flesh. Only one of them, the replacement, is like his predecessor and is the only that seems to be curious about their habitat.
Given the existence as uttered forth in the public works of Puncher and Wattmann of a personal God quaquaquaqua with white beard quaquaquaqua outside time without extension who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia loves us dearly with some exceptions for reasons unknown but time will tell and suffers like the divine Miranda with those who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged in torment plunged in fire whose fire flames if that continues and who can doubt it will fire the firmament that is to say blast hell to heaven so blue still and calm so calm with a calm which even though intermittent is better than nothing but not so fast and considering what is more that as a result of the labors left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Anthropopopometry of Essy-in-Possy of Testew and Cunard it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt than that which clings to the labors of men that as a result of the labors unfinished of Testew and Cunnard it is established as hereinafter but not so fast for reasons unknown that as a result of the public works of Puncher and Wattmann it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labors of Fartov and Belcher left unfinished for reasons unknown of Testew and Cunard left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in Possy of Testew and Cunard that man in Essy that man in short that man in brief in spite of the strides of alimentation and defecation wastes and pines wastes and pines and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of physical culture the practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding conating camogie skating tennis of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn summer winter winter tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts penicillin and succedanea in a word I resume flying gliding golf over nine and eighteen holes tennis of all sorts in a word for reasons unknown in Feckham Peckham Fulham Clapham namely concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell fades away I resume Fulham Clapham in a word the dead loss per head since the death of Bishop Berkeley being to the tune of one inch four ounce per head approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures stark naked in the stockinged feet in Connemara in a word for reasons unknown no matter what matter the facts are there and considering what is more much more grave that in the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stones in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord six hundred and something the air the earth the sea the earth abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold on sea on land and in the air I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis the facts are there but time will tell I resume alas alas on on in short in fine on on abode of stones who can doubt it I resume but not so fast I resume the skull fading fading fading and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis on on the beard the flames the tears the stones so blue so calm alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the labors abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of stones in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the skull alas the stones Cunard
Sexradiate the maverick, for the nympholeptic sounds abound. Sometimes a heterokinesia is required to see this lugrigged future. Rising hypoalimentation, alas the kinematographical, brings little interpectoral uintatherium. Tuscarora plia shishya.
I really like your arrangements of swanky, dynamic kitchenware. This is more than inspirational to the young professional.
I realized that the only way to stay sane would be to put my experiences into a picture-diary. I begin by sketching my hand knocking on a door. In big, white letters I write NOK NOK.
Count backwards from ten and fall into your own blackness. The things you won’t face are the right direction. The things you can’t handle are better. Ask the questions that count. Seek the answers that matter. Most importantly though; look Truth in the eye and endure her firehouse of blunted reality then walk away with a new level of awareness. Don’t change a thing though. It’s only then that you’ve truly awakened. You can stare at the sun for as long as you wish because your eyes are now open and you know… nothing really matters.
There is a hole in Bet’s side that longs for filling
If you put your hand in
side, mind the fire
works the memories, tick tock, tick tock
Yesterday I was a man, today I am
coward that I am, am a man today, tick tock, tick tock
rotem of qiryat gat- plagiarizing Waiting for Godot is cheap.
First post!! Woot!
I think Bern, Vic, and Pierre have all copulated together. At the same time. I also think the sexy spider in this comic, like the one on Bet’s pants, represents the slow ensnaring of humanity due to alcoholism in America. Also, Michelle Bachmann, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul, Rick Perry, Mitt Romney, and Rick Santorum are running for office.
“Get a haircut” is probably going to be my New Year’s Resolution… that’s where I’m at in life.
The post office just called: your Sea Monkeys died.
the walls….they meow
Baby shoes, worn twice, not for sale.
Hey guys listen I managed to escape the Abaddon but now I’m trapped on this comment board.
I dont know which is worse.
hahaha. that’s awesome-nice name.
I was just fed with Taco
ט מַה-שֶּׁהָיָה, הוּא שֶׁיִּהְיֶה, וּמַה-שֶּׁנַּעֲשָׂה, הוּא שֶׁיֵּעָשֶׂה; וְאֵין כָּל-חָדָשׁ, תַּחַת הַשָּׁמֶשׁ.