Creativity is crap. Worship me, adoring public, and I will present you with a fragrant present! We will sculpt it into the head of John Stewart and he will call for stinky moderation in the lapping up of turds.

Johnny Ryan does not usually call for moderation. Where Chris Ware draws a billion tiny boxes to retain his feces, Ryan’s draws borders mostly so the sewage will have something to overflow. In Prison Pit each body is a busted toilet whose stagnant water births some mangled abortion dragging its placenta over the edge of the porcelain to flop wetly on the cold tiles. Tentacles erupt from vaginas, vomit spews from sentient arms, and dripping things that should not be tear open their mothers in an orgy of violent polymorphous ichor. Black blood drips like ink off the mechanical penis of Ryan’s protagonist and then pools in scratchy pen lines, half-formed half-assed nightmares drawn on the back of a middle-schooler’s history notebook.

The protagonist fights ladydactyls, giant eye creatures, robots, toothy monsters wearing Nazi death-hosen, and his own mutinous oozing hand. But really his main enemy is Ryan himself, the artist as diabolous ex machina, squatting over his creation to spew an endless stream of venomous diarrhea.

The prison pit where the protagonist is trapped is Ryan’s skull, which is also Ryan’s ass. Thought is scat and art is a giant festering field of dream-turds. The black first panel rubs your nose in the blank and humid stench that precedes the conception. The conceiver is God, and to prove it he makes shit. This is some of it.

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