- Joined
- Feb 7, 2015
The theory that got kicked around a few years ago is that he has severe learning disabilities and a massive deficit in executive functioning.
🎨 Artcow Iconoclast / Jonathan Mack Sweet - The Chris-Chan of Arkansas
- Thread starter Holdek
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- Joined
- Feb 4, 2013
Yeah, now I remember... good times, good times.
- Joined
- Jan 20, 2018
I 100% think there's something going wrong in his head, whether it's run of the mill autism or something more serious, I remember people were throwing around different diagnoses for fun, based on his bizarre appearance.
- Joined
- Mar 29, 2014
Didn't someone suggest mold spores messing with his head?
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2017
My personal theory was always a combination of innate autism, lead contamination, and possibly childhood neglect/repeated low-grade head trauma.
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2015
Since he's completely mired in the mid to late 90s, I wonder if he knows Animaniacs was revived on Hulu. I wonder if someone told him about Usenet or Bittorrent too.
- Joined
- Jun 5, 2015
buried deep in boring spergery about vintage cartoons, it appears on April 8 Sweet took the fambly dogs for a walk and two of them got murdered.
Because deviantart the site is even more r-slurred than its users, finding the actual account of what happened requires some Da Vinci Code type shit, but here's the full reportback including a blow-by-blow description of the kerfuffle which a really bad person might find slightly humorous.
the original post is here (archive). the average jonathan m sweet DA post has 0-3 views, but this one has a staggering SIXTEEN THOUSAND-- must've gone viral on boomerbook or smthn.
there is also a followup post (archive) in which he impotently vows revenge and mentions, troublingly, that he himself is now confined to the house and yard??
our intrepid @Holdek inquired:
i'm an animal lover, but dogs die every day. far more chilling to me are the details of sweetcheeks's appalling real-world situation. he may be a bizarre, racist loser but he's an adult human being & the fact he's now seemingly a prisoner in his own home just because someone else said so is frankly grotesque.
Because deviantart the site is even more r-slurred than its users, finding the actual account of what happened requires some Da Vinci Code type shit, but here's the full reportback including a blow-by-blow description of the kerfuffle which a really bad person might find slightly humorous.
It happened exactly three weeks ago today. It started out as a fairly normal morning: I got out of bed about 8.a.m., hopped in the shower, dried off quickly and put on fresh duds. My nephew was playing hookey from elementary school, it seemed, so I had to make his breakfast-- that took another half-hour or so. By that time old Charlie, Leo, and Rizzo were positively frantic, tiny bladders filled to capacity. It was nine before I finally got out the door. I think back on that day and how things could have been different: if I'd just taken my shower and laid out my clothes the night before... if my old clothes hadn't already been tossed in the laundry so I could get one more wear out of them, then have that shower mid-morning instead... if I'd been faster and gotten out the door before the damn kid woke up and started begging for food... Rizzo's daddy and his best friend would still be here with us.
I took their favorite path: past the market, down J Highway, right down B_____ Street. Again, I think back on that day and how things would have turned out differently if I'd gone straight on B_____ and not taken that left on C_____, they'd still be with us. But it was a route I'd taken a hundred times or more, sans incident. Who could have known April 8, 2021 would end up such a fateful day?
The dogs paused to lap from a rain-puddle at the edge of a neighbor's drive. "You just started your walk, boys," I admonished. "Besides, you have a bowl of fresh water back at home." Who could have known two of them would never see that bowl of water again?
I walked up 7th and onto McKinley. The front door of the corner house opened and a snarling brown pit bull charged out. At that moment I thought little of it. I'd run into unpleasant dogs before on my walks. Mostly all they did was bare their teeth, bark, and maybe a little push-and-shove. Protocol in that situation dictates you walk faster (never run), do not make direct eye contact, but look straight ahead, speak a "stop" command in a clear voice, and, if worse comes to worse, look for a stout stick or rock to throw at the aggressor. Charlie had been in his share of fights with bigger dogs before, and had never been seriously hurt. I wasn't worried.
That changed very suddenly. The pit opened his gaping maw, seized Charlie up and, his teeth deep in his throat, shook the aging poodle like a rag doll. I screamed, "No!" The owners, I'm sure, heard me from within the house. They--an older man and woman, a teen girl, and a fellow in green medical scrubs who joined the party a moment later-- ran outside and immediately tried to get the dog's attention.
The young pups were scared, confused, yapping furiously. I still held Charlie's leash fast. I never considered dropping it and simply running. Maybe, if I had, I could have gotten away with both of the younger dogs alive. It was too late for Charlie at that point, I'm sure. His neck was snapped; I saw thick, dark blood pour from his slack open jaws. Still, I was loathe to let go of his leash. You don't leave a man, or dog, behind. Not when he's a friend. Charlie's limp lifeline was in my left hand, the loops of Leo and Rizzo's leashes were gripped together in my right. I yanked back on both restraints, a move done in a moment of pure panic. Charlie's body was firmly in the monster's mouth, unbudging. I swung Rizzo into the crook of my left arm and tried to gather Leo into my left, but I fumbled badly--
--and the monster lunged and grabbed him in his jaws in mid-air.
Yes, I actually called him this. "You monster!" I cried. The dog shook Leo just as he'd had Charlie, sinking its loathsome fangs into his throat. Its owners proceeded to show how useless they were by, instead of striking the dog sharply on the rump with a stick or trying to pry my struggling Yorkie pup free from his trap-like jaws, by having the older woman trying to pull the dog off, while shouting to the younger woman to run back in the house and fetch some water. Not a garden hose, mind you, which would have made some goddamn sense--but water from inside. Yes, I actually watched the lady of the house seize the beast from behind trying to restrain it while her whey-faced idiot daughter dumped cup after cup of water onto it's head. And, as if running back and forth in this half-assed bucket brigade didn't waste enough precious seconds, I was treated to the man of the house demanding to know if I'd set a foot on his property. With one of my dogs lying in the road dead, one near-dead, and the one in my arms flying into hysterics, I, in my best, driest "boy-I'm-trying-my-fucking-hardest-not-to-kill-you-now-you-useless-stupid-old-man" voice, explained that I'd been walking down the middle of the road, and if I had been on his land, my shoe-prints and those of the dogs would be outlined in the gravel drive, and, as he could see, the only prints there were the scuff-mark from where his wife had dragged her feet trying to bear-hug their psychotic pit bull and the dog's own two large, clear paw-prints. He nodded and said well, I sure didn't look like I was a troublemaker. Well, thank you for your glowing estimation of my character, dickface, I thought.
Leo was lying at the grass at the opposite side of the road. I noticed was still breathing, albeit shallowly, and I quickly asked the man in the scrubs if there was any hope for him at all. He came over, gave him a good look-over, shook his head, and said it was not likely. He indicated the gaping hole in Leo's narrow little chest where, he said, a bite had likely punctured one lung deeply, hence the ragged, struggling breaths. I could see his neck looked raw, bloody, the fur cruelly peeled away. His eyes rolled wetly in two sockets of mated fur. He spasmed, unable to move or get to his feet. I determined from the crooked position Leo was in that the attack had severed his spine, which meant he was in efffect crippled for his last few moments of life. But, dammit, he still fought like a champion. You've done well, boy. Go with God, boy, I thought.
I watched over Leo for awhile and then walked away to speak to Scrubs a moment. As I did, a car came barreling by and ran Charlie over with a sickening, bony crunch. Hey, asshole, show some respect, I wanted to say. Drive around him. Scrubs brought a small white plastic bag, opened it, and put his poor, abused, tire-flattened body inside. You deserved more, boy, I told him.
Finally Leo gave up the ghost. Scrubs brought a second bag, and I placed him inside. It was over. Now all that remained was to tell my family what happened. What would I even say? No man, I'm sure, has ever taken that long to walk a half-mile as I did that fateful Thursday. It was ten a.m. The day wasn't half done. And it promised to be a long, long one.
Enjoy Heaven, Leo. And, Char-Char, I'm sorry we didn't get to spend more time together, old fella, but, well, at least you get to see your old pal Ace again. And they don't make you wear a stinky, uncomfortable dog diaper up there, either. I'll be down here taking good care of your baby boy.
I took their favorite path: past the market, down J Highway, right down B_____ Street. Again, I think back on that day and how things would have turned out differently if I'd gone straight on B_____ and not taken that left on C_____, they'd still be with us. But it was a route I'd taken a hundred times or more, sans incident. Who could have known April 8, 2021 would end up such a fateful day?
The dogs paused to lap from a rain-puddle at the edge of a neighbor's drive. "You just started your walk, boys," I admonished. "Besides, you have a bowl of fresh water back at home." Who could have known two of them would never see that bowl of water again?
I walked up 7th and onto McKinley. The front door of the corner house opened and a snarling brown pit bull charged out. At that moment I thought little of it. I'd run into unpleasant dogs before on my walks. Mostly all they did was bare their teeth, bark, and maybe a little push-and-shove. Protocol in that situation dictates you walk faster (never run), do not make direct eye contact, but look straight ahead, speak a "stop" command in a clear voice, and, if worse comes to worse, look for a stout stick or rock to throw at the aggressor. Charlie had been in his share of fights with bigger dogs before, and had never been seriously hurt. I wasn't worried.
That changed very suddenly. The pit opened his gaping maw, seized Charlie up and, his teeth deep in his throat, shook the aging poodle like a rag doll. I screamed, "No!" The owners, I'm sure, heard me from within the house. They--an older man and woman, a teen girl, and a fellow in green medical scrubs who joined the party a moment later-- ran outside and immediately tried to get the dog's attention.
The young pups were scared, confused, yapping furiously. I still held Charlie's leash fast. I never considered dropping it and simply running. Maybe, if I had, I could have gotten away with both of the younger dogs alive. It was too late for Charlie at that point, I'm sure. His neck was snapped; I saw thick, dark blood pour from his slack open jaws. Still, I was loathe to let go of his leash. You don't leave a man, or dog, behind. Not when he's a friend. Charlie's limp lifeline was in my left hand, the loops of Leo and Rizzo's leashes were gripped together in my right. I yanked back on both restraints, a move done in a moment of pure panic. Charlie's body was firmly in the monster's mouth, unbudging. I swung Rizzo into the crook of my left arm and tried to gather Leo into my left, but I fumbled badly--
--and the monster lunged and grabbed him in his jaws in mid-air.
Yes, I actually called him this. "You monster!" I cried. The dog shook Leo just as he'd had Charlie, sinking its loathsome fangs into his throat. Its owners proceeded to show how useless they were by, instead of striking the dog sharply on the rump with a stick or trying to pry my struggling Yorkie pup free from his trap-like jaws, by having the older woman trying to pull the dog off, while shouting to the younger woman to run back in the house and fetch some water. Not a garden hose, mind you, which would have made some goddamn sense--but water from inside. Yes, I actually watched the lady of the house seize the beast from behind trying to restrain it while her whey-faced idiot daughter dumped cup after cup of water onto it's head. And, as if running back and forth in this half-assed bucket brigade didn't waste enough precious seconds, I was treated to the man of the house demanding to know if I'd set a foot on his property. With one of my dogs lying in the road dead, one near-dead, and the one in my arms flying into hysterics, I, in my best, driest "boy-I'm-trying-my-fucking-hardest-not-to-kill-you-now-you-useless-stupid-old-man" voice, explained that I'd been walking down the middle of the road, and if I had been on his land, my shoe-prints and those of the dogs would be outlined in the gravel drive, and, as he could see, the only prints there were the scuff-mark from where his wife had dragged her feet trying to bear-hug their psychotic pit bull and the dog's own two large, clear paw-prints. He nodded and said well, I sure didn't look like I was a troublemaker. Well, thank you for your glowing estimation of my character, dickface, I thought.
Leo was lying at the grass at the opposite side of the road. I noticed was still breathing, albeit shallowly, and I quickly asked the man in the scrubs if there was any hope for him at all. He came over, gave him a good look-over, shook his head, and said it was not likely. He indicated the gaping hole in Leo's narrow little chest where, he said, a bite had likely punctured one lung deeply, hence the ragged, struggling breaths. I could see his neck looked raw, bloody, the fur cruelly peeled away. His eyes rolled wetly in two sockets of mated fur. He spasmed, unable to move or get to his feet. I determined from the crooked position Leo was in that the attack had severed his spine, which meant he was in efffect crippled for his last few moments of life. But, dammit, he still fought like a champion. You've done well, boy. Go with God, boy, I thought.
I watched over Leo for awhile and then walked away to speak to Scrubs a moment. As I did, a car came barreling by and ran Charlie over with a sickening, bony crunch. Hey, asshole, show some respect, I wanted to say. Drive around him. Scrubs brought a small white plastic bag, opened it, and put his poor, abused, tire-flattened body inside. You deserved more, boy, I told him.
Finally Leo gave up the ghost. Scrubs brought a second bag, and I placed him inside. It was over. Now all that remained was to tell my family what happened. What would I even say? No man, I'm sure, has ever taken that long to walk a half-mile as I did that fateful Thursday. It was ten a.m. The day wasn't half done. And it promised to be a long, long one.
Enjoy Heaven, Leo. And, Char-Char, I'm sorry we didn't get to spend more time together, old fella, but, well, at least you get to see your old pal Ace again. And they don't make you wear a stinky, uncomfortable dog diaper up there, either. I'll be down here taking good care of your baby boy.
the original post is here (archive). the average jonathan m sweet DA post has 0-3 views, but this one has a staggering SIXTEEN THOUSAND-- must've gone viral on boomerbook or smthn.
there is also a followup post (archive) in which he impotently vows revenge and mentions, troublingly, that he himself is now confined to the house and yard??
This is where it happened.
This is the red "X" that marks the spot where a killer pit bull attacked and mauled two of my dogs to death 21 days ago.
These are the people who live in that house, who are the owners of that vile, murderous hell-hound.
Those are the people who promised to do whatever it took to make up for my loss, but when my brother went over there later in the day to speak to them and settle up, he found the house totally abandoned. The bastards had skipped town, refusing to even take responsibility for what their demon dog did.
Animal aggression doesn't just come out of nowhere, and pit bulls are no exception by a long chalk. I owned one for years. I know. I put my damn time in. I've heard all the excuses, trust me; I've made a few myself. A "good" dog who's never "done anything like that before" always comes with an asterisk mark: * "to strangers". I'm willing to bet my button cap if you rolled up their sleeves and peered real close, you'd find bite marks and scars from that monster's teeth on the arms and hands of every member of that household.
Because of these people, my liberties have been greatly curtailed. I am, in effect, housebound for the foreseeable future. Great. It's fucking 2020 quarantine lock-down rules all over again. Hell, I'm probably lucky I'm not on the streets homeless now; I guess I should be thankful for that much. I'm no longer permitted to take Rizzo out for our customary long walks about town, only allowed to go within our backyard and around the neighboring property. Not that I want to go all that far anymore, really. I sweat with fear when I pass the house on the corner because a big dog lives there. The owners say she's gentle and has never bitten anyone, but, well... asterisk. I think Riz is traumatized as well. He and Leo used to stand up on their hind legs and bark playfully at the boxer three doors down. Now, whenever we pass by her house, he just sits and silently stares silently unsettlingly at her for minutes on end. It's really creepy. Frankly, he's changed. He's simply not he same happy-go-lucky pup he once was.
I hate these people. Because of them, I've lost the most precious thing of all: my peace of mind, and, more importantly, my freedom. Let's see those irresponsible bunch of incompetents reimburse me for that.
This is the red "X" that marks the spot where a killer pit bull attacked and mauled two of my dogs to death 21 days ago.
These are the people who live in that house, who are the owners of that vile, murderous hell-hound.
Those are the people who promised to do whatever it took to make up for my loss, but when my brother went over there later in the day to speak to them and settle up, he found the house totally abandoned. The bastards had skipped town, refusing to even take responsibility for what their demon dog did.
Animal aggression doesn't just come out of nowhere, and pit bulls are no exception by a long chalk. I owned one for years. I know. I put my damn time in. I've heard all the excuses, trust me; I've made a few myself. A "good" dog who's never "done anything like that before" always comes with an asterisk mark: * "to strangers". I'm willing to bet my button cap if you rolled up their sleeves and peered real close, you'd find bite marks and scars from that monster's teeth on the arms and hands of every member of that household.
Because of these people, my liberties have been greatly curtailed. I am, in effect, housebound for the foreseeable future. Great. It's fucking 2020 quarantine lock-down rules all over again. Hell, I'm probably lucky I'm not on the streets homeless now; I guess I should be thankful for that much. I'm no longer permitted to take Rizzo out for our customary long walks about town, only allowed to go within our backyard and around the neighboring property. Not that I want to go all that far anymore, really. I sweat with fear when I pass the house on the corner because a big dog lives there. The owners say she's gentle and has never bitten anyone, but, well... asterisk. I think Riz is traumatized as well. He and Leo used to stand up on their hind legs and bark playfully at the boxer three doors down. Now, whenever we pass by her house, he just sits and silently stares silently unsettlingly at her for minutes on end. It's really creepy. Frankly, he's changed. He's simply not he same happy-go-lucky pup he once was.
I hate these people. Because of them, I've lost the most precious thing of all: my peace of mind, and, more importantly, my freedom. Let's see those irresponsible bunch of incompetents reimburse me for that.
our intrepid @Holdek inquired:
i'm an animal lover, but dogs die every day. far more chilling to me are the details of sweetcheeks's appalling real-world situation. he may be a bizarre, racist loser but he's an adult human being & the fact he's now seemingly a prisoner in his own home just because someone else said so is frankly grotesque.
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2014
Horrible fate for the dogs, and yeah, I feel sorry for them and even Jonny.
Still, no real need to scream for vengeance, given that their punishment SHOULD be losing their own dog when it was put down for what it did. Dogs that do that shit need to be put down.
Still, no real need to scream for vengeance, given that their punishment SHOULD be losing their own dog when it was put down for what it did. Dogs that do that shit need to be put down.
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2017
Jon Sweet, nobody told him he should call the police when he and his dogs are the victims of a pit bull attack.
- Joined
- Dec 28, 2014
Jeez, that sucks. He has my sympathy for a change. That's just fucking horrible. Fuck shit bulls and their owners.
- Joined
- Jun 25, 2013
His dogs, the closest things he has to friends, were torn to pieces in front of him by a larger dog...and this means he's grounded?
At his age, grounded?
That's the only funny thing about this incident.
I wonder if he's already worked this tragedy into his amazing comic?
At his age, grounded?
That's the only funny thing about this incident.
I wonder if he's already worked this tragedy into his amazing comic?
- Joined
- Sep 27, 2014
That's really fucking sad. I kinda feel bad for him. Yeah he's not a good person but he's obviously retarded. I wonder what kind of life he might've had if he had a tard wrangler growing up instead of living in a backwater shithole in a mold-infested dirt hovel.
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2017
He's a giant always-farting asshole, but he's always seemed to be authentically close to his dogs. The relationships he has with his dogs are probably the deepest, most meaningful emotional attachments he has ever had. So yeah, it's very sad.
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2015
I feel bad for the dogs but it’s got some classic Sweet moments
1. Mad that mom put his dirty clothes in the wash
2. Sweets does nothing to save his dogs but berates the owners for not doing enough
3. Sweets leaves the dog in the road to get run over after it’s dead
4. The owners skip town
5. Sweets is grounded for leaving the yard
1. Mad that mom put his dirty clothes in the wash
2. Sweets does nothing to save his dogs but berates the owners for not doing enough
3. Sweets leaves the dog in the road to get run over after it’s dead
4. The owners skip town
5. Sweets is grounded for leaving the yard
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2017
Recent photo:
He seems to have completely retreated into spergery about cartoons. I don't think that he's even drawing comics anymore.
He seems to have completely retreated into spergery about cartoons. I don't think that he's even drawing comics anymore.
- Joined
- May 18, 2014
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2015
He looks like an even more haggard version of that guy who kidnapped and raped Elizabeth Smart.
- Joined
- Oct 7, 2014
Grooming? What is that?
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2017
He's a sad old hermit, with three of his four dogs dead within the last year. He's not allowed to leave his yard without permission. Even the spergery about dear old Arizona State seems to have ceased. I don't think that he has access to a computer of his own anymore. I don't think that he's necessarily allowed to go to the library on his own to use the internet, so his activity has almost ceased.
He could live like this for decades, conceivably.
He could live like this for decades, conceivably.
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2021
I'm amazed at how young Sweet is, chronologically. He could be the older brother to Lou Gagliardi or Jake Alley, a whole cohort of fat men disconnected from reality and mooching eternally from their parent(s).
Sweet just let his selective ignorance include the Internet; if his brain had crystallized post-smartphone, he could be rambling on Twitter all day long.
It's hard to say if it's better or worse for him like this. Having no audience didn't stop his delusions before. Maybe he's drawing a novel-length masterpiece on notebook paper, and after he dies he'll be the next Henry Darger.