Any of you who have found your way here thanks to our site prostitution campaign, I invite you to make use of the RSS Feed linked at the bottom of the page. Through the magic of XML (is there anything it can't bloat?) you will be able to keep up to the second with any update to the site, assuming you have some sort of blog to consume the feed. And in this day and age that's a pretty safe assumption. If you have any trouble with the feed, email Jibble.

We're in the preliminary stages of planning the second annual UAComiCon in Las Vegas, Nevada. This time we decided to hold a physical convention, rather than just meeting in IRC, to give us a chance to meet The Fan in person. We haven't nailed down the times or location yet, but it will be somewhere on the strip, sometime over the weekend of April 8-10. Hopefully we'll see you there.

You may have noticed that most of the items in our merchandise section have been out of stock for quite a while. Our Convention Organizer, Yotsuya, wanted to make sure we'd have some product to push at the con, so he put together a CafePress store. You can get some cheaply made, generic UAC merchandise there even if you aren't going.

Yesterday, the boys at Penny Arcade put up what I thought was a pretty good satire on the EA-NFL exclusivity shenanigans. They followed it up with a newspost, and got another gaming comic to play along. All in all, not a bad bit of fun-poking. I wouldn't call it a lollercaust, but I cracked a smile.

It seems that some people forgot that the comic they were reading was meant to be funny. Perhaps they had been lulled into a state of inhumourity by the dearth of funny to be found in recent PA strips. Or perhaps they're just that stupid. You have to figure the people reading webcomics are dumber than the ones writing them, and the writers are pretty fucking stupid.

Whatever the reason, Tycho got enough hatemail that he had to come right out and tell people it was a joke. I'm sure it pained him to do it, because these people are in some way connected to him, and their cranial density reflects badly on him.

It's like having to explain the punchline to a joke. At that point you just want to turn around and walk away, because the joke can't be saved.

The thing is, the comic is supposed to have a joke in it every day. Gabe shouldn't have to colour the punchline red to let the reader know when to laugh. If these people are so used to not finding the comic funny that they don't even expect there to be an attempt at a joke, why are they reading it?

While I lust after the money generated, I don't much covet Penny Arcade's fanbase. With a few notable exceptions, we haven't had to deal with that level of idiocy here at UAC. Our Fan is a respectable, soft-spoken Mormon with an education and a small army of subservient wives. He seems to enjoy the comic and very rarely complains about the level of dog-anus depicted therein.

Now, if he'd just donate $10,000 a month to the UAC Charity Defense Fund, we wouldn't have to expend so much effort trying to attract more, and likely inferior, fans.

I figure I'm the only person that has anything to complain about. People see my powers as "gifts", and they expect me to use them for "good". Or rather, what they think is good, which generally is anything that's good for them. The first problem with these kinds of people is that my powers came with a price; I've had to hire the damn mafia to drown damn near every beagle in a 6 mile radius. These guys call me lazy quite a bit, when the fact of the matter is I can't physically bear to remain in this realm of consciousness for more than a few hours a day. Not even Bruce Willis has realistic expectations of me. Look at Deacon, since he's a cripple, nobody expects him to ever accomplish much of anything, so any time he so much as cracks a smirk it's applauded. If he could attain a hard-on on his own just once, I bet Ilene would buy him that chair mounted missile launcher he's been pining for.

Gordon has, through a systematic effort of calculated failure and massive embarrassments throughout his lifetime, decimated anyone's expectation of him to live past 30, let alone find a mate. He does well at school because the teachers there pity him, and it probably is only a matter of time before some massively guiltful broad takes pity on him sexually, too.

And where does this leave me? I can get as many women as I like to sleep with me, but they never stick around the 14-16 hours to cook me breakfast. Other people's thoughts are constantly assaulting my mind; twisted, horribly distasteful thoughts. My only solace these days is Internet, dear, sweet, Internet. His passionate rage and lack of civility towards others is just about the only enjoyment I get these days, now that even the good TV shows suck.

What the hell are you depressed about? We've got an RSS feed (whatever the hell that means), new merchandise, and we're going to fucking Vegas to meet The Fan! Life looks pretty damn good from where I'm sitting.

Is it because that blonde chick gave you a fake phone number? Because here's a clue: you've never had a second date. There are lots of women as hot or hotter. Go screw some rich guy's wife—that always seems to cheer you up.

Oh, and a little bonus advice I'll throw in pro bono: you're not going to get a lot of sympathy whinging about your super powers. Most of us don't have any super powers. Some of us don't even have regular powers. Boo hoo, levitating tuckers me out. I have a fucking thorazine suppository so far up my ass I can feel it pressing on my liver.

All I ever hear from you two is how horrible life is. Deacon's legs don't work. Fuzz didn't get to bang three chicks in one night. Boo-fucking-hoo.

Some of us are decent enough not to schlep our problems onto the next guy in line and drown them out with hard alcohol like a good, conscientious citizen.