So by now, provided you read or watch the news, you will have heard of the amazing discovery which has allowed scientists to magically (well, no, scientifically) regrow a rabbit’s penis to functionality… presumably after they hacked it off.

Yes, scientists are paid money to remove rabbits genitals… and then regrow them… presumably. I suppose if you’re a rampant feminazi, this could actually be the best job in the world. You’re paid to hack off penises, which then regrow, and can be hacked off again. Think of the possibilities when it comes to kidnap and torture to prove your point about female equality! *cough*

But I digress.

The rapid regrowth of tissue has long been a trope in cyberpunk fiction, such as Akira, when Kaneda turns into a hideous blob of organs, or even just tentacles shooting out of arm sockets. It certainly gives some validity to the “pixie dust” that some guy in vented in Florida, using pig bladder cells.

However, this all reminds me quite strongly of the opening of the Mike Judge flick, Idiocracy. This severely underrated flick starts by explaining how it is that the human race ends up in the perilous state it finds itself in a future of idiots: All the best scientific minds in the world are being paid far too much money to figure out how to regrow people’s hair and maintain erections for longer and harder, instead of people actually figuring out the major issues and allowing stupid people to continue to breed.

My point is that this penile regrowth is anti-Darwinian.

Seriously. I love my dick. I probably stroke it more than my pets. I would never put it in a situation where anything could potentially dismember it. To do so would be an amazing act of stupidity so intense that I believe I would richly deserve my removal from the gene pool and having to sit down when I use the toilet.

Letting guys get their dicks back after an accident in which they thought a household appliances would be a pleasurable experience kind of dismisses the whole point of the process of Natural Selection.

But look on the bright side, maybe dreams of rocketing tentacle penises aren’t far away. It’d certainly make Cosplay competitions more interesting.

You think your life sucks?

Well, it could be worse… much much worse. You could Wade. Or you could be one of the sad bastards revealing all on Fuck My Life

I always thought the saddest, most pathetic dregs of life ended up on BASH.org. It turns out I’m wrong, and there’s substantially worse on FML. What makes it even funnier is that it’s not even stuff that comes out in people’s conversations on line. It’s people actually confessing some of the most pathetic things that could ever be dreamed up by the gods of cynicism and bitter irony.

I’ve actually been plumbing the recesses of my own failings in life, and can’t actually think of anything in there bad enough to make me want to post.

Enjoy laughing at other people’s misfortune, you schadenfreudes, you.

So finally leaving Black Widows at arond 3am, we make our way home so sleep may be had before an important meeting. The Manifest Organising Committee meeting.

Only slightly less corrupt, and with substantially less money than the International Olympic Committee, MOC put on Melbourne’s best anime convention, Manifest, and I am the titular head this year… Go me….

If you have suggestions, or simply like to draw pornography involving our mascot, Peppa Chan, by all means please send that in by email, or just comment down below. Here’s a picture for reference purposes if you’re doing the porn. Preferably somethign with tentacles please.

In the past these meetings have been an exercise in tedium. To most extents, they still are, only now thanks to my iron fist, we don’t spend 150 minutes arguing about who was meant to pay for a fucking P.O. Box.

But the whole point of mentioning this? Seriously. If you like anime, and have some suggestions of what we should do at the largest dedicated anime festival in the country, I’m open to suggestions…
I may also be attempting to rank for longtails in SERP, but that’s a tech joke… or is it?

With the meeting over, I met up with Wade. For those of you that are unaware, Wade is one of my three dopplegangers (see photo). If you are interested in some Dr. Manhattan Action, again, the comment box is below… I’ll be the one still working in the tool shed. 

To explain, Wade is what I would have become if I remained single and never went to university.
Much like J.L. is what I would have become if I gave a crap about career climbing, or that guy in QLD is what I would be if I hadn’t aged for the last decade.
That is to say, amazingly sleazy and with a bizarrely fucked up, yet compellingly hilarious, sex life, which is soon to be turned into a web comic, line of merchandise, and perhaps children’s book.

The comic will be called Wadeing in the Gene Pool. Technically, there is meant to be a site for it, but I haven’t had the time to go through all the shit to set it up, as my hosting has sent me through all kinds of shenanigans lately. Wade & I  sat for an hour, over some Nandos because hot stories require hot sauce, and discussed. I would offer you an excerpt now, like I promised yesterday, only I also have broken my only 3.5mm Male/Male audio lead, and will be getting a new one this weekend… Oooh, anticipation!

We’ll be attempting to make the audio a weekly podcast the moment the site is up. Ladies, or Lady Boys, if you’re interested you can even become part of Season 2.

Finally I decided it being the last night of the Comedy Festival, I should try to get in one more show. I am now horribly horribly morose because there’s nothing, NOTHING, funny in my life now… My art career can now continue apace. This is especially important in light of the show’s title: Comicide.

No, they weren’t killing Communists. It was a series of running sketches about those socially awkward moments that kill your social life and any chance you might ever have at having happiness. Fucking hilarious… Especially the sketch about a guy having to flee to Siberia for getting the Transformers transforming sound wrong. If you have a chance to see these guys, sink a few drinks, and get in there.

And then, home again home again cry myself to sleep…

Ok ok ok, I know the joke’s wearing thinner than the latex on a big blue condom that’s been used for 6 hours straight, but I need to ride it while it’s still fresh in people’s minds.

So if Moore had a heart attack over the movie, and a brain embolism over the Saturday morning cartoon for the kiddies, what would he be like if DC sold the rights to advertising companies?

And what would those ads look like? We figure, something like this:

Special thanks to The Theory of Everything guys for coming up with something this epic.

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