When a dateās going too well, I throw on the Ludys.
Nothing gets Saturday night soft and dry faster. What purity rock lacks in craft or feeling, it makes up for in bitterness. The disses to modernity need work, but the self-owns are peerless.
See? Dick gameās only weak when you use it. Why not keep the secret? No one knows you rhyme this and Jesus until you sell it.
Meet Eric and Leslie, Godās goalies for your genitals. They took āEvery Sperm is Sacredā at face value and stretched it into infinite books. With ideal timing: in the gospel cycle between repression and smiling, the Ludys kicked off a dry spell. Itās hard to appreciate today, during a push to outbreed the future. But purity put the Ludys on the map.
They began and peaked with When God Writes Your Love Story. The man-meets-child classic brought fresh voices to stale ideas, reaching more people than youād like. Theyāve rewritten it eight times, embracing one hitās wonder. But the Ludyverse goes beyond that. Sort of.
Correcting the Bible with one partner gets old. The Ludys explore purity outside their primary relationship, making their financial bond stronger. If you need advice on real manhood or their first book in Arial, Eric has you covered. If you need help whipping yourself or tips on whipping yourself, Leslieās your hero. A range of enemies, minions, and no editors shape their solo album period.
Leaving one mystery.
Iām competitive and I love projection, so I wonder: who does God love more? Which Ludy spreads the least helpful parts of His word most effectively? Iāve praised Leslie as a āliterate mammalā in the past, but Eric has zeal. Blind arrogance goes far against a rival sorry for breathing. Leslie thinks whoredom begins at conception, which might be enough for Eric to steal this.
Whoās the Alpha Ludy? Letās find out.
Eric believes a man leads or isnāt, so he goes first. After a few rewrites of When God Writes Your Love Story, he outgrew hellbound publishers. He sold a 39-page ebook called Are These Really My Pants for human money, directly to fans. While worthless to the average anyone, thatās a clown miracle. Iām in.
Interesting subtitle. Going in, it helps to know a little about Ellerslie. Fact one: lens flare.
Fact two: Itās not a scam or cult. Thereās a whole book explaining that, so donāt say it.
See, if youāve fucked, the Ludys still love you. But less. So much less than the lonely. You can redeem yourself at another church, but go ahead and burn your tickets to Ellerslie, their training camp for advanced virgins.
Anyone can skip parties or boycott Star Wars. Ellerslie discipleship crafts elite masturbators. Hereās a student testimonial:
Hold on, that sounds repressed.
Shit, that sounds backed up too. The ādrill Jesus instead of each otherā thing needs context. Try this on:
Bam! Normal. Would a cult cure anxiety? Or even claim to? Hush, you know what I meant. Look past the hivemind text and horny subtext and see the Lord at work. Ellerslieās a free shield for your purity.
A spiritually free shield for your physical purity. Your walletās spread eagle like prom night. This is a financial blowbang. My checking account got crabs from the webpage. Jesus loves the poor, and Megachurch workshops take the rest.
āSweet, a cult,ā an elite strawman might say. āWe havenāt done one of those since Chick-Fil-A.ā Stop. That attitude alienates the one key voter: St. Peter. Eric unpacks Ellerslieās non-cult status in Are These Really My Pants, flash-kicking the ball into his teamās net. In soccer, this is known as a āfuckup.ā
Not too hard. The metaphorās at Ericās reading level. Heās happy to have a label that, if you squint during a sunstorm, looks like Christās. And chuckling, non-furiously. No critic, hilarious or otherwise, could make Eric mad. Or stretch one metaphor for half a John Galt.
Iād take sketchy, unnamed credit, but Are These Really My Pants limped out in 2015. I was ignoring lectures and primaries. Ericās loudest critics were other pastors with cheaper camps. Are These Really My Pants is a Christian diss response, and even more passive-aggressive than that implies.
If I were pro-life, Iād reconsider that pun. Itās not even a pun anymore. Itās a mutant, clinging to life, and must return to the cycle.
Flipping insults has a long history, unless Nas is an imperial wizard. Spinning ācult leaderā is a challenge. Not impossibleārobber barons like the odd wink-nudgeābut this reads like a tantrum. If youāre unfamiliar with holy passive-aggression, Ericās one rumor away from kicking through drywall. Or, if you buy his self-description, snapping his leg on drywall.
Going for humor makes sense. A cult leaderās too involved with himself and sniffing out FBI plants to make you laugh. Eric might be a cult leader. This jokeās like a rubber nose on a skin suit. Humanizing, if youāre dim enough to carry a horror movie.
Consider the fight Ericās losing. Anyone paying for a Ludy ebook is a follower or future Twain Prize winner. Neither takes Eric seriously enough to call him a cult leader. Until, from his vault of virgin gold, Eric screams āI donāt run a cult. I canāt even spell cult. Would a cult have a vault this nice? Or an installment plan? Youāre in a cult, heretic, and I hope you like the punch in hell. Minions! Seize him.ā
No Christian has suffered more.
Fair enough. Internet backdraftās intense. No one wants their virginity cult to trend, however brilliant the writeup. Weāre not wired for mockery outside of spear range. That panic attack doesnāt erase the cult. Or the aggrieved book pamphlet about your cult.
Anyway, we learn being an idiot preacher/cult leader/idiot cult leaderās admirable. The one goal worth having. But the pants metaphor sticks around. It refuses to leave. Pants-as-reputation is Ericās annual thought, and he drags it into winter. After three other deathless metaphors, pants expose the faithfulās true enemy: the faithful.
Again, fair enough. From the pews, satirical nonfiction might as well be a rumor or vaccine. Itās Christian punchlines that hurt Ericās bottom line. And heart. Iād sympathize if he hadnāt convinced me, point-for-point, that heās a cult leader with messiah and martyr complexes.
Though Eric has an airtight alibi: the compoundās not finished yet.
Iām convinced. Instead of a cult defense, we have a prequel. Fitting, since human Golden Retrievers crash into nearby lives like cars crash into real dogs. If that sounds like projection, Iāve studied the best.
Thatās the power of a dying mind. āChurches get judgeyā is the simplest point in the world, and Eric wrote his own indictment getting there. An achievement in uncraft. I didnāt come in convinced Ericās a cult leader, but now Iām waiting for headlines from Colorado.
In fact, I suspect this self-published, unedited ebook cost Eric money. When one worshipper skips Platinum Bible School (Season Pass Included), Eric lost a Playstation. Selling Are These Really My Pants directly to his base lost him a Best Buy.
Thatās our first round. Ericās folded under pressure like the DNC. Letās see if Leslie does better on offense.
Iām curious about Leslieās side hustle. Eric has a lot of bylines, thanks to negative standards. Sheād need full-time minions churning out Abstinence Monthly to compete.
Thank you, Lord. Now we have a Mania match. And none of my money goes to the cabinet. Until, you know, Leslie donates. Weāll stick to Issue 36, the anointed free preview.
Set Apart Magazine offers guidance for a fallen world. Whether youāre drawn to men or men, modern womanhoodās tough. Not because of the noise in the news. You have to think of Christ and marriage at the same time, and thatās two things. Team Leslie can help. Take Marli Kās guide to waiting:
She probably means investing. This aching tone comes from a life devoid of human investing. Especially watching the line, or dumping everything into one IPO. Youāll have a richer, brighter portfolio if you spread your money out a bit. And learn more about how the market works, and the world at large.
I assume. I write, most of my net worthās rolled under the couch. Iāve almost saved enough for lunch.
Dope, this radiates sorrow. I thought Marli might be a mole, but sheās about that deferred life:
Comes with the territory. Iām still excited for Leslie: sheās been Ericās Luigi since 16. This columnās running long, so Iāll assume he was 16 too. 16-ish. Look, I canāt pause for every groomer in power or weāll never get through winter. With editorial control, Leslie can diversify. Why retread one courtship when thereās so much to be insane about? God prefers one partner, but allows multiple topics.
Ah, the hits.
I get it: not-dancing got her to the dance. Why would fifteen years change that? Your answer is killing your net worth. Eric tried branching out, and thatāll hit court any day now. And fans have expectations. Iāve seen Mastodon four times without hearing one note of āBlood and Thunder.ā
Besides, this is a Q&A, lunch meatās chosen format. Letās beg the question:
See, Mastodon? From the jump. White whale, holy grail. Leslie saw a blank canvas, and told it to hide its shame.
.
If you think about yourself, youāve already lost.
I learned a bit here. Both Ludys share one mistake: starting defensive and ending furious. But while Eric strangles one metaphor over thirty pages, Leslie hits her thesis in paragraph one. Then, she chokes one clear point to death. Night and sadder night.
For later, note the guilt complex. Leslieās not super into Leslie.
This is a big one! And a glorified reprint. Cheating with your body is an afterthought: whoredom begins in the mind.
Longtime horseshit enthusiasts might ask if Delilah Strawharlot and her Netflix-fueled fall from grace exist. Or if Leslie, who built her empire around soul mates, should put it in scare quotes. It doesnāt matter. Leslie gets out fast, into āGuard your emotions.ā While weāre mocking her first point, Leslieās trained a Sisters of Battle kill team.
Is Eric more ambitious? Sure. My ambitions are finding a landlord with a soul and carrying Lady Gagaās sedan chair. Neitherās going well, or very productive. Though I got an interview for the sedan chair gig.
And in the end, we all come together. Leslie wants fewer sinners mouthing off. I want less competition. I donāt disagree with a word here. With Godās way, Iād be the dicky apostate on HBO, laundering the hatreds of the day. And so much closer to that sedan chair.
So far, Leslieās ahead in organization, content, and sheer self-flagellating madness. Theyāll both send me letters for this, but Leslieās might explode.
I see a tied game. I watch enough wrestling to know Ericās one flip from turning this match around. The Ludy Kumite must end like all doctrinal feuds: two unreadable, nearly identical books. Welcome to this articleās original concept.
These came out in 2003 with the same goal, style, structure, and suck. Think Pokemon Pink & Blue. Each book teaches a color-coded personality disorder. Theyāre Rashoman versions of When God Tells Your Love Story. Which was already its own Rashoman.
To both, I posit a simple, word-searched question. What is love?
Leslie has championās advantage, so she can go first.
Alright, standard Disney Adult pitch. A little florid, but I get it. Now Ericā
Fifth grade cruelty? How old is Prince Brandon? You printed this. As a guide for your cultās non-animated lives. Show them some respect.
Oh! Sheās snapped. If Eric tipped his hand as a cult leader, Leslieās confessed to at least three kills.
There you go. Love is, at all times and ages, a gate to misery beyond Verdun.
Hereās an exclusive. My beat covers branding demons, corn-fed nazis, and childrenās propagandists. People that, as a rule, should walk into the ocean. But Iāll never type the next sentence again. Leslie hates herself too much.
Weāve set the bar below magma. Maybe Eric can sink less.
ā¦Like an action tulpa? Thatās nice, if I skip all my questions. At least it’s in English. Weāre two hundred pages into an Eric metaphor, but heās left Leviās out of it this time.
Now I get it. Iām ready for my covenant. I thought it was too late, after all my gleeful, constant, unrepentant sin. But each line brought me closer to my bride. To meeting a bride pure enough to overshadow my everything. Or rather, making her.
I donāt need a wife.
I need a waifu.
I need her.
3D partners radiate impurity. Only bootleg anime girls come without eighth-grade betrayal. Theyāre pure, from the day theyāre molded.
Absolutely. My waifu deserves nothing less. Eric wins the day. In fact, heās invited to the wedding. As long as he leaves his 3D baggage at home.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: AnAndy, who is incredibly thankful that Ellerslie has payment plans.