Author: Dennard Dayle
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Learning Day: EllerslieđźŚ
When a date’s 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 game’s 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, God’s goalies for your genitals. They took “Every Sperm is Sacred” 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. It’s 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 you’d like. They’ve rewritten it eight times, embracing one hit’s 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, Leslie’s your hero. A range of enemies, minions, and no editors shape their solo album period.
Leaving one mystery.
I’m 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? I’ve praised Leslie as a “literate mammal” 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.
Who’s the Alpha Ludy? Let’s find out.
Eric believes a man leads or isn’t, 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, that’s a clown miracle. I’m in.
Interesting subtitle. Going in, it helps to know a little about Ellerslie. Fact one: lens flare.
Fact two: It’s not a scam or cult. There’s a whole book explaining that, so don’t say it.
See, if you’ve 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. Here’s a student testimonial:
Hold on, that sounds repressed.
Shit, that sounds backed up too. The “drill Jesus instead of each other” 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. Ellerslie’s a free shield for your purity.
A spiritually free shield for your physical purity. Your wallet’s 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.
“Sweet, a cult,” an elite strawman might say. “We haven’t done one of those since Chick-Fil-A.” Stop. That attitude alienates the one key voter: St. Peter. Eric unpacks Ellerslie’s non-cult status in Are These Really My Pants, flash-kicking the ball into his team’s net. In soccer, this is known as a “fuckup.”
Not too hard. The metaphor’s at Eric’s reading level. He’s happy to have a label that, if you squint during a sunstorm, looks like Christ’s. And chuckling, non-furiously. No critic, hilarious or otherwise, could make Eric mad. Or stretch one metaphor for half a John Galt.
I’d take sketchy, unnamed credit, but Are These Really My Pants limped out in 2015. I was ignoring lectures and primaries. Eric’s 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, I’d reconsider that pun. It’s not even a pun anymore. It’s a mutant, clinging to life, and must return to the cycle.
Flipping insults has a long history, unless Nas is an imperial wizard. Spinning “cult leader” is a challenge. Not impossible—robber barons like the odd wink-nudge—but this reads like a tantrum. If you’re unfamiliar with holy passive-aggression, Eric’s 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 leader’s too involved with himself and sniffing out FBI plants to make you laugh. Eric might be a cult leader. This joke’s like a rubber nose on a skin suit. Humanizing, if you’re dim enough to carry a horror movie.
Consider the fight Eric’s 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 “I don’t run a cult. I can’t even spell cult. Would a cult have a vault this nice? Or an installment plan? You’re in a cult, heretic, and I hope you like the punch in hell. Minions! Seize him.”
No Christian has suffered more.
Fair enough. Internet backdraft’s intense. No one wants their virginity cult to trend, however brilliant the writeup. We’re not wired for mockery outside of spear range. That panic attack doesn’t erase the cult. Or the aggrieved book pamphlet about your cult.
Anyway, we learn being an idiot preacher/cult leader/idiot cult leader’s admirable. The one goal worth having. But the pants metaphor sticks around. It refuses to leave. Pants-as-reputation is Eric’s annual thought, and he drags it into winter. After three other deathless metaphors, pants expose the faithful’s true enemy: the faithful.
Again, fair enough. From the pews, satirical nonfiction might as well be a rumor or vaccine. It’s Christian punchlines that hurt Eric’s bottom line. And heart. I’d sympathize if he hadn’t convinced me, point-for-point, that he’s a cult leader with messiah and martyr complexes.
Though Eric has an airtight alibi: the compound’s not finished yet.
I’m 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, I’ve studied the best.
That’s the power of a dying mind. “Churches get judgey” is the simplest point in the world, and Eric wrote his own indictment getting there. An achievement in uncraft. I didn’t come in convinced Eric’s a cult leader, but now I’m 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.
That’s our first round. Eric’s folded under pressure like the DNC. Let’s see if Leslie does better on offense.
I’m curious about Leslie’s side hustle. Eric has a lot of bylines, thanks to negative standards. She’d 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. We’ll stick to Issue 36, the anointed free preview.
Set Apart Magazine offers guidance for a fallen world. Whether you’re drawn to men or men, modern womanhood’s tough. Not because of the noise in the news. You have to think of Christ and marriage at the same time, and that’s two things. Team Leslie can help. Take Marli K’s 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. You’ll 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 worth’s rolled under the couch. I’ve almost saved enough for lunch.
Dope, this radiates sorrow. I thought Marli might be a mole, but she’s about that deferred life:
Comes with the territory. I’m still excited for Leslie: she’s been Eric’s Luigi since 16. This column’s running long, so I’ll assume he was 16 too. 16-ish. Look, I can’t pause for every groomer in power or we’ll never get through winter. With editorial control, Leslie can diversify. Why retread one courtship when there’s 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 that’ll hit court any day now. And fans have expectations. I’ve seen Mastodon four times without hearing one note of “Blood and Thunder.”
Besides, this is a Q&A, lunch meat’s chosen format. Let’s 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, you’ve 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. Leslie’s 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 doesn’t matter. Leslie gets out fast, into “Guard your emotions.” While we’re mocking her first point, Leslie’s trained a Sisters of Battle kill team.
Is Eric more ambitious? Sure. My ambitions are finding a landlord with a soul and carrying Lady Gaga’s sedan chair. Neither’s 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 don’t disagree with a word here. With God’s way, I’d be the dicky apostate on HBO, laundering the hatreds of the day. And so much closer to that sedan chair.
So far, Leslie’s ahead in organization, content, and sheer self-flagellating madness. They’ll both send me letters for this, but Leslie’s might explode.
I see a tied game. I watch enough wrestling to know Eric’s one flip from turning this match around. The Ludy Kumite must end like all doctrinal feuds: two unreadable, nearly identical books. Welcome to this article’s 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. They’re 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 champion’s advantage, so she can go first.
Alright, standard Disney Adult pitch. A little florid, but I get it. Now Eric–
Fifth grade cruelty? How old is Prince Brandon? You printed this. As a guide for your cult’s non-animated lives. Show them some respect.
Oh! She’s snapped. If Eric tipped his hand as a cult leader, Leslie’s confessed to at least three kills.
There you go. Love is, at all times and ages, a gate to misery beyond Verdun.
Here’s an exclusive. My beat covers branding demons, corn-fed nazis, and children’s propagandists. People that, as a rule, should walk into the ocean. But I’ll never type the next sentence again. Leslie hates herself too much.
We’ve set the bar below magma. Maybe Eric can sink less.
…Like an action tulpa? That’s nice, if I skip all my questions. At least it’s in English. We’re two hundred pages into an Eric metaphor, but he’s left Levi’s out of it this time.
Now I get it. I’m 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 don’t need a wife.
I need a waifu.
I need her.
3D partners radiate impurity. Only bootleg anime girls come without eighth-grade betrayal. They’re pure, from the day they’re molded.
Absolutely. My waifu deserves nothing less. Eric wins the day. In fact, he’s 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.
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Nerding Day: Pin-Up Pete, Revisited
Welcome to my Final Destination. I left Puppet Week unscathed, thanks to timely interference from Gen Urobuchi, the one true God. But homunculi hate losing a kill, even to other puppets. Since that attosecond of joy, I’ve battled dollkind.
It’s time to pay the shitty piper, even though rats are still everywhere. Today, we face a Combat Ventriloquist. Who barely fights, so he’s a Comedy Ventriloquist. But the jokes suck, so he’s a Christian Ventriloquist. The worst kind, as fans of the Dogg Zzone or unstalked children know. When cockroaches unearth the Ape Cities, they’ll quarantine bibles like the T-Virus.
Enter Camilo Wallace: the Weritas Man. Or Camillo Wallace: The Ventriloquist. Our subjects can’t keep titles straight.
It’s a comic! A medium where ventriloquism means even less. Comics starring ventriloquists evoke porn starring Jim Justice. Though unlike The Justice Tapes, Weritas Man comics are sparse for an eight-year project. There’s much more promo than juice–a very Old Internet mistake for New Internet insanity.
Aside from being Superman, Camilo’s a woodworker:
A doll-whisperer:
A bible camp casanova:
An enemy of cultural marxism:
And super marxism:
Finally, a comic where Red Son Superman gets his. You know, like Red Son. Today’s brain lags behind Mark Millar.
It seems scattershot because it is: the emphasis depends on the Guest of the Week. Creator Andre Leal’s an exposure junkie. If your brand’s jackboots, Camilo licks them clean. If your brand’s ass, ibid. If your brand’s Old Testament, Camilo gets papercuts. Lending crossovers and fanart a “please love me” flavor.
Today’s insults are a gift: Andre wants you to know Camilo. Bad. Badly enough to tie him to Antarctic Press. Badly enough to spam four waves of social media. Badly enough to collab with everyone short of the Klan, and then the Klan. But not badly enough to practice.
I get that. I thought a superhero Archer would be fun too, I just knew Frisky Dingo existed. Or rather, didn’t pretend to forget. Note for the roaches: “X plus Jesus” was the least talented or endowed apes’ default survival strategy. After we figured out the moon wasn’t a shy cloud! Wild, right?
As your brain’s noticed, ventriloquism adds nothing to a Superman knock-off. Luckily there’s loads of it.
The left puppet’s our flagship prop: the Hipster. Once your brain recovers from that pun, I’ll be waiting for your revenge. Find me in Cobble Hill Cinemas during the matinee. I’ll be in the back row of Kill Bill Vol. 3, wearing a Gankutsuou hoodie. And unarmed: no man can fight the doll war forever. But ask yourself: is revenge what you want? Or a clean, Hipster-free mind? That peace, if it exists, only lives within. Killing me would carve ventriloquism into your memory forever.
The puppet rests on his lap.
You know, Andre’s drawing this. He could close Camilo’s mouth. Telling puppet jokes this way has one benefit, and he’s thrown it away like the future.
Still, this isn’t worthless. Andre’s advanced stock joke research. Time crawls during dead punchlines. Applied anticomedy could achieve Doc Brown’s dream. Can you imagine? Visiting any reality tv set and poisoning any host? We’re in the age of miracles.
Like most puppets, the Hipster is romantic dynamite. If screaming slurs at models doesn’t work out, try whispering with puppets. You’ll have a great time.
Somehow, Camilo avoids drowning in ventriloquist pussy. He stays focused, and continues to ruin art:
I grew up with a few Christians, and a few morons. They’re not synonyms. I’m still sane enough to remember that during revision. But in the overlap, I’ve seen Christian puppeteers. And they all tell this joke, better. Andre fumbles the setup like a priest retconning “Love thy neighbor.” That joke has nothing to do with the next section.
The Ventriloquist lives a double life. Triple if you count his secret identity. By day, in his few print adventures, Camilo’s your everyday Superman clone. Like this Bloodsport riff we’re skipping:
Camilo cheats through the rest with puppet magic. No sale. Van Damme made better knockoffs himself. Imagine sitting through one hour and thirty-two minutes of perfect madness and thinking “Bet they couldn’t beat Superman.”
Weak.
By night, Camilo changes. Andre’s work mixes action and comedy into tragedy. On the list of Amazon murderers, Camilo Wallace sits between the bullet ant and candiru. Mostly by stomping on a pre-gunpowder tribe:
The Kwesokunxele are, per Andre’s ancient website, in dire need of conversion. Or as the semi-translated prose says: “Kwesokunxele tribe worships an imaginary creature that demands newborn sacrifices, so they seeks for couples from other cultures to maintain as prisoners and to have babies every year for the sacrifices.” It’s all an NGO conspiracy, and that’s not a gag:
In Andre’s world, Amnesty International funds cannibals to stop Amazon from buying The Amazon. I didn’t know that going in. I came to watch someone rob Jim Henson and Grant Morrison in one breath. But as Earth goes mad, lunatics have to evolve.
Have some worldbuilding.
Practice before Game Day, or your caricatures will only embarrass you. Integralist Superman hates this tribe’s “imaginary creature,” which only invites jokes I’d regret. At least I enjoy the advanced hunter sneering beside the hunter. “Look at this inept fuck. If we had guns, he’d shoot his own dick off. Without stone collector and I, this camp would be a parking lot.” Meanwhile, witchdoctor’s over human flesh. He’ll trade Yigg for Wendy’s the next time a less violent conquistador comes around.
This angle’s missing from Camilo’s Atlantic Press cameos. Go figure. They did print his fun-loving origin. Remember that new hero anthology Lydia covered? What if it sucked? What if it ate failure and baby-birded it back to a fictional audience? That question animates Antarctic Press’s everything. But specifically Exciting Comics, which introduces washouts’ OC to a shared trashcan.
First, we get Camilo’s roots as a ventriloquist:
His grandfather taught him doll-mumbling, self-terminating his line. If you care, you’re a better person. The kind the coming world needs. I’m still here to breach hell. I’ll try to close the gate behind me.
Next, we explain Camilo’s powers, which I have a chance of caring about. It sucks. Not one planet implodes. Instead, the key is merging ventriloquism and Jesus. Doll-fondling lets you hear Gabriel’s gym tips. If you pray without a puppet, you’ve missed free cosmic Anavar. It’s too late to change the past, but you can start crushing ass and spines today.
Note the professional envy. By hack law, an author avatar’s the coolest person on the page. For a ventriloquist, that means rolling with magicians.
Stage magicians, the saddest people using the term. Endurance stunts earn grudging respect, magick tutors retire early, and faith healers retire earlier. Atlantic City illusionists repel cool. Their secrets endure because the answers suck. The mystery behind every trick is divorce. And they’re still miles ahead of Comicsgate washouts.
Let’s meet some ComicsGate washouts.
“Comicsgate?” ponders the strawman. “That’s probably like the other embarrassment, with trolls twice as old and half as employable.” Bingo. You’re so smart, strawman. Let’s never fight again.
Now, I try to be precise with the quantity and nature of refuse. And generally give up halfway through. But note that Camilo isn’t a Comicsgate original. He launched in 2016, and still steals vaudeville jokes today. But for a moment, Camilo had family. Like the other half of that “Destroy Cultural Marxism” gif:
Lonestar took Captain America and added goggles. Comicsgate attracted lots of homages, which helped The Ventriloquist fit in. Pandering did the rest. Like most thin relationships, Camilo leans on gifts:
One gift.
He’s really into Christian roulette wheels.
Today, that’s the sane collage.
If you dig borrowed interest, your party’s just begun. Camilo Wallace also stars in super-reaction videos. They’re not voiced, or really animated. But you can watch superhero trailers in full, with Camilo staring like a dead-eyed…some kind of construct. Mannequin? Scarecrow? Too life-like. Piñata? Camilo stares ahead like a dead-eyed piñata.
In his defense, Andre could have retired off this trick in 2008. He started in 2018, netting views in the high tens. I don’t judge art by popularity, but I do judge ads. These ads suck shit off a St. Benedict medal.
But there’s more to section breaks than success. There’s love.
The heart of this future blockbuster? A tennis kink. Few have pined for their OC the way Andre wants to die beside Melissa Krugger: Tennis Cyborg.
Meet the god-queen of student athletes. Melissa’s a junior tennis player “that has never lost.” Preemptively squashing tension. Not that we’ll see her play: Melissa’s here to make out with Andre. Camilo. I, like the author, meant to write Camilo.
A near future…sounds romantic.
And relatable: I also keep a gun on my Maybach, and it’s a babe magnet. Less athletes and more cops, but that might go for Camilo too. I can Google the age range for ranked junior tennis, or enjoy my morning. My kitchen table has a pomegranate, three fried eggs, oversized bacon, and gimmicky mochi pancakes waiting. That calorie nuke divides me and the news. I don’t need to know if Camilo’s a sporty groomer. I can teleport that question into the future, to your breakfast. Tell me how that works out.
Melissa centers a few morality plays about dominating tennis camp.
Maybe junior tennis starts at twenty. In that case, drool’s a refreshing break from murderous hate. If we all focused on of-age tennis waifus maybe we wouldn’t GARROTE THE FUCKING FUTURE let’s take five.
Back. Melissa has more charming tales of winning. Think MJF, without the heart or jury duty. While your niece shitposts about her rights, Melissa stacks trophies.
Melissa’s proud of peaking before prom. The orcs protesting varsity games should take notes. They’ve reached a depth of failure known only to dead samurai and DNC chairs. Also: what?
My aunt had a saying: “What in fucking hell? Why do you hoard this shit? Are you starting an asylum book group? Or bringing a paper mache nazi to life? You’re ten.” Nice lady, but not as nice as Melissa. She keeps two pistols behind her backup trophies, in case someone insults her fans.
Alright, Andre depicts Aryan winners meeting electable heroes. That doesn’t make him an advocate. He could be making a point. The heart of Melissa’s character is hating losers, not loving her coach.
Well, we won’t jump at shadows like the rest of the voting fan club. Until whatever crazy shit’s next. C’mon. Let’s have it. Hell’s door was open when I got there.
Ah, a dissident purge. Classic Superman. Or maybe that’s a Dunham bit. The whiners didn’t appreciate Melissa, so now they can appreciate heaven. Besides, the tribe’s just fine.
Quite the twist. I came for Xerox Superman, and got a throwback Evil Superman instead! I’m immune to Wehrmacht Clark at this point, but I haven’t seen a flying groomer in years. Brazilian Homelander proved me wrong: enough crazy shit counts as an original character. I just hate him.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Eric Rion, who keeps THREE pistols behind his trophies.
