Category: NERDING DAY

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.