ELTINGVILLE CLUB
So yeah, This is mostly an appreciation page for the series created by geek god Evan Dorkin, especially the idiotic, insufferable, arrogant, and hateful Bill Dickey and, sometimes, my beloved Josh.
(Special thanks to my friend Lissie for getting me into this series last year and reminding me of its existence earlier this year. You turned me into a Bill-obsessed weirdo.)
Ok so let's start with my man...
I FUCKING DAMN HATE BILL DICKEY IN THE COMICS,
And yet, I would die for him. I would punch him in the face, and then tenderly cradle his bleeding nose, whispering sweet nothings into his ear while he yells at me about continuity errors in Star Trek.
Bill Dickey is a plague upon humanity, a festering sore of nerd rage, arrogance, and deeply ingrained misogyny wrapped up in a greasy, sweat-stained trench coat. He is the embodiment of everything wrong with geek culture, the gatekeeper who hoards trivia like a dragon hoards gold, the kind of guy who would push a kid out of a comic book shop for not knowing who drew the 1978 issue of Green Lantern #110. He is insufferable, he is disgusting, he is my husband, my man, my love.
The way he insults his so-called friends with that condescending smirk? Infuriating. The way he flips a table over an argument about action figures? Disgusting. The way he belittles everyone around him just to feel superior? Unforgivable. And yet, when he stands there, drenched in his own toxic fumes of Mountain Dew and unwashed comic convention t-shirts, I feel something stir within me. Something dark. Something unspeakable. Something terrifyingly romantic.
Bill Dickey is a loser, a social pariah, a walking example of why nerd subcultures can be an absolute nightmare. And yet, in all of his vile, petulant, pathetic existence, he is perfect. He is raw, unfiltered nerd energy, a man whose rage over fictional universes surpasses his ability to form human relationships, and I adore him for it. He is the worst. He is the best. He is an absolute trash goblin, and he is my trash goblin.
I want to push him down a flight of stairs. I want to catch him at the bottom and tell him everything will be okay. I want to scream at him. I want to tell him he’s beautiful. I want to strangle him with a limited edition collectible scarf and then buy him a milkshake to make up for it.
Bill Dickey, you absolute piece of shit. I love you.
I love Bill Dickey. I adore Bill Dickey. Sometimes. In very specific, highly controlled, fictional circumstances. But if I ever saw him in real life? If I ever caught a glimpse of that man in the wild, in a dimly lit comic shop, hunched over a long box of back issues, muttering about how "real fans" don’t use price guides? I would run. I would run so fast my shoes would catch fire.
Bill Dickey, in the safety of ink and paper, is an amusing disaster. A walking, talking, rage-filled encyclopedia of everything wrong with nerd culture, but also an exaggerated cartoon character that I can love from a distance. But Bill Dickey as a real, breathing human? That is a horror movie waiting to happen. The man is the embodiment of social discomfort. I can already hear him sneering at my taste in media, grilling me on obscure trivia just to prove a point, making me feel like a lesser being for daring to enjoy something without his stamp of approval.
He is an apex predator of the most terrifying kind: the Comic Book Store Gatekeeper. His natural habitat is the counter of a failing hobby shop, where he lurks, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting customers with unsolicited rants about how modern comics are garbage, how female-led franchises are "pandering," and how he, personally, could have written a better Star Wars sequel trilogy. He smells like old paperbacks, stale popcorn, and the lingering resentment of a thousand online forum arguments.
And yet. AND YET. I still love him. Like some cursed entity bound to an ancient grimoire, I cannot escape his grip. I know he is awful. I know he would ruin my day. I know, deep in my soul, that if I interacted with him for more than five minutes, I would leave that conversation emotionally wounded, filled with regret, and somehow owing him ten dollars for a comic I never wanted to buy. And still, there’s a part of me that wants to witness the chaos firsthand, just once, like staring directly into a solar eclipse. Just to see.
But if I ever actually saw Bill Dickey in real life?
Nope. I’m out. I’m gone. I’m changing my name, deleting my online presence, and moving to a remote village where comic books do not exist. He wins. I concede. He is too powerful, too unhinged, too Bill Dickey.
Some things are meant to remain fictional. For everyone’s safety.
I am a Batman fan. Not just a casual fan. A real fan. A dedicated, borderline obsessive connoisseur of Gotham’s finest, a devoted follower of the Frank Miller gospel. I have spent hours dissecting The Dark Knight Returns, Year One, and even All-Star Batman & Robin despite its crimes against humanity. I breathe Gotham’s corruption, I live in its shadows, and I know, with every fiber of my being, that if I ever heard Bill Dickey start talking about Sandman, I would set fire to my entire collection just to cleanse myself of the experience.
I know my limits. I can handle comic book elitism. I can endure deep-cut lore debates, continuity rants, and the occasional unhinged tirade about how Batman could beat literally anyone with prep time. But listening to Bill Dickey talk about Sandman? That is a level of suffering no mortal should endure. That is an auditory version of the Anti-Life Equation. That is what hell must sound like.
Because it wouldn’t just be a discussion. It wouldn’t be an exchange of ideas. It would be a full-scale, Bill Dickey-brand, lore-heavy, gatekeeping-laced monologue that spirals into a never-ending vortex of misery. He would scrutinize every detail, dissect every panel, recite entire passages in that condescending, nasal tone, and worst of all—he would question me. He would demand to know if I had really read it, if I understood it on a level that satisfied his impossible standards, if I was even worthy of liking it.
And the truth is, I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t bear to hear my favorite series twisted into a bludgeoning weapon of nerd superiority. I would crumble. I would break. I would leave that conversation a changed person, a hollow shell of the comic fan I once was. And as I stood there, shattered and defeated, looking at my beloved collection—my prized volumes. I would know what had to be done.
The flames would rise, pages curling in the heat, ink and paper dissolving into smoke, as I watched everything I once loved turn to ash. A necessary sacrifice. A cleansing fire. The only way to ensure I never had to live through that horror again.
Because some things are sacred. And Bill Dickey, that insufferable, brilliant, monstrous goblin of comic book knowledge, is the one force in the universe capable of ruining them forever.
I shouldn't feel bad for Bill Dickey.
I know I shouldn’t. He’s the kind of person who invites misfortune, who cultivates it with every snide remark, every obnoxious correction, every cruel insult disguised as "nerd discourse." And yet, when I think about what happened to him in that comic shop, when I remember how it all ended, I can’t help but feel… something. Not quite sympathy. Not quite guilt. Just a quiet, unsettling awareness that, maybe, he didn’t deserve all of it. But maybe—just maybe—he kind of did.
Bill Dickey, in all his miserable, pathetic glory, was the king of his little kingdom. The comic shop was his throne room, the long boxes his treasury, and the customers his unwilling, ever-suffering subjects. He ruled with an iron fist of trivia, an unrelenting reign of gatekeeping and vitriol. He thought he was untouchable. But kingdoms fall, and tyrants are always the last to see it coming.
The abduction—because that’s what it was, a full-on kidnapping—was something out of a deranged fan’s darkest revenge fantasy. There he was, the self-proclaimed king of comics, reduced to a sniveling hostage, his power stripped away in an instant. Seeing him in that state, tied up in a chair, glasses slipping down his sweat-covered nose, no doubt trying to think of a way to argue himself out of the situation—it should have been cathartic. It should have been justice.
And yet…
Something about it didn’t sit right. Not because he didn’t deserve a wake-up call, but because this was beyond that. This wasn’t just karma, it was cruelty. And for a moment, just a moment, I wondered if even someone like Bill Dickey deserved to be humiliated like that. To have his entire reality shattered, his sense of security obliterated, his throne burned down around him while he sat there, powerless.
And then I remember every time he belittled his friends. Every time he made someone feel like garbage for enjoying something the "wrong" way. Every time he turned a hobby into a battlefield, where only the most insufferable could survive. And I realize that, even as I feel this strange, twisted twinge of pity, I know he would never feel the same for anyone else. If the roles were reversed, if someone else had been in that chair, Bill wouldn’t have had a single ounce of sympathy. He would have laughed, sneered, maybe even taken notes on what not to do in the event of his own inevitable downfall.
Bill Dickey, the worst person I’ve ever loved, got what was coming to him. And maybe, just maybe, it was the only way he’d ever learn.
(If he actually learned anything is another matter entirely.)
But listen—Pilot Bill Dickey? Oh, now we’re talking. That’s a different beast entirely. That’s peak evolutionary perfection, the blueprint for every nerdy heartthrob I have ever and will ever love. The messy hair, the intense expressions, the barely-contained rage—it’s art. It’s beauty. It’s the perfect storm of insufferable and irresistible.
The way he carries himself, the way his voice drips with venom and disdain, and yet, somehow, there’s an undeniable magnetism to it. A gravitational pull that dares you to get closer, even when every instinct screams at you to run. He’s arrogant, he’s cruel, he’s the worst person to ever walk the earth—and I would let him ruin my life without hesitation.
That sharp, angular face? Perfection. The glasses that he adjusts like he’s about to destroy you with a single sentence? Life-changing. The sheer audacity of his entire existence? A masterpiece. There is nothing about Pilot Bill that isn’t captivating, even in the moments where you want to strangle him. Especially in those moments.
Pilot Bill is untouchable, unreachable, a deity of smug arrogance wrapped in a deceptively cute exterior. He is every bad decision I would ever make in human form. And honestly? Worth it.
HEAR ME OUT
Josh Levy, in both the comic and the pilot, is, without a doubt, an enigma wrapped in a whole lot of awkward. Let's be real here: he’s the kind of guy who’s clearly trying way too hard to come off as the cool, edgy intellectual, but instead ends up looking like an extra from a 90s sitcom that got lost halfway through production. He might as well have a sign that says, "I’m trying to be your best friend, but I’m probably going to disappoint you in the most dramatic way possible."That said, in the most ironic twist, Josh does have his charm. It's almost as if he’s like the world’s most socially awkward puppy—adorable in theory, but a bit of a mess in practice. Maybe it's that unbelievably close resemblance to Kyle Broflovski from South Park—you know, that precocious, know-it-all vibe mixed with an unsettling intensity that makes you wonder if he’s one bad day away from getting into some seriously questionable situations... (or maybe is just the jew stereotype). That familiarity isn’t just a coincidence; it’s like he was plucked out of a parallel universe where Kyle’s growing pains were amplified into a perfect, cringe-worthy mess of teen angst and forced humor.
Josh, for all his flaws, is almost... endearing? But not in the way you'd expect. He’s got that “I want to punch him, but I can’t stop watching” kind of energy. That’s his magic trick—making you want to roll your eyes and laugh simultaneously. He’s basically the kind of guy who’ll lecture you about the best comic book arc ever, then fall face-first into a pile of irony, and you’ll be right there, weirdly fascinated by it all.
Just let my buddy be, he is just a cutie potatoe
Bill Dickey, in the pilot of Eltingville, is an absolute masterpiece of male allure. From the very first moment he graces the screen, it’s obvious that his presence is not just commanding but downright irresistible. Every glance, every movement, radiates this divine, almost otherworldly level of hotness. It's not just his physical appeal (although let's be real, that's part of it), but it’s also that perfect combination of cocky confidence and effortless charm. He has that “it” factor, that magnetic aura that turns every scene into a little firework show of desire.
It's not just his looks—it's the way he owns every inch of space he occupies, the way he leans into every moment, making everything else fade into the background. Bill Dickey doesn't just appear on screen; he takes over, like a walking, talking explosion of sex appeal that can't be ignored.
And those little details—those small gestures, that devil-may-care smirk—add a level of sensuality so subtle yet so potent that it's borderline dangerous. Bill Dickey isn’t just a character; he’s a visual feast, a walking dream that makes you think, “Is this real? Can this level of perfection exist?” Every second spent with him on screen is like being trapped in the most deliciously sinful daydream. Truly, he is the epitome of what it means to be swoon-worthy.
(Lord that was CRINGE)
The fire. THE FIRE.
Listen, I know Bill Dickey is a walking catastrophe. I know he’s a menace, a goblin, a living, breathing warning label for unchecked nerd rage. But that fire scene? That was different. That was something else. That was the moment I realized that, despite everything, despite every reason to hate him, this unhinged little pyromaniac had me wrapped around his finger.
The sheer audacity of it. The way he stood there, flames reflecting in his glasses, radiating pure, unfiltered chaos. He wasn’t just causing destruction—he was owning it, basking in it like some kind of nerd-god of recklessness and misplaced vengeance. That wasn’t just a man setting a fire. That was a statement, a full-fledged declaration of "If I’m going down, I’m taking everything with me." And damn it, if that wasn’t the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
Yes, he deserved what came next. Yes, it was the culmination of every bad decision he had ever made. But in that moment? That one fleeting instant of pure, unapologetic destruction? Bill Dickey wasn’t just a mess of a man—he was a masterpiece. A beautiful, terrible, dangerously attractive force of nature. And I felt things.
Terrible things. Confusing things. Things that make me question my taste in men, but also things that make me understand why people fall for absolute disasters. Because if being a fire-starting, self-sabotaging, smug little gremlin looked that good, then honestly? Maybe destruction is the only logical choice.
PETE (Peter Michael DiNunzio)
Pete is the Secretary of Horror, he is quick to insult others and start fights. Despite his often abrasive and hostile nature, Pete occasionally takes on the role of the "mature" member of the group (kind of similar w Jerry on that one). In Bring Me The Head of Boba Fett, he tries to stand up for the group, but it’s clear that he’s got a volatile temper that often gets the best of him. Pete's background as an Italian-American he lives for metal music, especially the darker subgenres, wich is kinda he so like me fr. However, there’s more to him than just his anger—his struggles with his family, particularly his father (i need that man to get MURDERED), who destroys his possessions because they don't align with his ideals, show a side of Pete that’s more vulnerable than he lets on. Pete has a small collection compared to the others, and his financial struggles make him the poorest of the group, adding to his frustration. Despite all his aggression, Pete's history of being bullied, not only by his peers but also by his family, makes me feel so sorry for him, he kind of a kinnie of me tbh, i love this guy, give him his amateur gore movies already.
JOSH (Joshua Aaron Levy)
Josh is a loud, argumentative and damn fucking mad weird loser member of the group. He is the secretary of Science Fiction, and I'm pretty sure he had a fight with Bill bc of that, I don't even know how tht mf is still alive. With a short temper and a quick trigger for a fight, Josh isn’t one to back down from a challenge, especially when it comes to his obsession w Bill (is he stupid or sum?). His love for the genre leads him to collect items like the infamous Boba Fett figurine from the pilot episode. Josh is a bit of a blowhard, constantly talking about his interests and engaging in heated debates about them. He’s also portrayed as neurodivergent (OMG TWINS), a trait that makes him stand out in the group bc of his kind of shitty obsessive personality. Despite his tendency to get into arguments, Josh is also layered—his Jewish background and the complexity of his character make him more than just an angry nerd. He has a strong connection to his parents' influence, as seen in his taste for movie soundtracks and classical music. He’s also rumored to be bisexual. Tbh Josh is one of my favorite members of the group, maybe my 2nd favorite, ngl, I kind of have something with jews at this point/p>
JERRY (Jerome Titus Stokes Jr.)
Jerry is the quiet, Secretary of Fantasy and Role-play, the one who gets pushed around and bullied the most, especially by Bill (u little piece of shit, as my godess Nelss Dávila said once "Let's see if you say that when the judicial authorities arrive at your house, friend. It's very easy to offend around here, but everything comes at a price, friend. I've never offended anyone. There's a God who sees everything, and my conscience is clear. Best regards in advance;)"). Despite his softer, more reserved nature, Jerry tries to be the voice of reason amidst the chaos. He’s often the most level-headed member of the club, but his efforts are often ignored (sadly, poor of my boy [or more like lissie's boy, I'm not a homewrecker 😾]) specially when his interests clash with the others. Jerry's love for things that the rest of the club teases him for, such as his fictional crushes, role-play and his generally more subdued demeanor, make him a frequent target of ridicule (Dw, I got you there buddy). However, there’s a kindness about him, and it’s clear that he’s the most sensitive of the group. According to Evan Dorkin, Jerry is neurodivergent, and his "gentle bones" and "elven feet" add to his peculiar charm (I'M ALREADY READING THOSE MALE-WIFE COMMENTS, SO STAY AWAY OF MY FRIEND'S HUSBAND YOU WALKING RETCON 😾). COMICALLY, Evan said that if any of the club members were ever to get into furries, it would definitely be Jerry LOL, which haves a lot of sense tbh, I mean, Aren't all DND players furries?.
BILL (William Alan Dickey)
Bill is the textbook definition of an unpleasant, arrogant man-child. He is the Secretary of Comic Books and President of The Eltingville Club, the only job he will probablu get in his sad life. His behavior is nothing short of toxic, and his short temper only worsens his interactions with everyone around him (he is such a asshole, Bill is like ‘L’ in ‘LARPing’, completely unnecessary and ruining everything). He’s the guy who thinks his opinions are the only ones that matter and will show no respect, not even to his friends or family (well, talking about the comics bc on the pilot, lord, he was a mama's boy and no one can take that headcanon of my head LOL). Bill's humor is sadistic—he revels in the suffering of others, often using it as his only form of entertainment, something obvious considering their sad, miserable, insignificant and danger to humanity that their simple existence is. As an adult in issue #2, his views on life have only soured, becoming incredibly sexist, racist, and bitter. He claims that the fan community has been "ruined" (like he isn't the one ruining everything I love, even him), and it’s clear from his attitude that he has no room for anyone who doesn't fit his narrow worldview. He is a walking storm of negativity, and even his pet dog gets the short end of the stick—neglected, left to be cared for by JANE in a non-canon end of the pilot (thanks Evan for taking a lttle mercy for that poor soul who suffers the misfortune of being near Bill). If there’s one thing about Bill, it’s that he’s a rage-filled nerd, completely unapproachable, and, honestly, hard to love, even if I daily pray to him
So yeah, The Eltingville Club is a brutal, raw, and downright painful satire of the worst aspects of fandom culture, written and illustrated by Evan Dorkin, the man who saw the ugliest parts of geekdom and decided to immortalize them in ink. The series follows four absolute disasters of human beings—Bill Dickey, Josh Levy, Pete DiNunzio, and Jerry Stokes—as they form the most toxic and self-destructive geek club known to man. They’re not just nerds; they are the embodiment of everything rotten in fandom—the elitism, the gatekeeping, the pointless arguments, the inability to function in society beyond their hyper-specific interests.
The comics span multiple issues, but they all orbit around one central theme: fandom is hell, and these guys are the demons keeping the fire burning. The series starts with them doing what they do best—being insufferable. Whether it’s screaming at each other over sci-fi trivia, trying to scam a local comic shop out of rare collectibles, or engaging in all-out physical brawls over the stupidest things imaginable, these guys take geek toxicity to an Olympic level.
And then there’s Welcome to Eltingville, the failed Adult Swim pilot that is somehow even more vicious than the comics. This episode takes one of their most infamous stories, Bring Me the Head of Boba Fett, and condenses it into a 22-minute descent into madness. Bill and Josh fight to the death (literally) over a rare Boba Fett figure in a local comic shop, and in true Eltingville fashion, the whole thing spirals into absolute chaos. Fists are thrown, windows are shattered, dreams are crushed. It’s ugly, it’s mean-spirited, and it’s perfect.
Now, the series eventually reaches its grim conclusion in The Eltingville Club #1 and #2, where we finally see these losers grow up... or rather, fail to grow up. Years later, Bill has somehow gotten worse. He’s even more bitter, even more misogynistic, and even more convinced that fandom has been "ruined" by inclusivity. When the club gets back together for one final, tragic disaster at San Diego Comic-Con, it all culminates in a brutal, self-destructive implosion that leaves them all permanently broken. Nobody wins. Nobody grows. Nobody learns a damn thing. It’s the ultimate middle finger to toxic nerd culture—an unflinching mirror held up to the worst parts of fandom.
Eltingville isn’t just a comic, or a failed TV show. It’s a cautionary tale. It’s Evan Dorkin looking at the absolute worst aspects of nerd culture and saying, "You see this? This is you. This is your future. Fix yourself before it’s too late." It’s funny. It’s painful. And if you’ve ever been even remotely involved in geek culture, it hurts because deep down, you know people like this. Hell, if you’re not careful, you become them.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Seriously. You’re here. You’re reading this. And you haven’t read The Eltingville Club comics? You haven’t even watched the pilot? What are you doing with your life? Are you telling me you exist in this world, a world where nerd culture is thriving, where people argue about who the best Batman is on a daily basis, and you haven’t taken the time to experience the most brutally honest, painfully accurate, and downright horrifying satire of geekdom ever created?
Pathetic. Disgusting. Unforgivable.
But, because I am a kind and merciful soul (unlike Bill Dickey, who would have already banned you from the store and insulted your entire family tree), I’m willing to give you another chance. A single, one-time-only opportunity to redeem yourself before I personally come to your house and force-feed you back issues of Wizard Magazine.
Here. Watch the damn pilot. I even put the link for you. You have no excuse.
After that, go read the comics. All of them. Then come back and we’ll talk. But if you even *think* about saying, “Oh, I don’t really like the art style,” or “It’s too mean-spirited,” I swear to God I will unleash my inner Bill Dickey and ruin your day.
