Why are the Amish so stubborn?
Dear Dale:
I’m from New York. A couple weeks ago I was in Pennsylvania visiting family and I saw this guy who looked like a farmer but was wearing a straw hat and suspenders instead of a flannel shirt and John Deere cap.
So I asked my cousin about it. He told me the guy was Amish. Said they live in the country, don’t use electricity and share everything they have.
I was blown away. No electricity? How do they recharge their smartphones, cool their beer or watch TV? Or, more importantly, porn? Maybe they use magazines. True, they’re cheap. Can get a whole box at a garage sale for a buck. But what good are they? The pages are probably all stuck together.
How about you, Dale? Have you ever met one and why are they so stubborn?
Signed,
Happy to be living in the modern world
Dear HTBLITMW:
Beats me. Maybe they just got tired of the bullshit. Having to follow politics and popular culture. Which asshole we’re supposed to give a shit about this week. So much easier to spend your days sawing wood.
As for me… sure have. People think that, because they’re Christians, they’re nice guys — you’d think we’d know better by now — but let me tell you: some of the worst drunks I’ve ever met are Amish.
They come into the bar all polite and respectful but, after a few drinks, start looking down the waitress’s dress — nice pair of udders on that one — and picking fights over points of doctrine, like whether or not Jesus had a tail.
There’s this theory, supported by some very convincing evidence — I heard it on a podcast — that Jesus was a reptilian shapeshifter from the planet Sargus.
But try telling the Amish that.
Unfortunately, I did. Guy dropped me with a single punch.
(Word to the wise: never fight a farmer who doesn’t use power tools. Dude might look like a pushover but let me tell you: guys who don’t use electricity have some pretty big fucking muscles.)
When I woke up, I was lying in the bag of a buggy with a gunny sack over my head.
(I can still smell the manure.)
I tried to get up but my hands and feet were tied with hemp.
“Worry not,” a voice said. “Ye shall not be injured.”
Fucking hell, I thought. It’s the alien abduction all over again. They said they weren’t going to hurt me but a dozen anal probes later — just my luck to get the intern — and I still can’t shit straight.
So I just laid there, listening to the slow clip-clop of the horse’s hooves as my Amish abductors made their gentle getaway. That and try to get a buzz off my hemp handcuffs by pushing them up against my nose.
(No such luck. The THC content of their hemp is shockingly low. And they call themselves farmers?)
Eventually, after what seemed like ages, we reached our destination and a couple guys grabbed my legs, dragged me out of the buggy and tossed me onto the ground. Only then did they take the gunny sack off of my head.
Surrounding me was a gang of farmers, most of them older.
“Alright,” I said. “If you’re going beat the shit out of me, let’s get it over with. I left a beer at the bar and if I’m not back soon, someone’s going to drink it.”
“Ye are mistaken,” one of them replied. “We bear ye no ill will. We only ask that ye impregnate our wives. For which ye shall be rewarded greatly.”
Wow, I thought. Getting paid to have sex. Like a porn star. Or a woman.
Turns out there’s a downside to separating yourself from society. As a result of centuries of ruthless intermarriage, their gene pool, like a pond that never drains, had become slimy. Too many birth defects and not enough sperm.
And so, to counter that, every now and then, they abduct some stranger and have him do all of their marriageable women — which, in their community, is anyone over thirteen.
“You can count on me,” I said. “Let’s get to work.”
The next few days were a blur. It was all just eat, sleep and fuck. Like being a farm animal. Which is probably how they saw me. Just another stud.
And let me tell you: Those Amish chicks… they may seem shy but once you pop the bonnet, they’re randy as hell. I’ve never fucked so hard in all my life.
Problem is, some of the guys, especially some of the younger ones, weren’t so happy about me plowing all their womenfolk.
(Dude, is it my fault you have six fingers?)
So, to make it up to them, I took them out on Rumspringa.
You’ve probably never heard of it. Neither had I. Basically, it’s a time, usually in their teens, when Amish kids, especially boys, are free to experience life outside the community. They can go to movies, drive a car, maybe even go wild and try bowling. After which, having sown their wild oats, they renounce the world and settle down to a life of farming without modern equipment.
So I took them to my local dive, the Drunken Skunk, bought a couple pitchers and some pickled eggs and taught them how to play pool.
(Took the liberty of spiking the beer with acid. Figured they’d thank me later.)
Waited till things started getting out of control — the bartender there will ban you for anything, even things that aren’t technically a crime, like sticking your head under the beer tap — and then went outside, where I showed them how to hotwire a car, which we then stole, drove to a chop shop and sold.
Stopped by a crack house to sharpen the high and then went to Slee Zees, my favourite strip club, where I bought them each a lap dance.
(I know, I know. I’m too kind for my own good sometimes. But what the hell? The money from the stolen car was burning a hole in my pocket and I wanted to show those junior high school kids a good time.)
We woke up in a park, covered in puke and bleeding.
“Well,” I said, “that was fun. Same again tonight?”
At which point they started to cry. Don’t usually have that effect on dudes. Chicks, sure. All the time. But guys? Very rarely.
I was disgusted. Bunch of ungrateful crybabies. Here I am, giving them the time of their lives, and all they want to do is go home and read the Bible.
But then I realized: it’s just the hangover. By dinner, they’ll be fine. No, better than fine: they’ll be begging me to take them out again.
So I had one of them hotwire a car — practice makes perfect — and took them home.
The elders were impressed. It was the shortest Rumspringa they’d ever seen. One night with me and the boys had their fill of the outside world. Every last one of them swore they would never do anything like that again and pleaded to be made permanent members of the community.
Well, I thought. Mission accomplished. Figured I’d rest up a day or two, bang a few of my favourites and then head home.
But I wasn’t counting on the war. You probably don’t know it but there’s a lot of tension in the Amish world: serious schisms between modernizers, like the Lancasters, who allow their people to use flush toilets, and traditionalists, like the Swartzentrubers, who make everyone shit in a pot.
For years, it was case of live and let live. But then one day both groups were selling honey at the same farmers’ market and someone made the mistake of using the informal “du” instead of the formal “Sie” when addressing a rival.
May seem like nothing but, to the Amish, it’s a major insult. Haven’t heard German spoken that loudly since someone got the wrong order of schnitzel at Octoberfest.
Things got nasty fast, escalating into all-out war: silence, shaming, shunning… even excommunication. The Amish will stop at nothing.
(As Churchill would say: You don’t know war till you’ve fought the Amish.)
Naturally, I volunteered to help. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s war.
(I’m always fighting with my boss. Largely because he’s so unreasonable. Actually expects me to show up on time, do my work and be nice to people. And the list of things I’m not allowed to do is even longer: show up drunk, sleep off my hangover behind a bush, hit on MILFs in the playground, snort coke in the comfort station or have sex with ho’s on company time.)
So I took a gang of teens, many of whom, for some reason, were terrified of leaving the compound with me, out on a late-night commando raid. Besides egging their windows and toilet-papering their house, we knotted their cows’ tails, fed their pigs laxatives and electrified their barn.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Electricity? Isn’t that dangerous? Did you know what you were doing? Hell, no. But that’s never stopped me before.
Okay sure, a couple kids got a nasty shock. But there are always casualties in war. It’s not like they needed their hair anyway.
Things got so bad they had to call in a bishop. Some bigwig from Ohio who made everyone pray till their knees hurt so much they lost their anger.
Eventually, after it was all over and time to go home — even city workers can’t disappear for weeks on end — I approached an elder about my payment.
“Verily,” he answered. “The labourer is worthy of his reward.”
Then, taking me outside, he gestured at a group of clucking chickens.
“Take one,” he said. “We shall not inhibit thy choice.”
What the fuck? I thought. After all I’ve done for you. Banged your women, introduced your sons to the seedy side and assisted you in a war with your most serious rivals… and all I get is a fucking chicken? Talk about cheap.
Furious, I keyed all their buggies and refused their forgiveness.
(That’ll show them.)
So if a hayseed hipster ever comes up to you on the street and offers you a big payday to knock up his wife and get his son drunk… walk away. You’re be glad you did. Because his idea of a huge reward is probably a smelly piece of livestock you have to slaughter yourself and who needs that? No one. Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Dale
Hi. If you’ve made it this far, you probably liked the story. So why not check out some others at my Medium page? https://medium.com/dear-dale
