Before I ever set foot near an Amish farm back in 2012, I’ll be real with y’all, I was just like everybody else. Thought the Amish were these sweet, God-fearin’, Bible-readin’ folks out here livin’ off the land, raisin’ barns, churnin’ butter, and tryin’ to be a light in this dark ol’ world. That’s what they want you to think, anyway.
But honey… that ain’t the whole truth. Not by a long shot.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve met a few Amish people who are genuinely kind-hearted but even the good ones are tangled up in a system that don’t allow ‘em to think for themselves and forces them to be compliant to the strict rules, while participating in the cover-ups. It’s even worse for girls and women, who, unfortunately, are usually the ones that are not only silences about the rules, but silenced in their trauma, forbidden to speak about it once the bishop and the crew have squashed it. The abuser is forgiven, and they need to get on board, or it will get a whole lot worse that the regular hostile environment they’re already experiencing.

Now look, this ain’t the kind of story you hear at a Sunday potluck with sweet tea and lemon bars. Nah, this here’s the kinda truth that makes folks squirm in their seat a little. But I ain’t here to comfort nobody, I’m here to tell it like it is. So, buckle up, baby.

“The Donut Wagon Deception: When Grits, Glazed Lies, and Good Ole Exploitation Collide”

Let me tell y’all somethin’ that might ruffle a few feathers, but it needs sayin’. A whole mess of folks out here who live around the Amish think they know everything there is to know ‘bout ’em. They drive ’em ‘round, act like they’re their “besties for life,” smile for the cameras, and give tours like they’re leadin’ some holy caravan straight into God’s promised butter churn.

But lemme’ ask you this: when was the last time that tour guide told you the real truth?

I ain’t talkin’ about the “they-make-donuts-and-buggies-and-they’re-so-peaceful” garbage they peddle to church ladies from Ohio and Pennsylvania. Nah. I’m talkin’ real talk—the abuse, the cover-ups, the shunning, the manipulation, and the spiritual mind games that go on behind them barn doors and white curtains. How an Amish person has no problem using the “English” because they are just a bug to be squashed. It’s okay to manipulate and coerce them, ’cause they ain’t Amish and at the end of the day, they don’t matter.

Most of ‘em ain’t ready for that conversation, ‘cause it’s easier to push the fairytale and cash the check.

Truth is, a lotta them English folks around here are just as much to blame as the ones doin’ the harm. They know what goes on. They’ve seen the bruises, they’ve heard the whispers, they know about them secret “mental health facilities” the Amish send their own off to when someone steps outta’ line. But you won’t hear a peep about that on their little buggy tour, ‘cause truth don’t sell nearly as good as sugar and nostalgia. Come and get some Amish donuts, they are soooooo good! Nevermind the handwashin’, we won’t talk about that. Just buy the fuckin’ donuts ’cause I get a cut of the proceeds, says the ass-kissin English woman gettin’ her Amish hustle on. Buggy tours and lies, come gethcha’ some! Particularly in the New Wilmington, Pa area, where bitches be really paddy-whackin’ for some predators. They’re too busy makin’ a livin’ off the “simple life” gimmick. Slingin’ donuts, quiltin’ lies, and ridin’ shotgun in them wagons like they’re honorary members of the holy haystack club.

Meanwhile, the same Amish they’re singin’ praises over are talkin’ ‘bout ‘em like dogs—smilin’ in their face, then callin’ ‘em heathens, sluts, whores, or tools the second their backs are turned. But don’t think the English driver minds. Nah. She’s busy gettin’ her mug on local TV, actin’ like the official spokesperson for the predator club, sayin’ she’s “so blessed” to be embraced by ‘em. Embraced? Baby, that ain’t an embrace. That’s a transaction—and you the one gettin’ played. But hey, it keeps her fridge full and her ego stroked, right? Gets her books sold and gives her a reason to live, otherwise she’s probably as boring as her hairstyle.

Now look—I ain’t sayin’ every Amish person is bad, but I am sayin’ this:
When you see abuse, and you still choose to slap a bow on it and sell it to the world like its homemade heaven? You ain’t just part of the problem… You are the problem.

So, if you really love ‘em like you claim, stop coverin’ up their mess just ‘cause it makes you money or lands you a spot on the local news. ‘Cause one day, when the truth finally busts loose—and it will—you’ll be standin’ there with glazed hands and nothin’ to show for it but your face next to a lie.

“Forgiveness in a Bonnet: Only If You’re Wearin’ the Right Costume?”

Now see, the Amish love to tote around this shiny idea that they are the most forgivin’ people on God’s green earth, but only if you’re wearin’ the right outfit. Got your suspenders on? Bonnet tied tight? Livin’ in their made-up rules and speakin’ that Dutch? Congratulations, you might get a little mercy if you mess up.

But if you’re English? If you’re on the outside lookin’ in? Baby, you could sneeze in their direction, and they’ll pray you rot in jail. So much for turnin’ the other cheek, huh?

I’ve seen it firsthand. They’ll cover up all kinds of mess for their own, brothers who molest, fathers who beat, bishops who cheat, women who file false allegations, just ship ‘em off, slap on some forgiveness, and pretend it never happened. But let an outsider say one sideways word or stand up to ‘em, and suddenly it’s all “press charges,” “call the law,” and “you’re a threat to our way of life.”

So, the question is:
Is forgiveness only handed out if you got a buggy in the driveway?
Is that cross they wear in their hearts just for decoration when it comes to outsiders? ‘Cause it sure seems like grace is on sale at their church house, but only if you show up in a plain dress and keep your mouth shut. Everybody else? You’re on your own.

See, real forgiveness ain’t selective. It don’t wear uniforms and it don’t pick sides. But in that Amish circle, it’s like bein’ in a secret club. And if you ain’t got the password, you better brace yourself, ‘cause they’ll toss you to the wolves while holdin’ a prayer meeting. Personally, I don’t give a damn about forgiveness. I rarely give it and never expect it. It’s this arbitrary thing somebody thinks they must do to go on in their life, but I don’t roll that way. I’m still gonna know what you did, or what I did to get us off kilter, so I’m not gonna’ pretend that I forgive, when we both know I carry a grudge like Jesus supposedly carried that cross.

So next time you hear someone singin’ the praises of the “forgiving Amish,” ask ‘em: Forgivin’ to who, exactly? And what happens if it’s the other way around? Also, ask the divorced women and the community alike how they treat those who leave? Do they forgive them? Hell, nah they don’t, they are strictly the enemy, and gettin’ any attention from them comes with a price. More importantly, those who leave and choose divorce deserve death. They are harassed, bullied, isolated and alienated from their kids, called molesters in court records, because trust me when I say, when someone leaves, they learn to navigate the court system very quickly, especially for those who claim to have no use for the system. They know how to get to the ‘false allegation’ office in their sleep. When a husband leaves, (sometimes a wife), there is a whole different set of rules, they don’t consult no bible for this activity, it’s some secret set of rules for scorned women, and they have no couth. To them, only the Amish are going to Heaven, whether they say it or not in public, they haven’t learned that Jesus didn’t die for just the folks in straw hats and home-sewn britches. He died for everybody, and that includes the ones y’all wanna’ throw under the buggy when it suits you.

“The Amish Auction Hustle: Bless Her Heart… and Her Legal Fees”

Now I been sittin’ here thinkin’ ‘bout this Amish Auction they got goin’ on up in New Wilmington, PA this week, supposed to be for some poor lil’ Amish woman who’s fallen on hard times. That’s the story, anyway. But sugar, once you stir the pot a little, you’ll see this ain’t no charity case. This is a scam in a bonnet, bless her heart.

We talkin’ about a woman who’s been divorced for years, not months, baby… years, still collectin’ child support from the baby daddy, kids got insurance, and she owns a whole house. But that ain’t enough, apparently. Word is the community done built her a brand-new house, like she’s Queen Esther herself. But now here come the flyers floatin’ around beggin’ folks to donate, sayin’ she got “doctor bills” and “expenses.” Uh-huh. Let me translate that for y’all:
EXPENSIVE ATTORNEY FEES.

This ain’t about no hospital co-pay. It’s about keepin’ her fancy-pants lawyer fed while she files frivolous lawsuits against anyone who don’t bow to her little cult fantasy, including the father of her kids, who had the audacity to choose happiness over bondage in a black hat and a horse buggy.

Now lemme tell you somethin’—I got nothin’ but respect for real folks who go through hardship and need a leg up. We’ve all been there. But THIS? This here is straight-up auction-funded harassment. A donation drive disguised as a pity party, and baby, the only thing gettin’ lifted is her ability to keep suin’ folks left and right with money she didn’t earn.

And I thought the Amish didn’t sue? Ain’t that what they always preach, that humble, peace-lovin’, forgive-and-move-on lifestyle? Mmm, guess that only applies when they’re not the ones holdin’ the grudge and twistin’ the law into a tool to punish outsiders.

Meanwhile, the real folks—the ones who’ve lost their homes to tornadoes, floods, devastation, they out here strugglin’ to rebuild with dignity and strength. But this lil missy’s out here cryin’ poor while sippin’ lemonade in her brand-new house built by other people’s hands and wallets.

And the worst part? They’re postin’ it all over the internet like it’s some holy cause. I’m sorry, but you can’t wave around a “we-don’t-use-technology” card and then hop online when it suits you to make money off strangers. That’s not tradition, that’s convenience dressed up in hypocrisy.

So, before you go droppin’ your dollars in that donation basket, ask yourself:
Is this woman truly in need… or is she just runnin’ a fundraiser for her foolishness?

‘Cause from where I’m standin’, with my cornbread in one hand and my common sense in the other, it looks like she ain’t a victim… she’s the villain in a cape made of lies and legal documents. Then they have the audacity to ask for new items for donations to help this woman nobody knows. When the hell has the Amish held a benefit auction to help someone else in their community, someone who isn’t Amish? Good luck looking for those statistics…. So yeah, while the world thinks they’re this perfect, peace-lovin’ people, just remember, looks can be deceivin’.
Behind all that homemade jam and them freshly baked pies are a whole heap of darkness folks don’t wanna’ talk about. But I will. Because once your eyes are open, you can’t go back to pretendin’ you didn’t see it, unless you’re givin’ buggy tours and makin’ a band exploiting them like some of these operations around these Amish villages.

“Why Don’t Amish Women Work? A Real Talk Rant from my perspective”

Now let me ask you somethin’ plain and simple—why the hell don’t Amish women work? Not part-time. Not “helpin’ around.” I mean full-on, bring-home-a-check, clock-in and clock-out work like the rest of us womenfolk do when life hands us a mess. ‘Cause when that Amish husband walks away, tired of the mind games, the manipulation, the emotional hostage-hold—what happens?

Amish women don’t dust themselves off and handle business.
No ma’am. They lean on the community.
They pass the basket, bake the pies, throw the auction, and act like they’ve been dropped into tragedy by some act of God instead of owning up to their part in the chaos. It’s always, “Oh bless her, she’s been abandoned.” But nobody ever says, “Well maybe she ran that man off with all that control and cult-fueled foolishness.” Maybe she forgot about them vows for better or worse, and standin’ by the wrong man in times of trial, which is to say, they stand by the bishop and gang up on the one who has decided that leavin’ sounds pretty damn good.

Let me be real: the man usually leaves with nothin’. He’s stripped down like a fish on Friday—no home, no community, no kids. And that ain’t enough for ‘em. Nah. She still ain’t satisfied. She’ll stomp her little ugly black shoes right into court, with that high-dollar English attorney, ready to bleed him dry the minute he starts to rebuild his life, which becomes even more difficult from the beginng because Amish women love a good ole false allegation, so he’s forced to spend a fortune he don’t have defending himself against an Amish allegation, which, for some ungodly reason, holds a lot of weight in the court of law, even when they know these heifers be lyin’.

She don’t want him happy. She wants him starvin’.
She wants him broke and beggin’ so maybe—just maybe—he’ll crawl back into that pot of rules, guilt, and silent misery like a good lil’ Amish puppet. But baby, these men would rather wrestle a damn alligator with a toothpick than go back to that world.

Meanwhile, she ain’t liftin’ a finger to get a real job. Oh no. That’s crazy talk. “Amish women don’t work.” Well ain’t that convenient? They’ll sue the daylights outta’ you, run smear campaigns, and spread lies faster than sweet tea on a summer table, but hold down a 9 to 5? Oh Lord, the pearls! The horror!

They’ll sit in that house someone else built, livin’ off donations, child support, and sympathy, actin’ like they were dealt some unforgivable tragedy.
But let’s call it what it is: choice.
They chose to play victim.
They chose not to grow.
They chose to chase people with lawsuits instead of check stubs. They chose to have a dozen kids they couldn’t take care of, but were forced by the rules of the Ordnung to pop dem’ babies out and let it be the man’s responsibility to get em’ fed. All they have to do is clean up a little until their kids start doin’ the chores and then they sit on the porch and pop them jaws all day gossipin’ and writing sob tales to the Amish scandal rags for their drug of choice, sympathy. Lawd do they love some sympathy. Bake that shit at 350 for a lifetime and call it homemade. They’d take it pill form if they could, or slather it on in a salve. Just give it to them.

And don’t give me that “God’s will” nonsense, neither. Wasn’t it God’s will when you let that man go in peace? Wasn’t it God’s will when he found freedom and joy outside that bondage you call a lifestyle? You can’t cherry-pick divine intervention when it’s convenient and ignore it when it calls you to grow up and get a damn job.

So now it’s everybody else’s responsibility to feed her kids, pay her rent, and fund her court drama? Nah baby. That ain’t “tradition”—that’s entitlement wrapped in a head covering.

I’m sorry (actually I ain’t), but maybe if you wasn’t actin’ a fool and draggin’ innocent folks through legal hell, you’d have money to spare. Maybe if you put that same energy into learnin’ a trade, openin’ a business, or—I dunno—bein’ a decent human, you wouldn’t be out here beggin’ with a pie plate and a prayer.

This ain’t hate. This is accountability.
And baby, if that’s too hot for your kitchen, go sit in the shade and let somebody who knows how to hustle take your place.

“Why She Mad? ‘Cause She Ain’t Gettin’ No D: The Real Amish Drama, Unplugged”

Now listen, sugar. Some folks won’t say it—but I will. These Amish women go through hell and high water to make their ex-man’s life a certified nightmare. I’m talkin’ full-on emotional warzone, like bein’ married to ‘em was just the rehearsal, and now the main act’s hit the stage. New costume, same damn drama.

See, when he was Amish, she didn’t want him. Nagged him half to death, probably fed him cold pie and colder shoulders. But the second he gets free, starts smellin’ like soap and freedom and maybe finds a lady who lets him breathe? Oh honey, now he’s a problem. Now he’s a pervert.
Now she’s at the courthouse cryin’ crocodile tears and whisperin’ the worst of the worst: “He touched his kids.”

Lawd. Ain’t that the dirtiest card in the deck? But it’s the one that sticks, because when the system’s cracked and crusty like a week-old biscuit, that lie slides right in. No proof needed. Just whispers, courtrooms, and a whole lotta hurt. But don’t be fooled, it ain’t always about the kids. Nope. Behind that prim-and-proper bonnet is a desperate woman jonesin’ for control and craving that D!
Yeah, I said it.
Because lemme tell you somethin’ about these Ordnung-lovin’ ladies: unless their husband dies and they get that holy green light, they ain’t allowed to get none. Not even a lil’ porch swingin’, under-the-quilt, “ooh baby” action.

Now, some of ‘em sneak around, don’t get it twisted, but if you’re ugly, or just not the deacon’s favorite, you might be sittin’ there with a can of beans and a vivid imagination, beggin’ God to turn your butter churn into a vibrator.

And honey, don’t you dare masturbate.
No no no. That’s a sin worthy of a full Sunday confession, public style.
You’ll be up there shakin’ like a sinner in church, talkin’ about:

“Yes, I used three fingers… no, wait, four… and I thought about Levi Yoder’s sweaty back when he chopped wood shirtless that day in July… then I wept while humpin’ a cucumber and asked God to strike me with modesty!”

Y’all, I can’t make this up!

But here’s the kicker: the Amish predators? They don’t want it if it’s handed to ‘em on a silver plate. Nope, they like to take what they ain’t supposed to have. But the woman who actually wants some affection, some love, a little fire in the barn?
Oh baby, she’s shamed, scolded, and sent back to her sewing machine.

So, these bitter barn wives get meaner than a chicken snake in a feed sack. And why? Because deep down, they know that once a man tastes freedom, and I mean real, out-in-the-world, take-me-to-town freedom, he ain’t comin’ back.
Especially if he’s got that wild ex-Amish thing goin’ in the bedroom.
Lawd. Them men got stamina, creativity, and a lil’ touch of rebellion, and it shows.

So yeah, she’s mad. She’s lonely. And she’s throwin’ legal grenades not because she’s hurt, but because she’s horny and power-hungry and the Ordnung don’t allow her to go get what she really needs: a good ol’ fashioned roll in the hay.

Maybe, just maybe, if the Amish softened them rules and let folks get some dangalang without damnation, folks would lighten the hell up.
There’d be less bitterness, fewer lawsuits, and a lot more satisfied grins walkin’ outta Sunday meetin’.

‘Til then, she’ll keep throwin’ shade and lawsuits and tellin’ lies while she fans her sheets and curses your name, because baby, she knows what she lost.

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