“I Ain’t Just Spillin’ Tea, Baby, I’m Tippin’ the Whole Damn Kettle”

Y’all… let me just say this loud and plain: I didn’t wake up one day, stretch real good, sip my coffee, and say, “Hmm, I think I’ll drag the Amish today ‘cause I’m bored and got nothin’ better to do.” Nah, baby. That ain’t how this started, and it damn sure ain’t why I’m still talkin’. This was put on my heart, not by some outsider lookin’ in, but by the Amish themselves. And lemme’ tell you, once I opened my eyes, I couldn’t unsee a damn thing.

See, I been sittin’ front row to a show I didn’t ask tickets for. I watched these folks real close, how they move, how they cry for sympathy, how they bat their lashes and get the whole world wrapped ‘round their finger with that butter-churn charm. It’s manipulative as hell, but baby, it works. And why? Because folks are brainwashed by this whole “wholesome, God-fearin’, donut-makin’” fantasy they peddle like hotcakes at a county fair. But behind that apron? Is a whole lotta mess.

My bullshit detector been goin’ off like a siren. Between shady courtrooms, backroom deals, crooked CPS workers, greasy lawyers, and dusty old judges who need to retire, I’ve seen how the game’s played. I’ve sat in court. I’ve watched the setups. I’ve talked to victims. I’ve asked hard questions. I’ve read the laws they like to tiptoe around. And you know what I found? This ain’t a religion, it’s a protected operation.

Other Christians can’t beat on their kids, marry off 15-year-olds, or “handle” sexual abuse in house like it’s a pothole in the church parking lot. No ma’am. Regular folks go to jail for that. But the Amish? They slap an abuser on the wrist, call it a two-week shunning, and act like God’s good with it. Then they smile for the camera and go right back to business as usual.

And don’t even get me started on this so-called “simple life”. Baby, that shit is expensive. You think keepin’ up buggies, farms, big-ass families, and endless handmade quilts is cheap? Nah. It’s built on child labor, free help, and manipulation. They yank kids outta’ school and put ‘em to work like little cash cows. All while preachin’ piety and simplicity. But the math ain’t mathin’. I ain’t bitter. I’m aware. There’s a difference.

I been tested, tried, and pushed, but I’m still here. And I’ll keep shoutin’ it from the porch with my sweet tea in hand ‘til somebody listens: there’s a whole lot of darkness behind those plain clothes and fake forgiveness. And I ain’t gonna’ shut up ‘til the truth is louder than the lies.

“The Truth Ain’t Plain . It’s Piled High and Dressed in Black”

How in the hell did we let this whole Amish charade slide by us like a snake in swamp water?

I mean seriously, how we sittin’ here in 2025, still treatin’ this misguided bunch like they’re some noble tribe of self-sustainin’, butter-churnin’, God-fearin’ saints, when truth is, they couldn’t sustain their damn selves if you dropped ‘em off in a cornfield with a Bible and a buggy. They’d be knockin’ on your door askin’ to borrow your extension cord in under an hour.

Let’s call a spade a spade: they need us. They need you, me, and every “English” (that’s what they call outsiders) with a wallet and a soft spot for a homemade pie. ‘Cause baby, if everybody in their little horse-and-buggy bubble knows how to build a barn, sew a dress, fix a roof, and grow a tomato, who in the hell they sellin’ to? Certainly not each other. Ain’t nobody buyin’ what they already got.

They ain’t livin’ off the land. They’re livin’ off us.
And don’t let the modest dress and soft voices fool you, they love money more than a rooster loves sunrise. Every day, it’s a fresh hustle: Get up, look around, figure out how to make that cash roll in while lookin’ like you don’t care ’bout nothin’ but Jesus and jelly jars.

But lemme tell you, behind those big bonnets and wide-brim hats…
They smokin’.
They poppin’ pills.
They growin’ marijuana out behind the woodpile.
They takin’ ketamine trips to Mexico when the demons get too loud.
They got smartphones hid in their boots and burner phones tucked up under the buggy seat.

And don’t even act like they ain’t tappin’ into government resources when it benefits ’em. They’ll be the first to say the world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket, but sure as shootin’ they’ll be sittin’ in the welfare office collectin’ benefits under Cousin Eli’s name.

It’s all a performance, baby.
Humble? Only when there’s witnesses.
Pious? As long as it pays.

But behind closed barn doors, it’s a whole different rodeo. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. And I’ve sure as hell lived through it. These folks ain’t off-grid angels, they’re playin’ a long con that’s been grandfathered into American nostalgia like a Norman Rockwell painting with a dark underbelly.

So next time somebody starts swoonin’ over “how simple and wholesome” the Amish life is, just know this: It ain’t simple, and it sure as hell ain’t wholesome. It’s calculated. It’s clever. And it’s been runnin’ game on the rest of us for far too long.

“Behind the Blue Curtain: Where the Devil Dons Suspenders”

Now I ain’t one to stir the pot unless I plan to serve it up, but Lord, this pot done boiled over.

Let’s just cut through the horse shit, shall we? There ain’t nothin’ wholesome goin’ on behind them baby blue curtains, what’s goin’ on is sinister, rotten, and soaked in a century of silence. And while folks out here buyin’ into this “simple life” fantasy like it’s a Cracker Barrel postcard, I’ve been front row to the horror show. Ain’t nothin’ simple about generational trauma, incest, and manipulation wrapped in wool and baptized in hypocrisy.

We all know the sexual abuse is real, we ain’t playin’ dumb out here. But people don’t wanna’ talk about the depth of it. It ain’t just a bad seed here or there. It’s a whole damn cornfield of dysfunction. It’s girls sleepin’ with one eye open. It’s brothers who ain’t just fightin’ over chores but creepin’ into barns where no light reaches. And its mamas and neighbors who come over just to berate children like they’re hostin’ a fuckin’ roast. Imagine that, grown-ass women sittin’ around tag-teamin’ emotional abuse like it’s Sunday dinner.

And while your average “English” kid might get a timeout or a whoopin’, these kids?
They get shipped off to “mental health” centers ’cause a man who ain’t their daddy said so. They get silenced, shamed, and shaped into submission, all under the false holiness of the Ordnung, which ain’t nothin’ but a manual for madness.

And don’t get me started on these cult-clingers, the Shannons and Susans of the world. Those back-patting, bonnet-kissing enablers who swear they’re allies, but really just front row cheerleaders in this trauma pageant. “Oh, the Amish are so traditional,” they say. Yeah? So was witch burning and bloodlettin’. Tradition don’t make it righteous. And sure as hell don’t make it right.

And for the love of crawfish, don’t take a picture, right? You might just catch an elder out back with a chunk of smegma wood, whittlin’ it like it’s a damn art form. Or sittin’ around callin’ it “family time” while molester son and burnout toe bandit son swap lies, lawsuits, and Medicaid scams like they’re tradin’ baseball cards. They don’t want their mug out there ’cause they commit so many crimes; they don’t want to be identified! Ever wonder about those who left the cult, then return after many years, they’re usually on drugs or runnin’ from the law (many times both).

And let’s talk money, ‘cause that’s what really fuels the fire. These folks ain’t about humility, they’re about hustle. Talkin’ ‘bout how they “live off the land” while they’re drainin’ Medicaid, schemin’ in court, and beggin’ for donations at every turn. Hell, they got so many ex-Amish folks out here with stars in their eyes and empty wallets, you’d think it was the damn gold rush.

And y’all, I ain’t sayin’ this to hate. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause it’s true. I’ve seen lives ruined, children broken, and innocence bulldozed under the weight of a culture that protects predators and punishes the brave. A culture that don’t allow true repentance, only cover-ups, comebacks, and cycles.

The world don’t owe them nothin’.
They ain’t owed no reverence.
What they’re owed?
Accountability.

So, while they’re out here schemin’, selling some sad-ass story to gather coins from gullible do-gooders, remember this: there’s a real cost to every dollar they rake in. And it’s often paid in silence, scars, and the shattered pieces of someone’s soul. If they give God all the glory, how come they don’t invite anyone into their fold? Why can’t the masses visit their church, because they can sure as shit visit them funky ass auctions so the Amish can get poor joe blows money because they’ve given some pity story. They are not grounded people; they are surface level humans. They will stab you in the back because they do not know or understand “real love.” They will gang up on you if your pleats ain’t right, your hat is tipped, you have the wrong barn roof, and they think they can do whatever the hell they want. They are a group of bullies. They ride in packs, always attempting to bully somebody. Ha! They are a plant without roots. A bird without wings. A testi (without the mony). They have one-track minds, inability to reason and with the limited education “by choice” it reminds me of what my mom used to say. “Put your brain in a jaybirds ass, it’d fly backwards.”

“To the Brave Ones Who Walked Away”
by someone who knows the taste of truth, even when it burns goin’ down

To every soul who looked the devil in the eye and said “not today” as you slipped off them heavy boots of oppression and walked barefoot toward freedom, kudos to you, baby.

To the girls who were molested by the same hands that baptized them. To the boys who had their bodies broken by men who quoted scripture right before they did the devil’s work. To the women who were told they were wives, not humans. To the men who realized they’d been lied to their whole lives, told love don’t matter and sex ain’t for pleasure, and they better grin and bear it ‘til they die… but one day, they got brave enough to say, “the hell it ain’t.”

You got out. You survived. You deserve to breathe clean air.
Not the kind laced with cow shit and fake sanctimony.
Not the kind soaked in shame and stale barn hay.
But real air, clean, light, and free.

Now, to the rest of y’all…
These Amish ain’t holy.
They just hide behind holiness.

They’ll smile at the courthouse while tellin’ the judge a man don’t deserve to be a daddy anymore ‘cause he ain’t wearin’ the same black hat or speakin’ that twisted-ass dialect. They’ll preach about forgiveness while collectin’ court donations to destroy a man who finally stood up for himself.

You hear me?

These children, ain’t no children in their eyes. They’re workers. Employees.
They don’t raise them, they break them. Like a damn colt in a muddy field.

Don’t you dare dream, child. Don’t you dare say you wanna’ paint, or write, or be anything more than another cog in the Ordnung’s rusted wheel. That’ll get squashed real fast, with a leather strap, or a calloused hand, or just the empty stare of a woman who ain’t smiled since her fifth baby bled out on a straw mattress.

“You will be a roofer,” they say,
“and you will like it.”
“You will bake bread and give head,” they imply,
“and don’t choke on the smegma while you’re prayin’ for sunrise.”

And when the quilt’s dirty? Wash day, baby.
Out there in the cold, cranking a wringer washer off a gas generator like it’s 1892 but somehow, they got a damn iPhone hidden in the barn wall for their side hustle.

This ain’t old-fashioned.
This ain’t traditional.
This is abuse, cloaked in piety, and sold to the public with cinnamon rolls and cornmeal mush, but I know. I know what goes on behind them plain wooden doors. I know the shame, the filth, the secret names whispered between sisters who can’t sleep at night. I know the boys who grow up mean ‘cause their daddies beat the love out of ‘em and taught ‘em that control is the only currency that buys peace.

You know what ain’t Christian?
Treatin’ your kids like slaves.
Beatin’ your wife ’til her eyes forget what joy looks like.
Pimpin’ out your trauma as a fundraising tool and callin’ it “God’s will.”

So, here’s to the ex-Amish who said, “fuck this” and climbed outta’ that hole with dirt still under their nails and blood in their boots. You didn’t escape a religion; you escaped a damn regime.

And if you’re still climbin’?
Keep goin’.

If you’re watchin’ your abuser throw bake sales and charity auctions while you carry the weight of their sins in silence? Speak. Write. Shout.
Set it on fire and don’t look back. Don’t let the Sarah’s and Lovina’s of the world spread false narratives, and don’t be silent when people are throwing fundraisers for them, when they’re nothin’ but evil trolls who deserve to be in jail, and if it were anybody else, they would be!

Because now is the time for the world to see what hides behind the blue curtain. Not just modesty and prayer, but madness, manipulation, and molestation. And baby, if Jesus is watchin’, I know he’s flippin’ tables somewhere right about now.

“Ain’t No Crown for a Cult”

Makin’ it outta’ a cult ain’t no walk in the park.
It’s a crawl through hell, hands bloodied, knees scraped raw, heart heavy from all the lies you carried around like your favorite Sunday coat. And just when you think you’ve broke free, when you breathe a little air that don’t smell like livestock and fear, here come the justice system swingin’ low to deliver one more kick straight to your soul, and to your balls while they’re at it.

That’s the part they don’t tell you.
It ain’t just the church or the clan or the community you gotta’ escape.
It’s the good ol’ boy system that smiles in your face while passin’ judgment based on a beard and a buggy.

You try to speak your truth, hell, live your truth, and they treat you like a sinner for not wearin’ suspenders or speakin’ that high German gibberish like it’s the tongue of angels.

Let’s get one thing straight:
They’re Amish. Not the damn Pope.

And truth be told, he’s just a man too.
Pulls his dick out to piss like the next fella.
Ain’t no holy spark shootin’ outta his gold-plated pecker.
It’s just a wiener, folks.
Nothing divine about it, just plumbing and privilege wrapped up in pageantry.

Same with these Amish men struttin’ around like the world owes ‘em somethin’ for livin’ “plain.”
Lemme tell you, they wouldn’t know respect if it came up and bit ‘em on their bony ass.

They preach humility and live like kings in their own little kingdoms of power and silence.
Their women ain’t wives, they’re wombs and workers.
Their children ain’t blessings, they’re future income and fresh backs for beatin’.

But you ain’t supposed to talk about it.
Nah, you’re supposed to hush.
Smile. Nod. Let them burn down your life and walk away like it was part of God’s plan.

Well guess what?
If you didn’t want your business out on Front Street, you shouldn’t have been back there fuckin’ people over in the alley.

You don’t get to destroy lives, alienate fathers, beat your kids, and silence your women, and then cry foul when someone finally turns the lights on and shows the world what’s really crawlin’ around in your barn.

You wanted to play dirty?
Cool.
But don’t come beggin’ for mercy when the dirt you threw starts stickin’ to your own face.

To anyone out there fightin’ this same battle, speak your truth.
Say it loud, say it real, say it even if your voice shakes and your hands tremble.
Because they can’t burn every book, and they can’t kill every story.

You made it out of the cult.
You survived the lies, the fear, the manipulation, and the shame.

Now don’t just survive, expose.
Tell your story like its scripture, baby.
Write it in fire and seal it in blood.
Because the world needs to know:
These people ain’t saints. They’re just men.

And men ain’t owed respect, they earn it!