Now listen, sugar, I’m not here to spit on anybody’s Sunday freshly shined shoes just for fun. If religion was what it pretends to be, a community of folks who actually care, love their neighbor, and teach children how to walk straight in honesty, kindness, and mercy, nobody would fuss. That’s what faith ought to look like. A balm, a comfort, a compass pointin’ north when the storms roll in.

But let’s not fool ourselves with cinnamon-scented Bible verses. More often than not, religion ain’t peace, it’s a leash. Always has been. Always will be. Not to mention a money grab. They want 10% of everything you earn so the pastor can lease a new Mercedes and yank his chain in the rectory with his OF subscription. Why are people still brainwashed to attend a church that’s only open 2 days a week at best for a couple of hours and the doors are barred shut all the rest of the days? They’ll let a man sleep on the steps in front of that building before they’ll ever let him in to keep warm in a pew, but they don’t even get to sleep there because the police will be runnin’ them off long before they catch the first Z. Just ask Joel Osteen circa Katrina.

Religion is a control game. Crack open that big family Bible sittin’ on Grandma’s lace tablecloth, and you’ll see what I mean. From Genesis to Revelation, it’s a roadmap of men tellin’ other folks, mostly women and children, what they can’t do.

• Colossians 3:20 “Children, obey your parents in everything…” That’s a nice little line if Mama’s bakin’ cornbread and Daddy’s fixin’ the porch, but what if Daddy’s a drunk with a mean streak? What if Mama’s under his thumb and tells you to hush when Uncle lays a hand where it don’t belong? Still supposed to “obey in everything”? Chile, please.
• 1 Timothy 2:11-12 “Let a woman learn in silence with full submission. I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent.” Translation: hush up, honey and know your role, which is designed to be on your back, while Brother Deacon runs the show, even if Brother Deacon’s got a pack of Trojans in his glove box and Lucy “Magellan” sneakin’ through the rectory back door. Or worse, Brother Deacon is a fuckin’ pedophile who uses his clout at the church-house to gain access to his victim of choice. Insert Catholic Priests. Insert Amish bishops and deacons.

Religion loves obedience, not justice. Submission, not freedom.

Receipts from the Piggly Wiggly

I still remember folks sidlin’ up to our pastor at the Piggly Wiggly, grinnin’ like possums, sayin’, “What’s the Word today, Rev?” He’d puff his chest, quote some Pauline wisdom about holy livin’, wag his finger about lust and sin. Meanwhile, his buggy was clinkin’ with a case of Stroh’s beer, and everybody knew Lucy Magellan, bless her wild little heart. Ol’ Lucy kept the bibles rockin’ when pastor’s wife was away (probably shacked up with the church janitor she had a fondness for and her car was spotted at the motel with a vibrator bed in London, Kentucky on more than one occasion).

Lucy was hotsy-totsy for the rev(My catholic church had even more stories, and I’ll get to that later on….), and let’s be real, she was moist over anybody else in town who had a pecker and a six-pack, but that’s just what I learned from ear-hustlin’ as a kid, and from my own eyeballs as a nosey lil’ shit. I met her once at Miss Molly’s house. Miss Molly, the town witch and my good friend, didn’t much like her, but it’s said that Lucy goosey had an itch she needed a strong potion for that they didn’t sell that at Rite-Aid, she needed somethin’ a little more deliberate than hydrocortisone. I will say that even a child, I ear-hustled and peeped a good opportunity when I saw it. When I knew Rev’s wife was out of town, I’d be knockin’ on his door in all my pre-teen glory to sell him a pallet full of candy bars during our usual school candy bar fundraiser.

Ol’ Rev would answer the door pourin’ sweat like a maul hog and annoyed as fuck that I was at his door grinnin’ like he knew he was about to get fucked (again). I’d just ask if that was Lucy’s truck ’round back, that yella’ Ford Ranger, and of course he’d be tryna’ shoo’ my ass off his porch and into the depths of hell if he could, but I’d say Rev, I need to talk to ya’. I got some problems at school, and he’d say not now, and I’d say, well, one of my biggest problems right now is sellin’ candy bars. I sure would be happy if I won first place in the sellin’ contest cause the winner gets $75. At this point, I wasn’t that subtle, and he probably had Lucy tied up with leather straps and oiled down like a Diddy party, so he threw a $20 at me and slammed the door. I sold those same candy bars to him multiple times. I ate good that week! Don’t hate the playa baby, hate the game!

Did folks call the reverend out knowin’ what they knew? Not a chance. They’d smile at his wife after Sunday school, hug her neck after service, and pretend not to notice the lipstick smudge on his collar and the money missin’ from the collection plate.

Now let me tell you ‘bout that big to-do when church money went missin’. Folks whisperin’ it was for Lucy’s “situation,” you know, that little to-do list item she forgot to cross off until nine months later when it popped out weighin’ 8 pounds, 8 ounces and lookin’ like a cabbage patch doll somebody left in the sun too long.

Not long after that bundle dropped, Rev packed his holy shirts n’ pants and moved his sorry behind outta’ that free church house he’d been frolickin’ in. Lucy, bless her scandalous heart, scooted her Walmart blouses down the rod in her single-wide by the pay-lake, made room for his factory uniforms where he was forced to find employment, and turned her love shack into the preacher’s crash pad.

Rev went from “Praise the Lord” to “Punch the clock” real quick. No more sermons, just lunch breaks and Busch Light. He played trailer park boy right up until he wandered into a cornfield and blew his brains out a couple years later.

That was just my aunt’s church. Me? I was headed down the road to the Catholic Church, where they keep a whole other basket of holy fuckery on tap. RIP, Pastor Candy Bar. You melted under pressure.

Christians will cherry-pick that Bible, the BOOK, like it’s a Whitman’s sampler. They skip right over the Old Testament bloodbaths, rape, slavery, genocide, whole cities burned to ash by “the Lord’s will”, and head straight for the gooey middle. Paul, sittin’ in a dank Roman prison, scribblin’ letters like a bossy pen pal: “Do this, don’t do that, and if you don’t, hellfire’s waitin’.”

Excuse me, but who appointed this man as life coach to the free world while he’s locked up and washin’ out some Hebrew’s drawers for a pack of Ramen? Jesus was already dead by then, sacrificed by his Daddy, because apparently omnipotent love requires a bloodbath, and centuries later, we’re still handin’ that same Book to little children like its Goodnight Moon. That book is not suitable for young children; it should have a big fuckin R on the front of it.

So, is shovin’ religion down your kid’s throat abuse? I say hell yeah, especially if your religion requires you to be a fuckin’ Illiterate, Uneducated MORON and workin’ in the fields like a chain-gang. Let me say this plain: If you raise a child in faith that uplifts, teaches kindness, and keeps them safe, hallelujah, praise be, but if you raise them in fear, shame, silence, isolation, and submission, with a steady diet of “you’re wicked, you’re dirty, you’re not enough,“ then yes, honey, that is abuse plain and goddamn simple.

Religion done right is rare. Religion done wrong is everywhere. And the wrong kind leaves scars deeper than any switch across yo’ backside.

“By their fruits ye shall know them” (Matthew 7:16). That’s scripture. Not by their sermons, not by their Sunday suits, not by the size of the steeple. By the fruits, and if the fruit you see is control, hypocrisy, and the silencing of children? Well, Cher, that ain’t the fruit of the Spirit. That’s rot. If the fruits are molesting you when you enter their holy doors, then it needs to burn to the fuckin’ ground! So, next time a Reverend at the Piggly Wiggly wants to tell you how to live, take a peek in his buggy before you take his word for gospel, and look in his backyard for a yella’ Ford Ranger.

THE AMISH AIN’T HOLY, THEY’RE HOODWINKIN’ YOU!

So, Japan just went and did the damn thing, made it law, or gonna’ make it a law, that religious abuse IS child abuse. Well glory be somebody finally pulled their head out of their hymnal assess and found the one country with some commonsense. Meanwhile, here in America? We’re still over here clutchin’ our crosses like we didn’t know these babies were gettin’ sexually abused in this cult n’ another by other “Christians” while pattin’ Amish bishops on the back.

These fool Amish bishops struttin’ around like they have tenure at the theology school for pedos’, when really, the only requirement to be a bishop is to have your name drawn out of a damn discount grocery cereal box, then BAM! You are automatically holier, wiser, and greasier than all the rest. You have all the answers, you control the community and hold the magic wand of the infamous 2-week ban for all the child molesters who will confess all their dirty, nasty sins so he can picture it and jack off behind his phone shack later.

Baby, let me tell you somethin’, these ain’t saints. They’re hustlers in broad-fall pants, hidin’ behind Jesus while they traffic children like it’s their family business. Yoder’s discount kiddie store, no refunds!

Now we all know the Amish run Pennsylvania like they’re the damn mob. Even in places where they ain’t spread thick like cockroaches in a Waffle House, their greasy little tourist money from Lancaster ,New Wilmington and other Amish shitholes, keeps potholes filled from Philly to Pittsburgh, and let me tell you, that’s the only reason the state turns a blind eye to “farming accidents” and “sexual abuse” in these communities that bury little coffins on the regular, or for those daddies who mistake a hug from their daughter as an invitation to start a family. (Yeah, that’s not fatherly confusion, fuckface, that’s Pedophile shit with an Ordnung taped to it.)

Now, how did the Amish get to Pennsylvania? Let’s talk about that…

Now lemme’ break it down like cornbread in a hot skillet, cause’ history books done got it twisted. This whole mess started with my own bloodline, Peter Gunnarson Rambo. Yeah, that’s my peoples, and trust me, the irony ain’t lost on me one damn bit.

So, along comes this blonde wig–wearin’ fool named William Penn. Folks called him Willy, but Rambo? He called him LIMP DICK , I read it in his diary, baby. 😉

It’s 1681, and these two are writin’ letters back and forth like prison penpals. Rambo’s like, “Yo, come on over. Dirt’s good, shit’s good and chill over here, you can make shit happen. Bring some scrilla.” WillyPenn’s talkin’ about his homies with the gang name Amish, some Anabaptists break-offs who don’t like rules unless they make em’ up, and their ringleader, ol’ Jakob Ammann who WillyPenn seemed to have a hard-on for cause’ that’s all the hell he talked about. Rambo said, “Dude, you’re a fuckin’ Quaker, ain’t you got your own fuckin’ shit to worry bout’ and he was enamored with this big dick swangin’ Jake who talked some good game to Willy, and he wasn’t gettin’ on the boat without his boy! Rambo said, if you got money, we got pasture over at dis’ bitch, so come on, but we ain’t doin’ no land contracts or buy here pay here type shit, so Jake betta’ have some Sheckels for his gang-gang. Willy never said so, but his pockets were deep, and he might’ve been payin’ ol’ Jake for some back-door services. Of course, he was married and had a kid, but how many gay men are married with kids? His wife got that kid with a turkey baster for all we know. His son’s name was Baltz which I thought was cool, but he ain’t got time to share the spotlight with a ball and chain and screamin’ ass kid, he had shit to do, which was basically tell everybody else to pack up everything and get it on the boat, he had to see Willy about some sausage and solidify the voyage. (He had just learned that word, so he was usin’ the hell out of it!)

Now Jake couldn’t even get along with the Mennonites, which is basically like fightin’ with your own reflection. His trade was tailorin’, but rumor says he was tailorin’ a little too close to the inseam, hand crawlin’ like a horny snake lookin’ for a mouse, until somebody knocked out his one good tooth. Rambo peeped the red flags, but Willy? Willy was like, “Relax, I got money in hand.” And Rambo thought, “How bad could it be?”

Famous. Last. Words.

See, Jake and Willy had the same hard-on for power. Jake wanted a kingdom where everybody wore what HE stitched and bowed when HE spoke. Willy, Mr. Quaker Equality himself, wanted the same damn thing, just with fancier wigs and bigger buckles to compensate for… well, much smaller assets.

And let’s keep it real: both of ‘em were sneakin’ into the back rooms of taverns, “discussin’ theology” with their britches unbuttoned. Don’t act shocked, men in wigs and buckles always got bathhouse secrets.

Willy Penn was all, “All men are created equal,” but then he’d clap his little bell and a slave would come runnin’ with a daiquiri and a spritzer chaser. Equality, my ass. He was the epitome of the Hypocrisy Starter Pack.

The Amish? Too broke for slaves, so they turned their wives into baby factories, pumpin’ out kids like it was a Ford Motor end-of-year clearance sale. Then they branded it “work ethic.” Genius marketing move: “Make kids our slaves but call it righteous.”

More kids = more land = more clout. Amish math, baby. And nobody’s got time for auctions when your children are the livestock.

Willyvania, Baby

So, Willy’s sittin’ pretty, wig powdered, buckles polished, whisperin’ to Jake like, “Pack your bags, boo. I scored us a playground across the sea with some bullshit Indian name, but I have big plans to ‘Vania that shit up! Over there we can do whatever the hell we want, no rules, no soldiers, just loopholes and land grabs. I just need to get my martyr on about these Indians who control the land besides what Rambo is offerin’”

Jake’s eyes lit up. If Rambo knew what he and everybody else was about to get into, Hed be like, “Lord, this gon’ be a mess.”

And honey, he would be right. Because from that little bromance between Limp Dick Willy and Horny-Tailor Jake, we ended up with the Amish circus we got today, power, control, hypocrisy, and enough trauma to fuel generations.

Now, ol’ Rambo was already in the area, settlin’ a lil’ place called New Sweden, or Delaware as we know it today and he had gotten a couple more spots around Lancaster, or what would become Lancaster because he was a Big Dick Viking and wanted to spend some of that money and he had a fondness for clout and power too, since he was a big-wig councilman and landowner. He was doin’ the damn thing himself, busy plantin’ fuckin’ apple trees whereever he could shove a seed, probably for his moonshine still he had in some underground cavern and who don’t like a good ‘Apple Pie White Lightin”

Rambo looked at his watch and knew it should be about time for his penpal to roll up so he staggered down to the dock. That taste testin’ had him bent, but he was halfway excited to see his friend he’d never met and about that time he heard some shit bumpin’ on the horizon, “I’M JUST AN OL’ CHUNK OF COAL, BUT I’M GONNA’ BE A DIAMOND SOMEDAY!” and Rambo said, Damn, that’s my jam. Willy hopped off that boat with buckles blingin’, ruffles wavin’, and weave a swayin’. Rambo thought to himself, “look at this Amway lookin’ motherfucka’ in some dick print pants and women’s britches.” But Willy handed Rambo that bag of Fort Knox loot and Rambo didn’t seem to give a shit about Willy bein’ a DragQueen for the Lord.

After showin’ them around and learnin’ about the Amish, it would become what would turn into a sort of MLM, or multi-level marketing, and one thing we know about the ex-Amish, them bitches love a good MLM. If someone promises them riches and clout and the HOPE of becomin’ a DIAMOND, and all they have to do is spend every waking minute gettin’ innocent people as duped as they are, while spendin’ every nickel they have and devoting every second of every day to their cause, then after spending $3 million, they can potentially earn $25,000 and they’ll be a Diamond. However, the hell it goes, the math ain’t mathin, but those vultures can smell vulnerability, and they get pounced on. If any ex-Amish happen to read this, I’m just baggin’ on ya’! We went through that shit with Emmie’s brother who was easily swayed into schemes and Amway got their clutches in deep with his ass and got him on for a lot of money and when he got hurt in a roofing accident and didn’t have money to give them, they dropped his ass like a bad habit. I think Eli would have given them more money, but by that point, we had gone to PA to help him, and I said “Boy, if you even think about givin’ them fools another nickel when I’m over at your house pressure washin’ dogshit outta’ your basement, I’ll come to that hospital and pull the damn plug myself!”

Let’s talk about the Diamonds in the Stockyard and Cubic Zirconia Dreams….

So, let’s start with this little “meetin” they roped us into back in the day. Eli was balls deep in Amway, wearin’ skin tight suits and slicked back hair and really believed in what he was doin’ and he had a quota to meet in order to sign more people up. I knew the hustle, but I said fuck it, we’ll do a meetin’ to appease him and take a lil’ road trip, plus he had his son Michael with him and that’s my boy, we love him.

So, we met at Panera Bread in Ohio about three hours from our house, and his so-called mentor, this chubby Black dude in a wrinkled t-shirt and a dusty-ass suit jacket, sat there like he was about to sell us eternal salvation and two-for-one Tupperware. And here’s the kicker: this clown never even ordered anything from Panera, he just sat in that bitch like it was his own personal conference room, takin’ up space, never spendin’ a dime. That is rude as hell. If you’re gonna’ lure me to a carb temple, at least buy me a damn bagel, and offer somebody a cup of coffee! He did neither and I wasn’t about to hear anything he had to say, cause’ you don’t ask somebody to drive three hours one way and not even offer them a cup of coffee.

The thing was, he had his wife with him, his young son, and some other ex-Amish dude who was on his skintight suit roster of roping more people in the game. His wife, a lovely woman, told me how she had been in medical school, but her husband said, “Why be a doctor, when you can own a hospital!” Those were his exact words, and I thought to myself, Emmie’s brother is slower than I thought if he’s believing anything his jive-turkey is spewin’.

I instantly despised him. Eli told us later that they offer nobody nothin! They don’t want to enable people, you gotta’ stand on your own two feet. I’m like Bitch, I was standin’ on my feet at the house, but I drove three hours to listen to his dumbass, and now I’m here thirsty as a motherfucker. I bought my own damn coffee and bagel while he was talkin’ and never realized I was missin’ with his narcissistic ass.

So, he’s sittin’ there word vomiting manifestation and vision board bullshit, “higher powers,” blah, blah, blah and I tuned him out so fast my brain had to reboot. By the time I came back from gettin my bagel, he was still jaw-jackin’ his usual Amway spiel That’s how you know somebody’s peddlin’ hot air and are a complete fuckin’ narcissist, when you can leave to get food and they are only talkin’ to hear the sound of their own voice. This dude would have been just as happy and effective with a mirror and a 100-watt bulb.

Then, for the finale of this con game, he pulls out a damn reading list. Twelve books. Twelve! Like this fool thought I just graduated from Hooked on Phonics. First one? Think and Grow Rich. Baby, I laughed so hard inside I thought I would fart. I read that book in kindergarten. My library card stays worn down to a nub like a stripper’s heels, and this ‘Discount Yoda’ wanted me to act impressed? Please. That is what they do, indoctrinate and overdose people with Self-Help and Positivity novels. GTFOH!

Amway is a trap. A whole scam, but people still get roped into it, but here’s the real hustle. Amway, and a thousand other shady operations just like them, prey on folks who just crawled outta’ cults. They troll Instagram, Facebook, whatever, sniffin’ out the vulnerable, the ones still dizzy from escapin’ the cult, and these Amway-type hoes swoop in like product vultures: “Give us your money, your time, and if your family don’t approve, cut ’em off.”

That’s exactly what happened Eli. He got tangled so deep in Amway’s web he couldn’t see daylight. They bled him for an ungodly amount of money, played him like a nasty thot, and when he brought his son to his mentor’s house, that man had the audacity to say, “Your boy ain’t welcome here. Don’t want him around my kid: and while most men woulda’ ripped the shingles off that bastard’s face and shoved it up his wannabe’ diamond ass, Eli didn’t. Nope. He tucked tail, found a sitter, and kept givin’ that man his hard-earned money. That’s not loyalty, it’s pathetic, and a little bit of education and self-esteem would have prevented all that.

Picture this: during this time, Emmie was fightin’ tooth and nail in court against his lyin’, connivin’, gaslightin’ ex, guess who was runnin’ his mouth behind his brother’s back? Yep, Judas in Suspenders, a.k.a. the Meth Manifestor, Eli himself.

He strutted in with his greasy smile, actin’ like he was some Amish Deepak Chopra, spoutin’ manifestation bullshit like he was King Motivational Turd sittin’ on Shit Mountain. Meanwhile, his whole damn life was circlin’ the toilet like last night’s chili, and what was he doin’ when called to actually step up as a witness, or the possibility of testifyin;? Nothin’ and could do nothin’ because he was in the back row of the courthouse noddin’ off, chuggin’ overpriced Amway energy drinks like they were liquid salvation with oozin’ sores on his face that wasn’t terrible acne like he claimed, but full-on METH sores because he was a complete dope-fiend. Everybody was always whisperin’ “Why his face look like a tar pit?” and my own daughter told me straight up that he was on meth, ’cause methheads pick like it’s the MegaMillions and the jackpot is hidin’ under their skin. Crackhead’s twitch, methheads itch. Tender actin’ smile don’t fool me when your mug looks like an oozin’ asphalt patch.

See, Eli didn’t just fall into Amway, he let ‘em groom him like a damn show poodle. His mentor and some other cracked-out ex-Amish came rollin’ up, took him shoppin’, and made him drop $500 on tight-ass suits. Told him to cut his hair, hide the rebel flag curtains, and boom, started moldin’ him into what they wanted.

Sound familiar? Yeah, he just swapped one cult (Amish) for another (Amway). Same game, different branding. Hell, they didn’t even notice his marijuana grow room with a plant tall as the Statue of Liberty swayin’ in the back.

Now here’s where the comedy writes itself: Eli gets high, climbs up on a roof, electrocutes his dumb ass, and damn near kills himself. Lands in the hospital, tubes stickin’ out like a busted radiator. You’d think that’d humble a man. Not Eli.

His mentor shows up, not with flowers, not with prayers, but to say, “Hey, bro, you should sign up a doctor or nurse for the business. Great opportunity. I’ll pray you get some suckas’!” We didn’t see Eli enough to know all the shit he was really doin’ and like most Amish, he could lie his ass off and make everything someone else’s fault, but eventually your luck runs out like your money, and you burn every fuckin’ bridge that you have, which is exactly what happened to him.

So, where’d all this abundance and manifestation lead him? Right back to Mommy and Daddy’s Amish doorstep, less than a mile from us. Yep. After burnin’ every bridge, usin’ every person, and playin’ victim on repeat, he tucked tail and went Amish again, maybe becasue Medicaid was lookin’ for him, (allegedly). Back to the suspenders, back to the plain rags, back to the only people dumb and twisted enough to tolerate him, then wanna’ treat us salty after we were the only motherfuckers who had his back the entire time. That is why he is dead to us. Never to cross this bridge again.

And ain’t it funny? This boy used to scream about “never havin’ a back-up plan,” but that’s exactly what the Amish became. His fallback plan. His safety net. His retreat when the meth, the lies, and the Amway schemes imploded. I see so many ex- Amish afraid to even live their authentic selves in the real world, because they wanna’ keep one foot over the threshold of their Amish homesteads.

Let’s not forget that he ran back to the same mama who openly wished him dead or in prison. Back to the daddy he recently told Emmie he thought was either tryin’ to kill him or wants him dead (Allegedly, but those were his words, not mine.) Back to bein’ Daddy’s little bitch boy in the stockyards, handin’ over his hard-earned cash to the same folks who wouldn’t piss on him if his guts were on fire.

That’s not redemption, baby. That’s regression. That’s what happens when you never learn to live like a normal-ass human bein’ with logic, empathy, or accountability.

So let’s recap the receipts:

• Meth Manifestor sat in court pickin’ sores while his brother fought for his life.
• Sold his soul to Amway for $500 suits and a shaved haircut, then called it “vision.”
• Used nurses, Netflix passwords, and anybody else dumb enough to let him.
• Got electrocuted on a roof ‘cause drugs and stupidity go hand in hand.
• Crawled back to the very parents he swore hated him, wearin’ shame like an Amish apron.

That ain’t loyalty. That ain’t abundance. That’s a tool too dull to cut hot shit.

Now, Back To The Quaker Conundrum…..

So along comes William Penn, a Quaker with a heart full of ideals and an outfit full of buckles and ruffles, ready to start this new life with a shiny new wig and belt buckles that woulda’ made any cobbler cream his jeans, Ol’ Willy-Penn was ready to get this challenge in his Apple Bottom Knickers.

Now let’s talk about these Amish tenderhearts, actin’ like they just washed up off the Mayflower yesterday when the truth is they been squattin’ on this dirt longer than most folks’ family trees go back. Baby, they’ve been here 300-plus years, but every time they open their mouths it’s “Germany this, persecution that, our religious freedoms!”

Full of shit. Point blank, period. Somebody tell these fools: “Stop already!” You ain’t fresh off the boat. You BEEN here. You just sound like immigrants with a bad accent and a victim complex.

Yeah, they hopped on Willy “Limp Dick” Penn’s love boat deal, packin’ that bitch down like a Greyhound bus at Christmas. Jakob Ammann and his tender minions probably had that ship sittin’ low in the water, kids, buckets, churns, goats, and God knows what else. Same way they do today with them overloaded 15-passenger vans, piled up like sardines, safety be damned, cause it ain’t their ride and ain’t their problem.

Picture it: Amish Carnival Cruise 1683. Folks thought they were comin’ for freedom, but nah, Jake the snake had a hard-on, not for peace, but for control. He wasn’t about followin’ no prince. He wanted to play agricultural king in the New World, crown himself Daddy Dictator, and make his followers eat rules like porridge.

And here’s the gag: they want ALL the perks, but NONE of the responsibility. Just like ol’ Quaker boy Willy, “We won’t fight, we won’t pledge, we won’t lift a sword” but they’ll sure as hell take land, labor, loopholes, and tourist money.

It’s all Gimme, gimme, gimme! No reciprocity. They want the frills without the fight, the money without the sweat, the pie without bakin’ the crust. They’ll let everybody else bleed for this country, while they sit back pacifist and plush, countin’ dollars and callin’ it “God’s providence.”

So yeah, don’t let the bonnets and beards fool you. They ain’t saints. They’re opportunists. They came over here on a packed clown ship, schemin’ for farmland and loopholes, and three centuries later they’re still runnin’ the same tired hustle.

Sweet when they want your cash, salty when you call ‘em out. They ain’t persecuted no more, baby, they’re just parasites with a prayer book.

WillyPenns and the Pacifist Posers; Now let’s keep it one-hunnid: Them Quakers were soft as wet bread. So-called pacifists, “too holy” to lift a musket, too tender to swing a sword. While real men were out there fightin’ wars, bleedin’ for their land, the Quakers were sittin’ fat on theirs, poppin’ bon bons and singin’ hymns about peace.

Weak, baby. Ain’t no other way to put it. They weren’t pacifists; they were cowards with paperwork.

But not Willy Penn. Oh no, Willy thought he was slick. He slid his pasty ass into government like he belonged there, struttin’ like a peacock with his name stamped on a whole-ass state. Pennsylvania, bitch. But let’s not forget: he wasn’t tryna get his heels dirty or scuff his powdered pumps. He was too busy checkin’ his reflection and adjustin’ that blonde weave like his life depended on it.

Willy figured out the hustle: religious freedom. That was his golden Wonka ticket. He knew if you played the “God card” right, you could do whatever the hell you wanted while everybody else footed the bill and fought the battles.

And baby, the Amish? They ran with that game harder than anybody. Willy handed them the cheat code, and they been usin’ it ever since.

They’ll pull that religion card on EVERYTHING.

• Won’t put triangles on their buggies? Religious freedom.
• Don’t pay taxes like the rest of us? Religious freedom.
• Got 17 kids workin’ like slaves? Religious freedom.

Hell, if they shit their britches in public, they’d call it a religious turd, sayin’ it was holy fertilizer from God Almighty. And we’re all just supposed to smile and sniff it like it’s Chanel No. 5.

That’s their whole attitude: If we’re okay with it, then everybody else damn well should be too.

So let me lay it down plain: Willy Penn wasn’t no saint. He was a loophole pimp with a wig. And the Amish? They learned to hustle that religion card like Olympic athletes. They ain’t persecuted saints. They’re freeloaders in bonnets, ridin’ the coattails of “freedom” while the rest of us choke on the stench.

Religious freedom ain’t holy when it’s just a shield for cowardice and control. The Amish were nothin’ more than WillyPenn’s Holy Experiment and they didn’t give two-fucks. Jake was in it for the land-grab, control, and some religious HEAD. So, he played Willy, Will played him, and they blabbed and talked that diverse colony shit until they had blueballs. Blah Blah Blah, just gimme’ me that title to some good pasture so we can get these Amish slaves tillin’ the fields. Now, because of these fools and the generations after them, Philly and surrounding areas is now the land of zombies, but without whoopie pie. WillyPenn’s “Holy Experiment” is rotten like a barrel of apples in August. Penn thought he’d mastered the art of narcissism and manipulation, but the Amish cult boys had him beat by a damn longshot. They played their roles, use that religion card like a damn AMEX card, and from the beginning have always been opportunists, usually at the expense of someone else, more importantly, the Lenape indians, but you can research that cause’ it’s a whole trifling ordeal. Willy, and his son’s to be more precise, stole all that land and if the Indians wanted to go all the way back, they could reclaim Pennsylvania, but they don’t want it, the white man done fucked it up so badly at this point, they might as well scrap it. These nasty settlers hoppin’ off the boat with their diseases from being slack nasty caused so many Indians to die, all because WillyPenn, Jakob Ammann and others like him don’t wash their hands after takin’ hard field dumps. The Indians were purer and cleaner, so their immune systems weren’t used to these beltline Trollip’s. WillyPenn was playin’ the role of morality police tryna’ be nice-nice with the Indians to get their land and actin’ like a pro so’ abolitionist, meanwhile, he owned a shit-ton of slaves who were keepin’ his crops goin’, his house clean, and those shit stains out of his trousers. You can’t be a half-ass abolitionist and say that all men are created equal when slaves are cookin’ your fuckin’ porridge ya’ fake ass bitch!

It would be Willy’s own sons, Thomas and John, who would swindle and scam 1.2 million acres out of the Lenape Indians and push them all the way to the land that is now Oklahoma by way of the Walking Purchase. It was a bad deal and they should come back and take every fuckin’ acre back and evict all the damn Amish off those million-dollar farms they can’t afford and wouldn’t have had this long without that free sweat equity from the backs of their kids.

Now look, history’s always written by whoever had the most paper in their pocket and the most dirt to cover, so we’ll never know every detail. But what we DO know is Willy “Limp Dick” Penn slapped his moniker on a whole-ass state and started passin’ out land like Halloween candy. His “Holy Experiment” wasn’t holy, it was a hustle. And baby, the Amish cashed in on it, sweet farmland deals, tax perks, loopholes tighter than their suspenders.

Now, these same Amish out here swearin’ up and down they’re German, “Ja, we from the Motherland!” Nah bitch, it was Switzerland. The Old Swiss Confederacy, or the land known as the Holy Roman Empire because Germany wasn’t established yet! But just like today, generational miseducation runs deep. They’ve been confused for 300 years straight, and God forbid they crack a book at the damn library. I see ‘em in there on computers, clickin’ like they’re hackin’ the Pentagon, but you’ll never catch one of ‘em in the history aisle actually learnin’ somethin’.

So, there they were, barrelin’ into Pennsylvania docks around 1720, hangin’ off boats like it was Spirit Airlines on BOGO day. Willy Penn had sold ‘em the dream: “Come to Pennsylvania, no drownings, no armies, just farmland and freedom.”

Sounded good on paper, right? But here we are in 2025, and that slogan don’t hold. Just this month, 15-year-old Omar Fisher drowned in Peach Bottom, Fulton Township. Went in the water to swim, never resurfaced. That’s it. Story over. Law enforcement barely broke a sweat writin’ the report. Amish tragedy? Toss it in the pile. No investigation for the Amish, they pay their monthly dues to law enforcement for the WillyPenn special treatment program.

And let’s keep it real: Amish kids don’t get playtime. They ain’t swimmin’ laps or gettin’ swimmin’ lessons, they ain’t shootin’ hoops. They’re climbin’ roofs and haulin’ hay bales before their balls even drop. Parents don’t care if you can swim, they care if you can shingle a barn before sundown. “Betta be swimmin’ up on that roof and get dat’ money!” That’s the Amish motto.

So maybe Omar said, “Fuck it, I’m hot, I’m takin’ a swim whether my raggedy-ass parents like it or not.” And he drowned. Poor baby. But given how many Amish kids die in “farming accidents” and “barn mishaps,” the sad part is he probably lived longer than most.

But let me hit you with the part that burns: what if it wasn’t an accident? We’ll never know, ‘cause the cops around there don’t DO their fucking’job when it comes to Amish. That boy coulda’ been drugged. He coulda’ been runnin’ from abuse. It coulda’ been foul play, and instead of diggin’, they said, “Eh, chalk it up to another Amish kid gone, I got meatloaf waitin’ at home.”

Like it ain’t worth investigatin’. Like Amish lives don’t deserve the same damn justice as anybody else, especially the kids.

And THAT’S what keeps me up at night. How many families could’ve had closure? How many abusers could’ve been stopped? How many kids would still be here if the cops gave a single shit beyond clockin’ out for supper?

So here’s the gospel with extra salt:

• Amish came here on a hustle, confused then, confused now.
• Willy Penn’s “experiment” was a land scam with a wig.
• Amish kids are slaves first, children second.
• And cops? Too damn lazy to peel back the cover-ups, too quick to shrug off Amish tragedies.

Every time they look the other way, another child drowns, another kid “falls off a tractor,” another secret gets buried with no answers.

Do. Your. Fuckin’. Job.

So, in the end, Rambo handed ol’ WillyPenn, aka, Limp Dick, an apple named after him and gave him a good word of advice. He said, “Willy, you bright buckle wearin’ blonde weave flexin’ DL DragQueen, just remember this apple as you enjoy this new land and all your newfound privileges of bein’ a dickswangin’ lawboy with a big ass fuckin’ water head, and as he tossed him an apple, aptly named after him, Rambo Apples, he said Don’t shit where you plant, Billy Boy.”

I mean, most advice is unwarranted and doesn’t have to make sense, does it? Also, I have no idea what the fuck he said cause’ I wasn’t there, but if he’s my ancestor, I can bet he gave him a fuckin’ hard way to go with that hot-ass wig made from sheep’s ass while he pranced around in frills. I love me a good gay man, but not a gay man who owns slave man, and no matter how much he attempted to appease the indians, that was because he knew they’d scalp that yaki shit right off his dome, and he was a girly man, sittin’ in the house with the ladies readin’ his book on land grabbin’ for Dummies and sippin’ tea with his wife. Maybe she sprinkled a lil arsenic in it because he got on her nerves, and arsenic was the order of the day, but how ya’ gonna’ be good to one sect because you want their land, but look out your window at all the slaves you own act justify that as the price that’s paid for their economic freedom. How are all men created equal?

As far as WillyPenn’s wig and the hypocrisy that he’d have it on says a little bit more about his character and why are you so vain if you are just livin’ for the Lord. Did he have syphilis? A common reason for men wearin’ wigs back in the day, or was he bald as an eagle? Did he have them sores on his head from a disease he caught in some medieval brothel or nights spent in the arms of his lick-em-low lovah, Jakob Amman, or some other religious stud that was hung like a Percheron. Was he usin’ that chimney sweeper a little too much and caught some head munchers? Is that why Jakob named his son Baltz, cause’ his were itchin’ after the things he had to do to win favor for a boat ride to his freedom to control and landgrab pursuit like he was the little Dutch boy on The Price is Right. I’m just speculating, but I know some gritty shit went down, just how far down did the Martyr look in the mirror? One thing for sure, his head, along with everything else was stankin’, but how are we supposed to believe that Ol’ Bill was buildin’ this colony and bringin’ over his Amish homies to create a haven for Jesus’ believers when you’re wearin’ a wig that, at its core, was to show off your deep pockets. To let all the little people know that yo’ money ran deep and everybody else were peasants compared to his righteous, paper-hangin’ ass, so move bitches, get out the way! Quaker Oats comin’ through. He probably sprinkled oatmeal on his balls to make a lil’ porridge cause’ he was RICH and that’s what RICH people do! 😁

At the end of the day, when all is said and done and the Amish fled here only to be controlled and manipulated by J.A. and W.P., and was it worth it? Were they happy with this life and did they believe in what they pretended to stand for, or have they always been fake as hell and they wear the J. Ammann spring line because they liked it or forced into wearin’ it? Did they want to make their own decisions or were they happy kissin’ the ass of some perverted old bishop with some britches full of dingleberries shoutin’ religious bullshit he done made up like his Ordnung, while religiously abusin’ the shit outta’ everybody in the flock.

Everybody thinks the Amish world is about the men, they’re out here, runnin’ businesses, talkin’ to the public, playin’ “plain power brokers.” But the women? They’re stuck at home like prisoners of their own kitchen gardens. Their big outings? Grocery runs and doctor visits. And baby, when they do leave the house, half of ‘em walk around rude as a wasp nest, mutterin’ under their breath, stink-eyes glaring at you and talkin’ out the side of their neck like they’re about that life. They ain’t, but they run in packs like nobody will punch them right in their eye socket.

I had to check a little Amish gal at Preston Court Days last year. She was mutterin’ slick, talkin’ out the side of her neck like she thought she was bulletproof. I was about two seconds from draggin’ her across that fairground like a sack of taters. Instead, I told her what needed to be said, and guess what? Now, when she sees me, she runs. And I ain’t mad about it. Sometimes bitches gotta learn the hard way. ME, I’m bitches too, cause’ I’ve had to learn every damn thing the hard way. But that’s my learnin’ style.

The sad part? She was beautiful. Stunning face, but she hides it behind bitterness and indoctrination, trained to believe her only power is whisperin’ curses under her breath and workin’ at a raggedy ass discount grocery. That’s what this cult teaches: shut up, smile, stay submissive. I wonder if she’d let me be her agent?

The Amish got people thinkin’ confrontation is sin. Stickin’ up for yourself is sin. That’s how the bishops and uncles and cousins creep on children and nobody makes a sound because the kids have been conditioned that silence = holy. But don’t get it twisted: gossip? That’s fine. Shunnin’? Encouraged. Bein’ rude as hell? Daily bread.

Here’s the gag: the minute somebody claps back, “shove that Bible up your ass,” suddenly YOU’RE the villain. Baby, that ain’t religion. That’s control, but they’ve structured and raised everybody to be weak ass bitches and cry to anybody that’ll listen that somebody said something mean to them. I’ve seen Amish in action and it’s hysterical the lies they’ll tell to law enforcement like it’s nothin’! They told KSP I was holdin’ my man hostage. I said yes, with my vagina. WTF. Truthfully, they never came and said anything to me because they knew it was horseshit, but they let them tell them lies and waste the officer’s time and it was all gravy. The rest of us can’t get away with that shit.

Let’s call it plain. The Amish don’t worship God. They worship the almighty dollar. Every damn thing they do is about money. Money is their Messiah!

• Have kids? Not ‘cause they love children, but because kids = labor force.
• Build barns? Free, cause’ they make kids and neighbors do it.
• Retirement plan? Slave labor from the brood they bred, then make one of their kids take care of them.

The parents spend it all up ‘cause they know they ain’t savin’, cause’ money burns a hole in their pocket like a five-year-old at Toy’s R Us! Their kids will build ‘em a Doddy house shack and feed ‘em beans when they’re toothless at 45, lookin’ like glue-factory candidates.

You ever seen a 40-year-old Amish woman? Baby, they look 80, gray, hunched, toothless, because “self-care” to them is pumpin’ out babies until the uterus files a restraining order. Oil of Olay? Never heard of her. Vegetables? Not unless they’re floatin’ in lard.

And let’s talk theft. Amish will rob you blind with a smile on their face. Overcharge you, undercut you, borrow and “forget.” Their faith don’t stop them from slippin’ sticky fingers in your pocket. Ask the WalMart cashiers! They’ve seen too many Amish shovin’ honey buns up their skirts and hidin’ shit in their stroller. Amish are the Provo boosters.

And the drivers, Jesus wept. Bein’ Amish is expensive as hell if you’re tryin’ to run a business or travel anywhere. You’re payin’ a driver every single day. Add that up over a year, and baby, you’ve bought a whole damn Escalade but can’t even sit behind the wheel. All you got to show for it and a few more thousand telomeres from the stress of payin’ a slow ass motherfucker who can’t even make it across the road to pick you up on time, and a little less in your retirement because the driver is sittin’ on a wad of money who should have been fired and tossed out on his ass, or his big ass nose.

So here’s the truth:

• The Amish system silences kids so predators can keep huntin’.
• They glorify rudeness and shunnin’ while preachin’ forgiveness for rapists.
• They love money more than Jesus, and kids are their ATM cards.
• They’ll bleed you dry, steal from you, and still pretend they’re “God’s chosen.”

So yeah, next time you see a buggy on the road, just remember, that’s not quaint. That’s a rollin’ cash machine, fueled by slave kids, hypocrisy, and your taxpayer money.

Clip Clop at your own risk, Beetoch.

So, let’s cut through the holy fog: Willy Penn didn’t just stumble into a “holy experiment.” Nah, baby, he linked up with Jakob the Big Dick Tailor, a man who couldn’t farm a potato but sure could cry about pleats in a pair of britches. These two? They bonded over wigs, shoes, religion, and… let’s be real, penises. Don’t clutch your pearls, honey, cause’ you know damn well half the world’s power schemes were cooked up in secret rooms with men “conferring” after too much wine.

Jake may have had a woman and a son named Baltz, but he was more concerned with Willy and what he had to do to secure the bag. When him and Willy got together, there was friction goin’ baby! They were on that boat to Philly all hugged up like it was Titanic: wigs blowin’, britches tight, lookin’ greasy but grinnin’, talkin’ religion one minute and strokin’ egos, and other things, the next. They wanted power, and they craved each other. Period. It was the original play, cept’ it was called, “Brokeback Buckles.”

But somewhere down the line, Jakob just poofed. Gone. Disappeared like a fart in the wind. And don’t tell me it was “God’s will.” More like somebody figured out he wasn’t just cryin’ over tailoring like the Schism, he was cryin’ in Willy’s lap all night, but he was exiled in 1712 to Alsace where there is no more record of him and you can bet your ass he was murdered, cause’ ain’t no Amish man with power just gonna’ go lay down and let somebody else get all the attention. There would still be a big man-shaped pothole today in the form of a kickin’ and screamin’ Jakie-boy. My bet? They tossed his ass in the river, and then in bishop fashion, they kept his rules while killin’ the queer outta’ the story. Who knows what happened to his wife/hag and his son Baltz. Rumor has it he had a daughter too, but there ain’t much to say about them, but whatever you say about him, you can’t say he wasn’t about that life and wasn’t willin’ to go that extra mile to get what he wanted. He was a hustler; he was the Ian to Willy’s Mickey. A forgotten love story.

Two mans who strutted into Philly with jazz hands who whimpered at the sight of mice and bullets but turned into Chuck Norris when they saw money cause’ they were greedy motherfuckers with the same moral compass. Amish bravery looks more like pushin’ some poor kid out the door and yellin’, “Take one for the team, Eli! The Lord is waitin’ at gate 666!” That’s cowardice turned into tradition.

And baby, that’s the root rot that still feeds this cult: don’t think, don’t speak, don’t fight back. Just obey. Just hush. Just take it. And that’s how predators keep winnin’. If your gut tells you the Amish way is bullshit, listen to it. They’ll tell you that voice is the Devil. Well, maybe you should listen to the Devil, cause’ followin’ God got you stuck in a bonnet passin’ off Betty Crocker pies as your own and just cause’ you slap your own label on it and made it in your kitchen does not qualify as a homemade $10 pie.

Even Willy and Jakob weren’t scared of adventure and change, they weren’t wringin’ their hands outta’ fear, but scratchin’ that good luck they stroked over farmland and control. The Quaker and Buttermilk Maker were doin’ the damn thang, the OG Hustlers. They stood on that dock in their wigs and greasy bowl cuts, gristle showin’ through thin pants, smilin’ for the camera shoutin’ “DICK CHEESE!” and look where it got em’, power, land, and a whole damn cult of their own.

Now Rambo, my great-grandaddy/uncle/cousin/whatever the hell he was, he coulda’ run when he saw Willy jump off that boat with Jakob’s letter in his britches. But nah, he said, “This is my penpal, we gon’ get this money.” He probably thought Willy was a drag queen with a trust fund, but boat rides were long and blunt smoke was thick. They made bad decisions, got cross-eyed on peyote, and planted the seeds, literally. At least my end of the family left apples that still taste sweet. The Amish left us trauma, lies, and whoopie pies that taste like sugared drywall.

Religion didn’t build the Amish, hustlin’ did. Jakob was just another man with a thirst for power and a tailor’s hand too far up somebody’s inseam. Willy gave him a lap(dance) to cry in, and boom, a cult was born. Control disguised as holiness. Martyrdom used as marketing. And generation after generation, people too scared to drop their balls in the wind and say, “Hell nah, I ain’t doin’ this no more.”

So here we are. A whole culture born outta’ tantrums over pleats, queer roots erased, rules weaponized, pies faked, kids silenced, and apples, thank God, still delicious.

To recap:

• Amish wealth is a Ponzi scheme built on kids’ broken backs.
• Their idea of punishment for predators wouldn’t scare a golden retriever.
• They’ve got more debt than brains, more hypocrisy than hymns, and more excuses than cows in a pasture.
• And if you’re lookin’ for morality in Lancaster County or any other Amish hood, baby, you’d have better luck findin’ it at a strip club in Vegas.

So here we stand, three hundred years later, still dealin’ with the aftermath of wigs, loopholes, lies, and land grabs. Willy Penn got his name on a state, Jakob Ammann got his cult, and the Amish got their loopholes, while the rest of us got stuck smellin’ their “religious turds” and footin’ the bill. They came off that boat confused, and baby, they stayed confused, passin’ that ignorance down like a moldy quilt and yet, they still scream persecution while sittin’ fat on million-dollar farmland, hidin’ abuse behind aprons and scripture, raisin’ kids to work like slaves, lie like dogs, and die like statistics.

But let me make it plain: you don’t get to play holy while you’re livin’ dirty. You don’t get to cry “freedom” while you’re shacklin’ your own, and ya’ sure as hell don’t get to call yourself chosen when the only thing you’ve chosen is cowardice. At some point, you gotta drop your balls, literal or proverbial, and stand up like a damn human bein’. Quit lettin’ dead men in wigs and busted-tailor cult leaders tell you how to live.

Cause life ain’t about bein’ silent, submissive, or scared. It’s about speakin’ up, fightin’ back, and knowin’ the difference between faith and fuckery. And if the Amish don’t wanna hear that? Well, baby, I don’t give a fuck. Mic dropped.