by Lemuel Biedelschies, Amish Carpenter for Hire
Jan. 26, 2006
Why the hell does this always happen? Every time we're due for supper come noon, it turns into a fucking Lincoln-Douglas debate over who wants what on their pizza! Damn those English...they've even got me speaking like them now!
Anyhow, trying to find out what Micah, Omer and Jedediah want for toppings is like pulling teeth with a string attached to a water pump (in our village we are smote for improperly using doors or their knobs if we are not entering or exiting them).
"Ah, whatever you decide Lemmy," Micah says, "I don't care much what ya order." Yeah? Then why did you stare at me like I was a bull with deformed testicles after I ordered the pie with pepperoni, olives and pineapple last week? You obviously got a favorite topping ya like, ya patchy faced bastard. Otherwise ya wouldn't be giving me the stink eye like your cousin who ya tried to advance upon carnally behind your chicken shack two months ago. That's right, I'm on to you, Stoltzfus...If you had the decency you'd propose to her to amend for the impropriety.
And the other two ain't much better. Omer and Jedediah acting like peas in a pod, like they're Felix Manz and Conrad Grebel. Always with the "Pepperoni's fine, Lemuel, and whatever you want. It doesn't matter." Please. I tell you, those two wouldn't be so chummy if Omer knew Jedediah claipped his grandfather's buggy with a rock when they drove to Ordnung last week. Manz and Grebel. Pssh...More like Menno Simons and Jacob Ammon!
Let's all be predictably agreeable to avoid offending anyone's preference, and then bite our lips when we're severely disappointed with the result! Isn't that great! I get the taste of metal in my mouth from holding roofing nails in my teeth for three hours, and all I want is a pizza to get rid of it. I don't want to wait another hour so that we can reach some bullshit consensus that no one really likes so we can live up to some holier than thou image like Opa Zed. I tell ya right now, I'm going Yankee on the drink orders. I don't even want to see you open your mouths about it. We're getting Pepsi. No settling for Mr. Pibb for the third straight week in a row.
And I spend my Rumspringa putting roofs on a subdivision owned by a shiny faced developer who date rapes women after spiking their strawberry lemonade at The Cheesecake Factory? Worse than that, with these three asses. Off to Nappanee with the lot of 'em!
How does pepperoni and nothing else sound? Huh? What? Didn't hear ya! That's what we're getting, because I'm the one who's bold enough to use the payphone on the corner! When one of you three decide to go Beachy, you can give some input.