Bill Dawes - December 19, 2006

The first woman I wacked off to was Amish.*

Well, not technically. It was Kelly McGillis (of "Top Gun" fame) when she portrayed an Amish babe in "Witness" with Harrison Ford. When I first saw the scene where McGillis sponge-bathed herself in a claw-foot tub, it gave me funny feelings in my weiner.

That night, I hopped in my tub, snookered Little Billy between my index and middle finger and wiggled my digits until an angry buzz of endorphins shot into my brain. It was that short-lived moment in early male adolescence where the orgasms are sans seminal fluid because those little hairless balls haven't cooked up enough flagella yet to accompany it.

Nothing came out. The orgasm was just a brief concussion and stars. It was like an a cappella orgasm.

I had no idea what it meant, why it was happening, or what I was doing. I felt like I'd discovered some weird new superpower while fucking around in a chem lab. As a result, when I finally spurted about six months later, it scared the living bejeezus out of me.

I bolted out of the tub like Jaws had just bitten me in the ass. I ran out of the bathroom and paced around outside it, breathlessly gaping at the tub like it was the culprit. What was this sticky stuff? I thought I might have had the flu. (This is what happens when your father is a born-again Christian who doesn't say bupkis about sex unless it's closely followed by the phrase "eternal damnation.")

I recovered from that night, and the caul around my innocence slowly fell away. The first realization was, "Oh, I got it. This is masturbation!" The second was, "Oh shit, I'm sinning and might go to hell!" The third thought was, "Well, since I'm ALREADY going to hell..."

That summer I smacked my penis around like it owed me money, and punched my ticket on the high-speed ferry across the River Styx into Hades.

All because of sweet-faced Kelly McGillis.

Since those early days, I've always been a bit obsessed with the idea of fucking an Amish girl.

Recently, I was driving back from a comedy gig with a female friend of mine -- let's call her Beth -- when out of the blue, she asked me if I'd ever seen a real live Amish person before. I casually told her "no," deciding to withhold the story of my McGillis-inspired first winky fiddle.

She told me that we were just 20 miles from Intercourse, Pennsylvania; a veritable Mennonite Mecca. She thought it was ironic that the town was called "Intercourse." I knew that it wasn't.

Beth said, "Maybe you can like try to score an Amish chick or something." Hey, had she been reading my diary!?

Having never seen an Amish person in the flesh before, I jumped at the chance, deciding to detour through Lancaster to explore the possibility of talking to, and perhaps making sweet love to, an Amish human being.

At first blush, our prospects looked discouraging. Downtown Lancaster was like every other cookie cutter Pennsylvania, strip-mall city: Starbucks, Wawa markets, Costco, black people. It was just another example of the gross homogenization of America that makes travels across the country less and less interesting. Disenchanted and frustrated, we took a random right turn off of Route 30.

Instantly, the landscape changed. It was like stepping through a wardrobe closet into the magical land of Narnia. The cityscape disappeared and nothing but rolling green hills, barns, silos, and silence unfolded in front of us.

About a quarter of a mile down the road, I caught my first glimpse of Mennonite Mania: The Amish Clothesline. This wasn't your typical Snuffy Smith, red Union suit with a poop flap clothesline. This shit was tight. It was color-coordinated, ordered from tiny underpants to large linens, and must have stretched over 60 feet.

It was a work of art.

In the middle of the tilted clothesline, there hung the unmistakable black garb of the Amish.

Holy shit. We had truly found it.

I instinctively slowed the car down so as not to miss any Mennonites that might be hiding in the roadside thicket. It felt like we were on Amish Safari.

Past the clothesline, I briefly saw the back of a bonneted lady on her porch. I craned my neck to get a better look, but she slipped through the screen door like a wraith, surely on her way inside to quilt.

"There's one right fucking there," I whispered for no apparent reason. Although the windows were up on the car and the Anabaptist was 50 yards away, I couldn't help but speak in hushed tones. Now I know what Elmer Fudd felt like hunting wabbits.

I brought the car to a near standstill and hunkered over the wheel, scanning the length of the porch. It was like I was about to do a drive-by in Compton. Suddenly, out of my peripheral vision to the left, I saw the Amish Holy Grail: the horse and buggy. It was rounding the corner.

I wheeled the car around and sped up to catch it, spewing gravel and horse poop as I peeled out. I quickly realized the Dukes of Hazzard technique wasn't really necessary, since the buggy was going about 6 miles an hour. It even had a big triangular Caution sign on the back to remind people, "Hey, cool it - it's a fucking buggy!"

Since it was mid-winter, the Amish person was hidden inside a little covered black carriage. GOD-DAMNIT! Will I ever see one!? .

I slowly drove around it. In "Night at the Roxbury" unison, my friend and I whipped our heads around to peer through the plastic windshield into the eyes of our first ever Amish face.

In retrospect, it was very rude. I'm sure they are sick to death of "Yankees" (that's what they call us, you know) driving around with their "metal beasts powered by devil juice" (okay, I made that one up), zipping by and staring at them bug-eyed and slack-jawed.

For a second, I felt guilty as I peered intently at this old Yoda-like woman with round antebellum spectacles. Luckily, my asshole side surfaced and said, "WHO FUCKING CARES!? I want to gawk at some fucking Amish people, BILL!! These folks have salvation on lock; give me a few simple joys before I spend eternity being chased by an imp with a pitchfork, OKAY!?"

The Amish woman in the carriage was dressed in all black. It was hard to tell exactly how old she was since black is such a slimming, youthful color, but my best guess put her right around 148 years old, give or take an epoch. I've never understood why the Amish wear so much black, but I assume it's either because "black" is a symbol for mourning or a signal that this particular pussy is all done dried up.

I was so excited, I nearly drove the car into a barn-raising. I had to talk to one!

But how?

We started trolling around the countryside looking for ins. There was a little greenhouse with an "open" sign, so I drove up, parked, and went in. It was empty, but there were plants everywhere. An ancient-looking, decrepit dog started bark/coughing suddenly, so I KNEW an actual Amish would soon be over. I was going to speak to it.

A pleasant old woman came into the greenhouse. She had a flat, wide grin that, depending on its context, could also be a frown. I saw her smiling eyes and concluded it was the former.

She was a spry, say, 129-130 years old. She had on that Catholic priest looking black gabardine with an unpleated black bonnet. I couldn't help but wonder what was going on with her snatch. I started wondering what it looked like. I hope she didn't catch my eyes dancing furtively up and down the length of her shriveled, pious torso. I had heard that there were all sorts of genetic anomalies amongst the Amish population because of all the inbreeding. What if she had a forked clit? What if she had an eyeball on her taint? What if--

"Yes, may I help you?" she repeated.

I awoke with a jerk from my trance-like stupor. I had to think quickly.

"Huh," I said.

"Is there anything you're looking to purchase."

FUCK, now I'm going to have to buy something.

I quickly looked around the greenhouse and saw a bunch of green shit. It all looked like the same green shit to me! I scanned the place with a discerning look on my face, like when you're on a date at a fancy restaurant and you're perusing the wine list as if you're weighing all the nuances of the fine selections in your mind, when, in fact, all you are doing is trying to find the second cheapest bottle with which to get your date drunk. (The cheapest would be too obvious and you do want to get laid, after all.)

The only question I really had was, "What can I buy that I can stick in a corner and forget about?" That seemed rude, so I used a more botanical-friendly query: "Which plants are robust?" Like I wanted a fern with great boobies or something.

I must have looked like an idiot. My eyes were bulging out of my skull, my voice could barely reach above a whisper, and I think I was even on my tip-toes. THIS was a real Amish person taking my money! Look, they have pockets! And hands! They can make change! It took all of my self-control not to point and clap as the transaction took place.

I felt like a hillbilly tourist driving through Malibu -- those same people that are amazed that celebrities drive their own cars and pump their own gas and wipe their own asses. "Hey, Jessco, can you believe Patrick Dempsey wears shoes, too!? Star magazine was right, they are 'Just Like Us!' No wonder Time Magazine named us the Person of the Year!!! Grab the Stars Homes map, we're gonna celebrate! YEEHAW!!!"

After getting the merchandise, I walked outside and saw a younger, hotter Amish woman walking amongst a group of chickens (what is the technical term for a "group of chickens?" Is it "a bucket?"). She was wearing a blue frock, which I interpreted to mean that her pussy was, as of yet, unblemished by the woes of the mortal world.

I must have been literally 20 yards away from a virgin that was older than 15! Even more remarkable, someone who wasn't on Myspace! If only I could reach my power belt! I shouted out a friendly "Good morrow" to her, but she only nodded slightly and returned to sprinkling feed in the dirt.

I thought "Good morrow" was a great opener, but you can never be sure when you are trying to pick up a lady that is married to Jesus? (Not to be too stupid, but the Amish DO worship Jesus, right? I would feel really dumb if they worshipped Zeus or something and I didn't know.) I contemplated using a different ice breaker, but I would imagine "How's your snatch?" might be a little too forward in this conservative community.

I got back in the car, ultimately realizing that I would leave Lancaster unable to procure Mennonite vagina unless a Sadie Hawkins square dance broke out and I got invited. Had God smiled on me for once and actually let that happen, I'm 85 percent convinced an Amish girl would want to ramspringa on my cock if I busted out some impromptu pop and lock during the do-si-do, or if I got down and did the worm across the barn floor, bits of hay flying everywhere, as the maidens clutched their heaving bosoms, desperate to sponge-bathe my straw and dung-covered body. Ohhhhhh, Kelly!

Any-who...

It was time to go. There was nothing more to see. Time to get back on Route 30.

Not two minutes later, we saw an Amish teenage boy. He even had coveralls and that frothy Prince Valiant bob. We decided to give it another shot. Maybe at least my friend could score a little Amish cock.

As serendipity would have it, a square of white wood stood in front of the Amish boy that had "Fresh eggs here!" painted on it in a messy scrawl. A perfect in! Once again, I U-turned like a stunt driver on "Tokyo Drift" and pulled into the gravel/dirt driveway. I eased up to the front of the barn, but the Mennonite had disappeared.

We sat there, idling and speaking in soft murmurs. For some reason, I was a little scared. In the back of my head, a little voice kept whispering, "Malachi... Malachi... Malach--" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!

There was a knock on the window. It was the Child of the Corn.

I rolled down the window. Let me rephrase that: I pushed a button and the window came down -- I'm not fucking Amish!

Malachi stood there, about 6 feet 2 inches. He had a slender build, coveralls, and a plaid shirt buttoned all the way up to his protuberant Adam's apple. His face was covered with moles or acne or some strange hybrid of the two.

I thought again about the inbreeding, and how my friend told me that some of their mutations were specific just to them. Like, there were allegedly specific strains of deformity that one would HAVE to travel to Lancaster to find. Or the Hapsburgs of Ancient England if one had a time machine.

I scoured his face, looking for telltale signs of a shallow gene pool. His ears were definitely "jacked up," as the negroes are wont to say. Not Daniel Craig jacked up, but screwy nonetheless. They looked more like ears from two different Mr. Potato Heads were stuck into his skull, a la Victor Garber from TV's "Alias."

Then he smiled. I was dumb-founded.

It wasn't that he was a snaggle-tooth or even that his teeth were crooked.

Malachi had a condition that I had only seen in cartoons caricaturing people from the Deep South. Instead of two front teeth, he had ONE tooth that looked like an upside down trapezoid and grew directly from the center of his gumline. It was some sort of cyclops tooth.

I was convinced that my friend HAD to fuck him.

"Vanna buy some eggs?" he said.

SHIT! Now I was gonna have to buy some eggs, too.

"How much are they?" I asked.

"How many eggs you vant?"

"Uhhhhh, a dozen, I guess."

"Dere like smaller den the normal eggs cuz we have da smaller type of da chicken."

My friend finally quipped in, "Hey, where is your accent from?"

I turned to her like she was out of her fucking mind.

That had to be the dumbest question from a smart person I had ever heard. "What type of accent is that?" What do you think? He picked up a few lingual influences in Europe during his semester abroad?!! What's the palate of consonant and vowel combinations you're detecting there, Lieutenant Columbo?

It's an Amish accent, YOU IDIOT!!! The man never wears red for fear of "the others" and he hasn't gone five feet past his single-room schoolhouse since he graduated from it in the eighth grade!

The expression on Malachi's face was at once hilarious and ball-shrivelingly terrifying. It went completely still. Expressionless. A tumbleweed could have rolled across his face. The mortifying stillness seemed to suck all of the oxygen out of the atmosphere. I think he felt like she was making fun of him. If only he knew how bad she actually wanted to fuck him ... on second thought, that could've made it worse. I looked at his tight, stone face and the breathy voice crept back into my head...

"Malachi.... Maaaaaaaaalaaaachiiiiiiii!"

For a brief second, I thought he was going to produce a sickle from behind his back and slice a wedge out of my skull.
.
Finally, he broke into a cyclopsian smile, "Ohh, it's just from dese parts." He tried to laugh it off.

We laughed, too. Perhaps a bit too hard.

He quickly went off to fetch a dozen midget chicken eggs.

I looked at my friend: "Say that again so I can see those words actually come out of your mouth! You've got no game at all. How you supposed to get Amish ass with lines like that?"

He came back with a dozen eggs in a Farmland egg box. Fucking liar, I thought.

"Thanks," I said.

My friend came in strong this time: "Hey, what's your name?"

"Ebben," he replied. "What's yours?"

"Beth"

"Dats my grandmodder's name dere."

He smiled his cyclopsian smile and the two of them shared a moment.

I gave a nod to him and looked at her as if to say, "Make your move, woman!"

"Is she still alive?" she said.

"No," he said.

Damn, I'm never going to know what Amish genitalia looks like! What if he had two cocks or something!?

We said a hasty good-bye and drove back down the gravel driveway. Not far down the road, we drove into another house that was offering "homemade root beer $2!" A little Amish child not bearing any obvious deformities was there to attend to us. I gave him a $5 bill, got a bottle, and he gave me $2 back.

I looked at him. He looked at me. I asked him if he got to "math larnin'" in his schoolroom yet. He said that they did. I asked him how much root beer was. He said $2. I showed him that he had returned $2 to me. He nodded triumphantly.

It was a Mennonite stalemate.

I told him to "keep the change," and he ran off to go jump on his trampoline. The Amish children love to get their trampoline on.

I tasted the root beer and instantly spit it out. It tasted like piss and maple syrup with a splash of moral superiority mixed in.

I was starting to get the feeling that the Amish were using their "Gee, aren't ve old-fashioned dere" ways to get one over on the rest of the American people or "The English," as they say. They're like Donald Rumsfeld but without the pomade or the designer suit: "It's been 5,000 American casualties in Iraq? By golly, gee whillikers! Oopsy daisy, I thought things were gonna be swell in the end. Shucks, don't be sore at me, guys! Who woulda thunk it?"

Was there a little "Amishugas" going on? (The Jews will get that one.)

Maybe THAT'S why the Amish are such proponents of child labor. They know it's much easier for children to rip people off.

As the sun started to set, we got back onto Route 30 and saw a sign for "Jessica's Buggy Rides" on a huge billboard only a couple miles down the road. It seemed odd. First of all, there was a picture of a smoking hot and "robust" woman in an Amish virgin outfit looking coquettishly up at the camera. I was always under the impression that Amish people weren't supposed to get their picture taken or partake in "vanity." Hmmmm....

I had to investigate for two reasons:

1. I was started to suspect that the Amish were full of shit.
2. If that chick was really running the buggies, I was going to try to get her to sponge-bathe herself while I filmed it for "YouTube."

We found "Jessica's Buggy Rides," but there was no Jessica there. Just a fat red-headed guy who looked like Hacksaw Jim Duggan in a giant leprechaun suit.

Since we were there and had so many questions, we told the guy that we wanted to take the buggy ride and asked him what the price was. Seamus McButterchurn walked over to his unseen "boss" and returned with a number -- $30 total to drive the two of us around for 25 minutes. We agreed.

SO MANY QUESTIONS! My head was swimming with them. I wanted to ask about the different color frocks, the policy on photographs, the schools, dating, barn dances, and Amish dwarves - there HAD to be some. I had a million questions that I was going to bombard him with during our tour.

As we were waiting to board the buggy, a Honda Civic drove into the parking lot. A mother and three mewling, rambunctious children piled out of it. The woman waddled over and asked Seamus about a ride.

Just then, the "boss" came out of his secret hiding place and gestured to his rotund minion to join him in a sidebar. He talked briefly to Seamus, who then came over to us.

"Yeah, you ready to go?" he said.

"We're not going with them, are we?"

"Yeah, you'll fit in dere." The buggy carriage was teeny. He had a very liberal definition of the word "fit."

"That's okay, we'll wait for the next ride."

"Boss says if you want a "private ride," it'll cost you $40 each."

"So, now it's $80 total if we just want it to be the two of us?"

"Yeah, boss says."

I came here to fuck the Amish, but, ONCE AGAIN, found myself in a situation where I was being fucked by them instead.

"Hey buddy, bring your boss over here."

Seamus looked a little scared, but shrugged and went behind a barn to get him.

"Boss" strode over with a huge used car salesman grin. He had bifocals and perfect teeth. He had his thumbs stuck in his suspenders, like he was about to snap them jovially against his nipples. Something about the posture struck me as decidedly fake. It was like he was an extra in a movie about Amish people. If you wanted to play an Amish guy in a suburban dinner theatre production of "Kingpin", THIS would be the end result. Everything about him struck me as a just a little off. A little inauthentic.

"Hey guys, how are you doing today?" That big fake smile flashed again. He didn't even have the goofy accent.

"Yes, sir, we agreed on a price and were getting ready to go, when this car pulled up with a mom and three kids. The price we agreed on was for just the two of us, so I don't get why you're changing it."

"$80 is the price for a private ride."

"Well, you agreed to a "private ride" price of $30 just five minutes ago."

"Sorry, you can come back another time." The smile flashed.

"If we cram into the carriage with these people, can we go lower on the price and maybe get some free Amish canned goods?"

"Those are the rates, sorry." With that, he turned and walked back to his mystery office behind the barn.

I stood there, flabbergasted. I looked at my friend, who just shrugged. Fuck that! I was not going to let a Goddamned faux-Mennonite get the better of me. At the very least, I was going to speak my mind. I got back into the car and drove over the curb to the back of the horse barn.

Sure enough, there was Bossy McFakerton on a Razr cellphone in a heated business debate - clearly hiding behind the barn! I don't know if Amish people are allowed cell phones, but I'm guessing the answer is NO FUCKING WAY! I angrily pushed a button, which electronically brought the window down in my car. (I miss the pissed off angry window roll down, don't you!?)

"Hey, buddy!" He nods and waves like everything is normal, even though I'm practically driving into him.

"You are a total fraud and completely full of shit. You 're a disgrace to Amish people everywhere! What do you have to say for yourself, you fucking con artist!?"

As I live and breathe, he smiled and said, "Thanks, come back again!" Then he scurried away to finish his cell phone conversation.

I pulled out of "Jessica's Buggy Ride" completely disheartened. If the Amish people spend their lives dedicating everything they do to God, and they're full of shit, then what does that say about God?

I guess people are people, to quote the venerable Mr. Depeche Mode. Everyone is full of shit. Everyone is a hypocrite! The Tibetan Monks, the Catholic Priests, the Amish, the Atheists, the Scientologists, Dr. Phil.

I want to start a new religion, called the Liars. At least, that way no one can accuse me of being a hypocrite! And if they do, it'll be because I told the truth, so it'd be a good thing.

"Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyyy, you're being a hypocrite. That's so sweet."

Fuck the Amish...well...except for Kelly McGillis.

* Scholars have long debated the subtle differences between "wacked off," "jacked off," and "jerked off." I contend that the early phases of self-pleasure involves fun-loving, unskilled, and formless "wacking." In your late teens and early twenties, that matures into a rigorous and more polished "jacking" technique. Finally, when you're old and married and need Limewire to get even the hint of an erection so you can yank it until you get a pathetic little sperm bubble, THEN, you are "jerking" off

Posted by Bill Dawes at 4:10 PM