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Worldwide Ace » Styling Threads of the 1890s

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Styling Threads of the 1890s

24 April, 2008 (01:43) | Random

Amish iPod?“WHAT HELL HATH THOU WROUGHT?” asked Jebediah Zucherman as he stared at my new look.

“Is it really that bad?” I replied, splashing water on my newly bald upper lip.

“Well, let’s put it this way. You could be an extra in Witness. But hey, I hear the 90s are coming back into vogue, and if you’re prime for VH1’s I Love the 1890s.” I glared at him.

“Is that an iPod?” I inquired, my eyes snapping to the thin white cables dangling from his ears. “And what the hell kind of Amish name is Zucherman anyway?

“C’mon now. Let’s keep to the topic at hand. No need to get personal.” I spun away from the mirror, the vague pounding of a Paul Van Dyk remix of the classic hymn Loblied spinning gently around the corner. “So? Did you get everything?” I glared at Jebediah, the items in question splayed across my neatly made bed:

“1 pair suspenders, check. 1 corn cob pipe, check. 1 Amish looking hat, check.”

“You call that Amish looking,” Jebediah screamed as he slapped the brushed leather hat in disdain. “And do you even have pants that can accommodate button suspenders? You might as well be on fucking RUMSPRIGA!”

“Whatever. Let’s roll,” I said, grabbing my props and heading for the door.

ALDER NATHANSON, I CHOOSE YOU!THE FEATHERS FLEW EVERYWHERE. There we were, in the midst of the Devil’s Playground, the greatest battleground in the war of obscure offshoots of Christianity. Currently, it was cockfighting ring, and it looked as if the Shaker rooster hadn’t fared well. We both knew what was coming next.

“You know what you gotta do,” whispered Jebediah.

“Yeah, but what if I don’t win?”

“Then you don’t get to be on Pimp My Buggy. Big fucking whoop. Now get your ass on the floor and DO IT!”

I wiped the sweat from my brow and blew a few bubbles in my corncob pipe. They were just pulling the last chunky bits of the recently deceased loser off the straw floor when I leapt into the middle of the ring.

“Alder Nathanson! I’m calling you out!”

The old man snickered and he strutted out of the hushed crowd. He was the spitting image of his cereal box and I could feel his intimidating cocksure smile bearing down on me.

“Boy, you dare challenge a Quaker!”

“Oh yeah he does!” cried Jebediah as he connected the iPod to the sound system.

“HA!” The Quaker glared at me, his barrel chest heaving beneath his doublet. “Name the battleground, boy.”

“I challenge you,” I cried, trying to hide the wavering of my voice, “to a round of PENNSYLVANIA DOUBLE DUTCH!” The crowd gasped, but the Quaker was unfazed.

“So be it. Get the ropes!”

Han Solo's an honorary Amishman.I COULD HEAR THE ROPES SLAP AGAINST THE FLOOR, each slap moving me closer to my doom.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jebediah said as we watched the Quaker flip on his hands between the spinning threads. “You rocked that set. There’s no way he’ll beat you.”

“Yeah, you were pretty awesome,” said Harrison Ford.

“Thanks, Han. What are you doing down here anyway?”

“I’ve been an honorary Amishman ever since Witness. By the way, weren’t you an extra there?”

The Quaker was hitting his stride now, his jump rope handstands riling the crowd into a heathen fervor. Suddenly, the breakdown came. With a gasp, the Quaker caught his shoe in the rope above him and the entire display came tumbling down.

“YES!” screamed Jebediah, his hat revealing long peyes he had hidden underneath. “YOU DID IT! Pimp My Buggy here we come!”

As the crowd thronged around us, even pushing Harrison Ford to the outskirts, Alder Nathanson approached.

“You may have won this time, but Quakers never give up.”

“I thought Quakers give up fighting, drinking, and having kids?” I said.

“No, Quakers have kids. It’s the Shakers who don’t have kids,” the Quaker responded. “The bastards.”

We both glared across the way at Goody West, still nursing her dead cock.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “they’re next.”