What in the name of the good Lord didst thou just say about me, English? I’ll have thee know I was the finest woodworker in our community, and I’ve crafted more oak tables than thou canst count. I’ve churned butter with such vigor that the elders praised my name, and I’ve raised barns in a single day with naught but my hands and the will of the Lord. I am schooled in the ways of plain living and have driven a horse and buggy through storms that would make thee quiver in thy boots.
Thou art naught to me but another city-dweller with thy electric gewgaws. I’ll send thee back to thy world with a sermon so stern, thou wilt repent for a fortnight, mark my words.
Thinkest thou that thou canst speak such folly to me over this infernal contraption called the “internet”? Think again, sinner. As we speak, I’m hitching my fastest mare to ride to the bishop, and we’ll have the whole community shunning thee before the sun sets, so prepare for the silence, friend. The silence that makes a man reckon with his soul.
Thou art done for, lad. I can be anywhere, anytime, with my hammer and froe, and I can split logs in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with hand tools. Not only am I skilled in raising a frame, but I have the entire Ordnung behind me, and I’ll use it to ensure thy name is whispered only in shame, thou fool.
If only thou hadst known the righteous wrath thy blasphemy would bring, perchance thou wouldst have held thy tongue. But thou didst not, and now thou shalt reap the harvest, thou wayward soul. I’ll bring such a reckoning upon thee, thou wilt wish to be cast into the wilderness. Get thee gone, and trouble me no more.