Whereasever Buck churched upon the outskirts of San Francisco. Tweren’t a church ‘t’all, in the structural sense — Pastor Virgil Turnip preached upon a hill on his farmland. Not a single pane of stained glass, nor even regular glass, no ivy, no choir separate from the congratory body neither, no suh or madam, Buck’s church be singing they own praises, no interlocutions ‘tween the Christians and the good Lord’s sun illummifying the meadow with rays of sainthood. First Grace was as Caucasian as albino snow. Buck’s church got a throng apiece of whites and blacks, endless Mexican chill’uns with a meager handful of parents and a large smattering of small Chinese. They all came to pray e’ery Sunday morn with Pastor Virgil Turnip; they came to pray as the Bible did command; they came to pray dressed in colorful fineries and hobo’s rags all alike, and there was expressive outpourings of excitement, shouting of impassionated praises and turgid testimony in tongues.
From Buck the Conservative
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MN Manmacker's mansploitation