Sunday Sermon from a Non Believer

The reason shit doesn’t stick to Donald Trump is because he is shit, his whole life has been built upon the shit of vice and sin. Accusations are more just confirmations of the man we knew he was all along. Even the infamous “Access Hollywood” recording of the now President boasting about the ability to grab women by the pussy was greeted by the public with a general “well I figured as much.” It came as no surprise to anyone that a man who would lurk predatorily backstage at beauty pageants he once owned would say or do such a thing. In fact it was kind of expected of him. Sexual predation is what we expect from the Donald, as we do a great host of other vices that encompass the seven deadly sins.

Donald Trump has lived his life in contradiction to everything Jesus has taught. The man is the physical embodiment of Greed, Envy, Hubris, Gluttony, Lust, Wrath and yes Sloth…it’s not like he has ever made anything with his own hands. What wealth he didn’t inherit he built upon the broken backs of others. Should we mention his cruelty, much like the school yard bully trumped up on steroids, the Donald delights in hurting others. Is this a man a follower of the gentle message of Christ should support? So how in good conscience do so many so called good Christians continually go to bat for this man whose entire life has gone against the teachings of Jesus? Do they believe Trump is the manure in which their Faith can grow? For thine is the hypocrisy, the lie and the effrontery of enabling a message contrary to Christ go uncontested.

The reason shit doesn’t stick to Donald Trump is because he is Shit. He’s not the Teflon Don, he’s the Diaper Don, but I guess that “Depends” who you ask.

T J Therien

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An Excerpt from Crossing Main by T J Therien

They closed down the Asylum on the outskirts of town a few years back. Would you believe they just released the patients? Just like that, people who had been institutionalized for large chunks of their lives were rubberstamped “Sane” and turned out onto the streets. It’s not like they had been cured, or anything, far from it. In fact, all their phobias and neurosis remained intact. In some cases their “Isms” were exasperated by the sudden change in their environment. For the most part, the former patients were not equipped with the skills they needed to survive in the real world. As a result most took to wandering the streets by day and sleeping on benches or in back alleys at night.

Being adjacent to the Madhouse, our sleepy little town felt the brunt when it was shut down. We were close enough in proximity that our town became a magnet for the former patients. The “Crazies,” as the townsfolk affectionately called them although some of the more eccentric earned their own little monikers like “Odd Todd” and “Slow Joe.” Really, for the most part they were harmless enough and posed no real danger. Still, nobody knew what to do about the problem. At first, police would round them up, but because they didn’t belong in jail and because there was nowhere else to keep them, once again they were just released. Homelessness became epidemic. Sure, we always had a couple of drunks and ne’er do wells, but nothing like after they closed the Mental Hospital.

So much like other callous cost cutting measures that fray the fabric of society, the powers that be gave little thought to the consequences of fiscal austerity. This should surprise nobody. Empathy and compassion are traits possessed by too few politicians and government workers. Common sense and good conscience are seldom criteria for policy, nor are they qualifiers in the decision making process. Shutting down the Mental Hospital was just a classic case of saving a few nickels and dimes at the expense of our humanity. It’s all about dollars, not sense.

Residents petitioned the politicians, first at the local level, then to the State and lastly to the Fed. Each in turn passed the buck to the next until it circled around to the first and the process began all over again. In the end nothing was done. The townsfolk gradually accepted the quirky ensemble of former patients squatting in the streets.

The good folk of our town did what good folk do, short of taking the former patients into their own homes. They did no more than they did for the drunkards and ne’er do wells. Good folk are almost always long on good intentions, but when it comes down to it, they don’t really want to get their hands dirty and people are messy, especially the mentally ill. So it fell to charity to care for these poor people and we all know the result that reaps. Instead of putting money directly to solutions Charities buy band aids with the money that’s left over after the marketing campaigns and salaries are paid. Like really, has any Charity ever cured any social ail? And so the problem persisted.

This is why no one took notice of the shabby man shuffling down the main drag with an old apple-crate tucked under his arm. Such sights had become so common-place in our sleepy little town that nobody discerned anything different from the shabby stranger and the other “Crazies.” He was just another invisible man, a stench that people sidestep to avoid the smell sticking to them. Those who did see him shot him looks of derision as he waded through the pedestrian traffic at the busiest time of the day.