So A 15-Month-Old is Reunited. With Lice.
& No Bath For 85 Days. To the ‘Christian’ Base: Open yr Bibles.
And this means you, too, Mr. Sessions. Open yours to Rev. 6/8.
“And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death (read: Trump), and Hell followed him.”
Today, July 6, 2018: I see Judy Woodruff’s tweet:
My head explodes.
I yell out the window: “Mr. Sessions. Get your Buddy Stephen Miller and Read your damn bibles. The next verse: “And power was given unto them (read: Trump) . . . to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with the beasts of the earth.”
But wait. Sessions is speaking: “Let us all read Matthew 18, which has been correctly edited with New Speak Trumpian Punctuation. Now, it reads: ‘Suffer! The little children who come unto me! Suffer! Suffer!’ Much better. Much more in line with our philosophy of Strong Borders and Me First.”
Well.
What can I say?
This:
To all my friends and family who purport to be religious and still support Trump: I don’t know you anymore. Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t wish me Happy Birthday. No Christmas cards. Don’t send birth announcements. Especially not birth announcements with cute photos of smiling, clean, un-infested babies. And please tell your children not to send me your obituary.
Because if you don’t care about what Trump is doing to the “very least” of us — then I don’t care about you.
I’m dead serious. Dead. Serious.
You can, however, remind me which church you go to these days, so I can remind everyone to never, ever, set foot in that church again.
I can’t remember ever being this angry about something political. A feeling of powerlessness comes over me when I see and hear people I thought were good people say “Well, you know, we need borders . . .” to justify what is going on.
Wrong is wrong.
So, to family and friends who still support Trump after today’s 15-month-old was returned with lice and no bath for 85 days: Have a nice life, safe and secure in your pleasant homes with Corian countertops and no-wax white tile.
Feel good about yourselves in your cheerful Sunday Schools with their air-conditioned daycares, where you can leave your well-fed, well-washed and un-lice-infested 15-month-old safely for an hour while you sing with the church choir.
Safely, that is, until you are the “other,” and you return to daycare to find they’ve taken away your child.
Everyone else: Do what you can. Pick up your pens. Your brushes. Your instruments. Draw a sign. March. Call your representatives.
Do what is right.
Here’s a challenge: Let’s fast together on Sunday, and sent the money we would have spent on food to Raices, or the Texas Civil Rights Project, or anyone YOU pick who is helping reunite children with their parents.
My heartfelt thanks goes out to the compassionate people across this country who are pooling their money to bond out parents, and then “pony-expressing” them across country so they can reclaim their children.
(Note: Not this kind of pony express):
And no, by the way, I don’t apologize for my anger anymore.
