There’s no shortage of saints who cater to the unfortunate victims of whatever misfortunes befall them. There are saints aplenty for Catholics in good standing with the Church, a friend in Jesus, and a good buddy of the Lord. For every hallowed soul, there’s a martyr lurking in the shadows. Name any disease, malady, affliction, or condition that exists, and there are more terminal illness pics than you can shake a tally Wacker at. You best believe it’s a safe and solid wager; there are a bunch of patron saints for every sicko disease going around. More than enough for every man, woman, and child across the land.
Maybe you’re playing the victim card. Perhaps everyone’s out to get you, and everything bad happens to you. It’s not unrealistic to think you have dumb luck and rotten health, and to top it off with the envy of all your unhealthy frenemies. A misanthrope shunned and mocked by all. There’s a saint for that. It’s in the scriptures and in the stars too, but you can’t deny the facts. You could be an unwitting victim of circumstance.
Do you harbor seething hatred? Do friends, family, and strangers get you down? Self-loathing breeds familiarity with contempt. Say a prayer to the saint for the hapless victims of horrible tragedies. A crime against humanity, in itself, is a criminal act to none other than the criminal who steals money from charity. Passing the buck on to less fortunate individuals who commit felonious acts. High crimes associated with treason, sedition and blasphemy. My mother was a member of that hierarchy of martyrs. Matriarchs are more likely to have carte blanche for sainthood. They sacrificed their lives for you. No less obscene than that weirdo guy nailed to a wooden cross, crucified, and made a scapegoat for the world's sin by proxy. Pray for a saint today! Your gain will surely be his loss.
As a god-fearing young Catholic boy, I knew the saintly virtues. The first I heard about was St. Anthony, patron saint of the poor. But also sailors, fishermen, priests, travelers, and the ardent protector and guardian of the mail. Anthony was from Padua, hence the moniker St. Anthony of Padua. Apparently, a bunch of drunken Franciscan monks hail from the region, and he may or may not be one himself. I don’t know or care because, besides all the saints, I was deluged with Catholic dogma at the time. Religion must be the opiate of the masses because I overdosed on it.
Moving on to St. Joseph, patron of caring for the body of Jesus. After all, he was the father of Jesus Christ. Daddy issues are possibly at play here. This is a stretch because his wife, Mary, was purportedly a virgin at the time. The only things I can connect to the lusty gelding, St. Joe, are baby aspirin and a hospital in Towson, Maryland. Which brings me to St. Francis, patron saint of all creatures, big, small, and subatomic, as well as the natural world. A tall order for another drunk monk who likely hung out and partied hard with St. Anthony, among others.
Who can forget St. Jude? Jude, the patron saint of hope and impossible causes. He was in that Gang of 12, the original apostles. All those turning water into wine tricks paid off for that crew. I wonder if Jesus was a wino who partook of his home-brewed magic vino. It would make him a narcissistic vampire. Other than the old Beatles song, “Hey Jude,” there was the actor, Danny Thomas and his daughter Marlo, shilling for the Saint Jude Shrine charity. They probably raised more money than Jerry Lewis, who some considered a saint with his muscular dystrophy telethons. Overshadowed possibly by the March of Dimes and wartime savings bonds. Years ago, I had a strange neighbor, an ex-stripper. She always said she’d pray to St. Jude for me during troubled times. I don’t know if it worked or not. When the saints came marching in. I abandon hope for all of you who enter here. Blame it on the leftists.
Manifesting lesser-known, or Latter-Day Saints, comprise a vast hodgepodge of Roman Catholic bible verse nonsense. St. Dymphna is the patroness of nervous disorders, mental illnesses, manic depression, high anxiety, rape, and incest. She has a lot on her holy plate. St. Dymphna, the Irish virgin from the Seventh century. Freaking out at the age of 15, she lost her virginity and was beheaded by her father. Dymphna rejected the incestuous sexual abuse imposed on her. He ordered her to marry him to replace his dead wife. Dymphna ran away; he followed and found her, lopping her head off. I’m uncertain why women historically get more stuff to deal with and are on the short end of the stick. It happens all the time.
Another well-known Irish saint, Patrick, has a holiday of excessive debauchery. Kiss me, I’m Irish, but as it turns out, Patrick was never canonized. So, he's a wannabe. Not a true saint. Friend to the alcoholics who gather in celebration yearly to puke and piss in the streets. Whether you were burned at the stake, had body parts cut off, or were stoned by children, you may have heard these stories. Here's one about St. Lawrence. He was roasted alive, and at some point, he asked his torturers to flip him over because he was well done on that side, making him the patron saint of cooks, comedians, and BBQ enthusiasts.