TIMOTEO'S PHILOSOPHICAL PERSPECTIVES # 2

IT'S EASY TO DISLIKE HITLER...

NOT SO EASY TO DISLIKE PUPPY DOGS!

HOME OF THE BRAVE

Prologue: A federal judge has blocked the major provisions of Arizona's controversial new immigration law, SB 1070. Arizona governor Jan Brewer vows to appeal the ruling.

Went to work the other day--THIRTEEN years at the same company--and they said: "You need to sign some papers and produce some documentation to prove you have a legal right to be in this country." This country where I was born--just down the road at St. Mary's Hospital.

And I said what if I didn't--and they said you'll never work in this town again!

And the form said, in effect: Are you now, or have you ever been an illegal alien/terrorist scum? And I remembered that I had been an illegal speeder and red light runner, and I had been an illegal jaywalker, and an illegal accumulator of about a dozen unpaid parking tickets...but I didn't equate that with "illegal alien/terrorist scum," and so I marked the box that said no.

And then it said provide one form of ID from column "A," or one from column "B," AND one from column "C." But I don't normally carry my passport and/or birth certificate around with me--here in this place where I was born, just down the road apiece--and so I shrugged and said: No lo tengo.

And they looked at me...suspiciously...here in the place where I've been coming in every morning for the past thirteen years--where everyone served up a friendly smile and knew my name--and suddenly, I was Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life: BERT! ERNIE! DONCHA KNOW ME? IT'S ME--GEORGE BAILEY!

But they didn't know me. I had ceased to exist. I had no DOCUMENTATION. Documentation that divides us as a nation into US and THEM. And if there's anything that frightens the bejesus out of us--here in our land of the free and home of the brave--it's THEM.

"Bring in your passport tomorrow," they said...and I could feel their eyes following me as I walked on down the hall...

TIMOTEO'S PHILOSOPHICAL PERSPECTIVES

A BANANA SPLIT IS BETTER THAN...

A KICK IN THE BUTT--ANY DAY!

Outta mah face!

FRIDGE POETRY # 4

MORE FELINE FUNNIES

OBITUARY

Anthony Moschetti, age 56, went to be with his heavenly father on July 5, 2010. He succumbed following a short illness resulting from a drive-by shooting. A dedicated family man and long-time drug dealer, Mr. Moschetti is survived by his wife, Bernice, of Bogota, Colombia. A civic-minded individual, Tony belonged to the Lions, Kiwanis, and Rotary clubs, and served as a member of the Governor's Advisory Board. He was a patron of the arts, and was fond of saying that his two favorite things were Puccinni and linguini. Tony joined the mob at an early age, starting as a lowly bag man and working his way up until, at one time, he controlled most of the ganja, smack, and nose candy making its way across the border into Arizona. Much of his ill-gotten gain was laundered through several sham corporations, allowing him and his family to live comfortably in their Tucson foothills home. Tony gave freely to many charitable organizations, and he and his wife were quite active socially. If any of their high-brow acquaintances ever suspected what he was really into--they, of course, didn't let on. Tony personally engineered hits on several of his rivals, including Sammy "The Snake" Leonetti, Willie "The Weasel" Minetti, and Ralphie "The Rat" Rosetti. He was preceded in death by his father, Vincent, (drive-by shooting) brother, Joey, ( car bomb) brother, Frank, (pushed from a high-rise) brother, Danny (car bomb) uncle, Carlo, (sleeps with the fishes) nephew, Gary, (car bomb) and grandmother, Edna, (died in prison of natural causes). Services will be held on Tuesday, July 14 at 2 p.m. at St. Augustine Cathedral. In lieu of flowers, what's left of Mr. Moschetti's family requests that donations be made to the Fraternal Order of Police.

Back by popular demand it's...FRIDGE POETRY # 3 !

MAN IN THE BOX

Rush hour finds me back on the road to nowhere--

one of the multitude of morose or comatose

wage slaves blending into the traffic flow,

merging with the stream of semi-consciousness,

farting and belching along,

darting and weaving,

to gain some positional advantage in the race to the BIG HOUSE

where I pay homage to da MASSA,

a man whose fondest sentimental memories

are of raining bombs upon the Italians--

a place where, like a chess player who's maneuvered himself into a corner,

they will keep me in check until quittin' time.

He appears at the stoplight

like a notice for a bill I forgot to pay.

Derelict with a sign that says give me money.

I don't, though I can't think of a good reason

not to--isn't he putting in a day's work,

standing in the sun, trying his level best

to hold that placard straight,

same as the guy on the road construction crew

who pulls his thumb out of his ass

just long enough to shove a sign

in your face that says SLOW DOWN?

A man in a cardboard box

needs only to flip his lid

to observe the stars,

while I, who gave up reaching for them

ages ago, try to comprehend the difference

between his heaven and mine,

knowing that truth is like the sun--

not everyone sees the light at the same time.

And though I pretend not to notice him,

what I really want to do is roll my window down

and say, "HEY, let's you and me--let's hit the turnpike together...

RUN while there's still time--

head north in the summer and south in th-

but by then the light has changed...

and I'm back on my road to nowhere.

I guess it's just as well...

I couldn't live in the shadow of his pain,

nor ever think of a reason to be that free.