Broken News in Boston!


Toilet paper

CNN, the Crap News Network


Hi, this is Blitz Geezer in Boston along with John Bland, Lance Fancy Pants and Tapioca Pudding.





Since we don’t have anything new to report, we’ll talk incessantly about nothing, Tapioca.



No thank you. I just ate.



I think Blitz is talking to me. Well, Blitz, my source tells me that shortly before the bombing, Lance bought a pair of Dockers at the Saks Fifth Avenue that had provided authorities with key surveillance video of the bombing suspects. Lance reportedly sat down, got a salesman’s attention by waving his arms and then tried on several pairs of shoes before buying the Dockers with a credit card.



Can we get a shot of Lance’s shoes?










With all the walking we did around Boston, we all need a new pair of shoes. TOUCHES EARPIECE. One moment. We have breaking news…on Twitter. Swat teams have surrounded Suspect #2.



You’re kidding. I thought Suspect #2 was in custody.



Apparently, a homeowner called authorities after seeing blood on his boat in his backyard.



Who keeps a boat in a backyard the size of my bathroom?



Wait…more breaking news on Twitter. A police chopper, hovering above the yard, has infrared images of the suspect hiding inside the boat.



Are you sure the suspect’s not in custody. My source told me hours ago there was an arrest.



Lance, what can you tell us. What are you seeing on the ground?



A hot, steaming pile of dog shit. Apparently, a neighbor who walked his dog after the lock-down was lifted, didn’t bag the poop. I almost stepped in it with my new Dockers that I bought at the Saks that provided key video evidence to police.



Lance, are you hearing anything from your location?



Let me check Twitter. HE CHECKS SMARTPHONE. Yes, Blitz. I’m hearing an exchange of gun fire and several explosions.



How ’bout you Tapioca?



On Facebook, their reporting that hostage negotiations are taking place.



I’m listening to a live police radio broadcast from a link I got on Twitter…They just apprehended the suspect…and I’ve got a blister on my big toe from my new shoes.



Twitter reports that people are celebrating in the streets, and I just found a great Sushi place on Google Maps.



Now that Suspect #2 is in custody, we can replay hours of nonstop speculative yammering by reporters that preceded the arrest.



Blitz, my source tells me that an arrest has been made…


I’m participating in Silly Sunday, hosted by Sandy of ComedyPlus.



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The Children of Violence, a Generation of Lost Innocence



As a child in the sixties, my innocence and the innocence of the nation, was shattered by three assassinations, one, years before the others, the others, just several months apart.

My generation could no longer hope for the clichéd, happy resolution at the end of a story. Our world, once a pocket of predictability, had changed. It was no longer a blasé place with innocuous consequences. The evil characters and scary plot twists in films had migrated from the movie screens to our backyards.

Fantasy and reality had synthesized into one glaring truth. Society was damaged. Evil had infiltrated our communities; our futures determined by uncontrollable forces, our lives affected by unnecessary wars that benefited corporations and by violent sociopaths with their fingers on the triggers.

The blood that had spilled from our larger than life heroes, and lesser unknown heroes of the Vietnam War, spilled into our national consciousness and created a generation of lost innocents, once content with the bland, black and white stories of suburbia portrayed in the TV show, Leave it to Beaver, and the Cleaver family, the perfect American family with uncomplicated lives.

The colorless, black and white images of the fifties gave way to blood-stained Technicolor images of the sixties and seventies, of students murdered on college campuses and soldiers killed in the Vietnam War.

From Vietnam to Kent State to Jackson State, my generation was traumatized by indiscriminate shootings of, and by, our protectors, and the victims who fell from the force of their guns. On the ground, spurting blood, a generation of innocent lost to senseless violence.

For my generation, many of the tragedies we witnessed on TV were a result of social change in society, with the exception of the deaths of our three larger than life heroes, whose murders we watched on TV sets in our living rooms, footage replayed night-after-night in prime-time.

This generation of children today, unlike my generation, never had the luxury of black and white simplicity. They never had the peaceful pause of silence before the next raging storm. Their innocence was taken from them soon after they were born by the violent images they see on TV, perpetuated by sociopaths who emerge from the shadows with their fingers on the triggers.

The murderers of innocence should heed the words projected on the wall of the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

Blankety-blank page, the bleeping white brain suck


Thought I’d never see you again. But here you are, staring at me like a white light at the end of an airport ramp crammed with waitlisted souls.

God, you are not. If I were to compare you to an omnipotent being, it would be the devil. You torture me like he does and are as unforgiving as he is.

You burn my eyes with what I thought was desire but is eyestrain instead.


As I stare into oblivion, not a word on the page, only a nagging internal voice harassing me about stupid shit.

You idiot. The Word document language is set to French. No wonder the dictionary didn’t recognize the word ”blank” or “obnoxious.”

That could happen to anyone.


Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?

Yes, but this is much more fun. Don’t you have laundry to do?

I still have “B” drawer clothing.

Not those old ratty jeans that are so faded the holes have holes.

I’ve got a long blouse that hides them.

Another hair-brained “I love Lucy” solution. Anyway, I thought you were trying to write…if that’s what you call sitting at your desk with eyes glazed over like a ham. 

I was making progress until you interrupted.

No, you were brain-dead at your desk.

Well, it’s late. I’m fried

Brain-dead, like I said. Why waste your time trying to squeeze out a thought. You could be sleeping, two dogs deep in bed with the snorer.

I just elbow Jim when I can’t take it any more.

I was talking about you.

I’d be able to sleep if you didn’t blab incessantly about nonsensical shit. What’s a Goople anyway?

It’s the dying civilization of the Goop; distant relatives of swamp people who coexist with crocodiles with which they fight for food. But often the crocodiles win. And the Goople race continues to dwindle in numbers while the crocodiles thrive.

And you wonder why I can’t sleep.

You can’t write either. Remember, blank page, whiny babble.

Well, this time, your obnoxious cynicism and outlandish ideas have actually helped. See the words!

Damn you! I’m not finished yet. As soon as you’ve finished belching from your lousy cooking, I’m going inundate you with more crazy shit.

I’m participating in Silly Sunday, hosted by Sandy of Comedy Plus. Laugh and Link Up!


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River Testament




River (Photo credit: Moyan_Brenn)

Swiftly down the river, a canoe rides the current, crashing into rocks and sediment, swaying with each bump of cascading water. Shoes and other evidence of human residue slosh back and forth inside the hull.

Words scribbled on an envelope, stuffed inside a pocket, soaked from river wash, disintegrate into flotsam. “I tried to call, but the river took my phone,” Ron wrote. “I did this for you, but you’ll never know why.”


I’m participating in Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction Challenge. This week’s prompt – Words.








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If I Could See with My Nose


Dog Thoughts


My dog Jenny smells coyotes and cats with her superpower nose that can detect animal life through closed windows. It amazes me what she can see with her nose.

I stand at the window staring at trees and grass, and bits of sagging sky through the hills, and see nothing living or breathing. Though the hills may be alive with the sound of music.

Jenny doesn’t hear the sound of music. She smells it with her nose, a magical nose that interprets each scent with scientific accuracy, while I squint to read a street sign in the dark.

I wish I had a nose that can see.

My magical nose would find a Caribbean beach to wade in warm aquamarine sea, the sunlight hugging me, warming my brown skin, wet and salty, but not like taffy. My skin is dry like wisps of windswept sand as the ocean speaks in a way it only can.

The tide rolls in and my toes sink into wet scalloped sand. Above, gossiping gulls scan the beach from atop a thatched roof. They kvetch because they caught air instead of food. The gulls need to take a break from gulling and rest on a fence or light post; their squawks drown out the drone of voices from humans sauteing in the sun.

The gulls stretch their wings and jump into sky, circling the human world below, shielded by baseball caps and straw hats. Humans need protection from the sun and each other. Gulls just need table scraps and then to crap on ornamental humanity.