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.



Enhanced by Zemanta

The Widowed Sock Foundation

Helping Widowed Socks Get Back On Their Feet Again!

Sock_puppet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Every ten seconds, a sock spouse experiences a devastating loss, a pair torn apart by a loved one missing or maimed, worn-out from too many hikes in the woods or spins in the dryer.

Their remains tossed in the linen closet to be used as rags, or worse, sock puppets for kids.

The Widowed Sock Foundation (WSF) helps sock spouses move forward with their lives, one step at a time.

Our certified caregivers help socks regain their self-confidence and stride while easing them back into the sock rotation at their own pace.

After a loss of a spouse, many widowed socks cling to the hope of seeing a loved one again, only to have their dreams shredded every time they’re lumped together with other single socks in the drawer.

Their lives become unraveled; their nerves frayed. Many shrink from society, lose their vibrancy and lead static lives. Many will never leave the drawer.

At the Widowed Sock Foundation, we employ caring, strong-minded people who always stand their ground and never pussyfoot around. Our caregivers take on every assignment with enthusiasm and grace, heart and sole, and always jump in with both feet.

Our caregivers, along with our proven twelve-step program, have changed countless socks’ lives.

English: A photograph of a sock puppet made by me.

“Thank you Widowed Sock Foundation!”

Every WSF caregiver has a doctorate in argyle and is an expert in sock psychosis. Only after passing a rigorous curriculum on “The Facts and Fallacies of Footwear Fatalities,” is a caregiver allowed into the field to consult with a sock.

For our caregivers, it’s gratifying to see a sock’s resilience as it stretches its limits, recovers its footing and mends the gap in the fabric that ripped it apart. Once a recluse in the drawer, now a single sock can enjoy playing footsies and mixing it up with other garments.

We, at the Widowed Sock Foundation, are proud of our caregiver’s service. Every day, they continue to make a difference in homes and laundromats, campus laundry rooms and frat houses, preventing widowed socks from taking a suicide spin in the dryer.

Caregiver joins her striking caregivers

Caregiver joins her striking caregivers (Photo credit: Simon Oosterman)

We, at the Widowed Sock Foundation, implore you to help us in our efforts to support widowed socks get back their standing in the community and leave a positive footprint on society. By donating one sock, you can stop needless suffering and make a single sock a pair again.

For more breaking sock news, visit The SNEE, the sometimes, eventual, express.

  • National Lost Sock Memorial Day(

Slut Talk Radio – A Rush to Judgment

Do some men choose a career in radio to overcompensate for their tiny heads?

Wnmh microphone

Image via Wikipedia

I can’t think of any other reason for Rush Limbaugh to verbally abuse Sandra Fluke on the radio, his voice wafting like pig farts across the airwaves.

1 17 10 Bearman Cartoon Rush Limbaugh

Whether you like it or not, Limbaugh is a public figure and a role model to some, his words a catalyst for conversation around water coolers and dining room tables.

But, instead of, er, elevating the conversation and initiating a dialogue on the pros and cons of government’s influence in our lives – on both sides of the aisle – Rush stuck his hoof in his mouth and spewed pig crap all over his penis, er, microphone.

When an individual wields such immense power, affecting millions of people’s lives, it’s that individual’s responsibility to use that power as a teaching tool, not a weapon of mass destruction.

Discourse that devolves into name-calling is more indicative of elementary school banter and has no place on the airwaves.

Yes, blah, blah, blah, freedom of speech, and I have the right to turn off the radio. But an airwave jockey has no right to harass someone on the air and publicly humiliate them with vile schoolyard talk. That kind of talk drifts across the line of civility into the murky black hole of dangerous discourse.

Rush can apologize until his head explodes. He can try to silence the cacophony of outraged voices. But his archaic Cro-Magnon views and misogynist blather still lingers in the air like the stench from a gathering of pigs.

After all, he is what he speaks. He, who has no difficulty abusing a woman on the air, sets an example for younger, more impressionable minds and feeds the hate in others who find comfort in his toxic rhetoric.

It also illustrates how radical the Republican Party has become. Not one of the candidates has condemned Limbaugh for his hate speech. Instead, they chose a more tempered response to avoid alienating the king of right-wing talk and voice of the Republican Party.

Mitt Romney said it best.

“I’ll just say this, which is, it’s not the language I would have used.”

Way to go, Mitt!

Shame on you for not speaking out in defense of your wife and daughters.

I guess power is corrupting and those on a blind quest to fulfill their perceived destiny will pursue it at any cost. Where is the moral compass in the Republican Party? Where will they draw the line in the pig manure on insidious talk?

This is a Party of hypocrites and thieves. They lash out at government for having too much control of our lives, yet they want to steal our souls and control our bodies.

Bowing to Limbaugh, the grand Pooh-Bah gasbag and purveyor of hate, shows how far the Republican Party has devolved, surrendering control to the far-right element of the Party.

Enhanced by Zemanta

Come an’ get me, copper!

English: Texas using a laser speed detection gun.

Image via Wikipedia

The cop saw me before I saw him.

He had a radar detector. I had astigmatism.

Hypnotized by the swirl of his ruby-red lights, I pulled over to the side.

He got out of his car, parked across the street, and swaggered toward me.

My chance to make a getaway.

Instead, I idled in confusion. Surely, I had slowed down before the radar had detected me.

Under the circumstances, surely you did not. And don’t call me Shirley.

“License and registration.”

Two good friends of mine. Or, so I thought.

My license picked a terrible time not to cooperate. When I tried to force it from the plastic holder, it wedged itself inside it.

“C’mon. C’mon,” I muttered. “Move!”

The cop took two steps back.

“I’m sorry. I’m just so stressed today.”

Finally, my mug slid from the slit. License nirvana. As I held it in my hand, God, or one of my internal voices, spoke to me.

“Tomorrow, take the parallel road with the 45-mph speed limit.”

After my divine revelation, it was time to find the registration. I opened the glove compartment and wrestled with the envelope that was stuck between the driver’s manual and a hard place.

Are you ready to rumble?

I tackled the envelope during the third round and handed it Mr. Cop.

“I don’t need the envelope. I just need the registration.”

My fumbling fingers finally gripped the registration. I handed both IDs to Mr. Cop.

“I’m so sorry, Officer. I’m so stressed today. My son got a “D” on a statistics test. We don’t know if he’s going to pass the class. We don’t even know if he’s going to the class. Blah, blah, blah.”

He steps back two more paces.

“You were going forty-five in a thirty-mile zone.”

“You’re absolutely right. I did a bad thing.” Indistinct muttering. “I’m just so stressed this morning. I don’t know where my head is today.”

I looked in the backseat. My head wasn’t there.

“I can’t hear you. Can you speak louder.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m not myself today.”

Who are you then – Gladys or Felicia?

I don’t know. I was Gladys yesterday. And Felicia’s at the hairdresser.

Mr. Cop hands the papers back to me. They help lunatics like me stay in the country. The illegal immigrants are the sane ones.

“I’m going to give you a warning this time.”

“Oh, God, thank you so much. I promise I’ll never speed again.”

Fingers crossed behind my back.

“Okay then.” He turns and runs for the safety of his car.

With hands shaking, I revved the engine and sped away . . . at a 25-mph clip.

I checked the mirror. Mr. Cop’s car was still parked and dark.

His hands are probably shaking, too.

Have you gotten any tickets lately?

Enhanced by Zemanta

eBook Review: Shit that Pisses Me Off

When asked to review Peg Tittle’s eBook, “Shit that Pisses Me Off,” a collection of 25 previously published essays with attitude, I couldn’t say no. I had found a pissed off kindred spirit who writes radioactive prose with a hint of sardonic wit. Also, her name is cool.

Peg sets her sights on a subject with laser sharp accuracy then hurls words like missiles in her collection of 25 cogent essays on the foibles and hypocrisies of life.

In the first essay, “You Oughtta Need a License for that,” Peg deconstructs the disingenuous argument on the sanctity of life.

“We wouldn’t accept such wanton creation of life if it happened in the lab. Why do we condone it when it happens in bedrooms and backseats? . . . It should be illegal to create a John Doe Junior to carry on the family name/business.”

And on the question of the right to reproduce,

“Oh but we can’t interfere with people’s right to reproduce! . . . Merely having a capability doesn’t entail the right to exercise that capability.”

In “Mr. and Mrs.,” a rant on society’s branding of the sexes, Peg lashes out at the subliminal herding of men and women.

“. . . ‘people identify each other by sex. All the time. It’s like ‘Female Person Smith’ and ‘Male Person Brown’ or ‘Person-with-Uterus Smith’ and ‘Person-with Penis Brown.'”

Peg tackles the hypocrisy of gender genre fiction in a compelling piece aptly titled, “Women’s fiction.”

“And what exactly is ‘women’s fiction’? Fiction by women? . . . And what’s that, fiction that women are interested in? As if all women are interested in the same things.”

In the controversial essay, “In Commemoration of the Holocaust,” Peg dissects the duplicity of religion and mocks the sheep mentality of the flock.

“I’m not saying it didn’t happen. I’m not saying that, in any way, it was okay. But I’d like to point out that a devout Jew would’ve done, would do, the same thing to the Germans—if God told him to. ‘Oh but God would never command such a thing.’  Take a better look at your Bible . . .”

— A piece that caused me some angst because of my Jewish background. I understand Peg’s commentary on the hypocrisy of religion. But I was uncomfortable with her use of the Holocaust to formulate her argument. Perhaps, several examples would have been more “fair and balanced,” to quote Fox news.

Nothing fair and balanced about that echo chamber, IMO. Now that I’ve stepped on that landmine, I won’t be receiving triage from my right leaning friends.

Whether you agree or disagree with Peg’s position on the issues, “Shit that Pisses Me Off” will stick to your brain long after you’ve ingested every word — No thought evacuations here. Her writing is adept and titillating – her name is Tittle after all – her razor sharp words will slice and dice the cerebral jugular.

If you enjoy reading smart, witty essays that challenge the intellect, download a copy of “Shit that Pisses Me Off” for $2.99 at Amazon and get pissed off, too.

To learn more about Peg Tittle and her writing please swing by her website Bite-Sized Subversions – challenging thoughts about everyday things.

I am thrilled to feature a chapter from “Shit that Pisses Me Off” on Think Spin in the coming days.

Other books by Peg Tittle:

Critical Thinking: An Appeal to Reason

What If…Collected Thought Experiments in Philosophy

Should Parents be Licensed? Debating the Issues

Ethical Issues in Business—Inquiries, Cases, and Readings

Full disclosure: I received a free copy of “Shit that Pisses Me off” for writing the review.

Enhanced by Zemanta

A WIP, not a WHIP, though one smacks a horse’s ass

Excerpt from a work in progress

This was my moment: choke or breathe. Either the cubed potato would slip down my throat or clog up my air filter.

So far, my soul hadn’t bailed out on me. Thoughts continued to light up my brain while my fatalistic, internal drama queen ranted on about the end of days. It focused me in a weird, disturbing way.  I no longer pined about losing time or sight of my goals.

A Horse's Ass

Image by citron_smurf via Flickrosing time or sight of my goals.

I had one big assed delusional goal lurking in front of me. Staying alive! Staying alive! Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, staying alive! No other pathetic self-perpetuated malady could come close in comparison.

Either that potato would make it down my esophagus or EMT workers would be hauling off my corpse tonight on a stretcher and Jim would be cooking for one. He was the better cook anyway.

I don’t remember the point when I stopped stressing over the potato and my early demise. Did it happen downstairs in the kitchen or upstairs in the office? I have no recollection. One minute death obsessed, the next I was in front of the computer screen staring at white space.

Maybe it was a white light and my dead relatives would be arriving any minute to take me to heaven for some Chinese food.

That’s what my family did every Sunday night when I was kid, a Tung Hoy night out with the grandparents and immediate family, although my younger brother and I didn’t know the meaning of immediate. We were usually late.

I would enjoy hearing the dinner din again, especially the pre appetizer spat over what to order, as soon as the waiter handed out the food-stained menus.

I didn’t care what I got in the Chinese food lottery as long as it included a bowl of wonton soup. But that wouldn’t happen until my folks stopped arguing over the merits of ordering from A” or “B,” while the waiter stood with a fake smile, head slightly bowed, probably regretting his table assignment.

“Spareribs and egg rolls,” my father said, and then slammed the menu down on the table.

I chimed in with “I want fried lice.”

Back then, you could get away with saying crass ethnic shit if you were a kid. Political correctness didn’t exist. Even so, I got a death-ray stare from my mother across the table.

Meanwhile, my grandmother was flossing her teeth with a matchbook cover. She didn’t get a death-ray stare from my mother for committing a major social faux pas. Grandmothers could get away with old world habits. Hell, I have a picture of her on a horse-drawn carriage.

They didn’t have toothpicks back then. Just ice picks. Someone would have to be in a bad place to remove a piece of meat from their teeth with an ice pick, a perfect excuse for an unhappy wife or husband to get rid of a spouse.

“But officer, I was just trying to remove a hunk of chicken from my wife’s teeth when the ice pick slipped and impaled her brain.”

If my dead relatives happened to sneak down from heaven and observe a day in my unstructured world, they’d probably be disappointed and not stick around. Once back up in heaven, they’d share their experiences with the other dearly departed. “It’s okay,” they’d say. “We’re not missing anything.”

I’m Plotzing over Jewish Life TV!

at homeImage via Wikipedia

I’ve got a new guilty pleasure. Can you guess what it is?

Already you’re discouraged.

Wait until you hear.  I’m dying to tell you … I’m absolutely spritzing.

While channel surfing through our new cable program line up, I tripped over Jewish Life TV, fell down, and couldn’t get up.

God, I’m such a klutz. 

But instead of calling a lawyer, I sat in stunned paralysis, staring at the TV with my mouth open …

Keep your mouth shut!

… and watched a commercial about the Jewish Basketball Hall of Fame, a video of famous twentieth century Jewish basketball players.

I didn’t know there were any Jewish basketball players.

What chutzpah!!

But I was hooked. I tell you. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

With such mashugana programs as Mensch Life with David Grossman and Doris Epstein, the comedy/talk show, James & Sunda, and their faux sponsor Neurotic Star.

James said (paraphrasing) that “after drinking Neurotic Star he became obsessed about a girl he called, wondering why she never called him back until he realized he had never called her in the first place.”

And other fakakta shows like Jewish Music Video Countdown (in Hebrew), Kosher Organic Ranchero, and Talkline with Zev Brenner.

I had finally found my temple and it cost me bupkis. I should be so lucky to afford a ticket to Friday night Shabbat  But now I didn’t have to because of The Beat : Shabbat Medley.

I’m farklempt!

I found God on cable and will watch JLTV religiously. It should be played frame-by-frame on TiVo. After all, no good comes out of hurrying.

So, this I tell you with a heavy heart. Light hearts are too skinny, and you really need to put some meat on your bones.

Don’t be a nebish and miss TV’s greatest mitzvah, or you should get a stomach cramp and die!

I love you JLTV. Thanks to you now, I have two Jewish mothers in my life.

Enhanced by Zemanta

I am Indebted to Debt

An example of street markets accepting credit ...Image via Wikipedia

In tribute to the brain dead politicians who wasted billions of dollars last week while trying to resolve the debt crisis, I’m reposting this piece from 2009.

Are you a Debtutant?

“Nothing says give me a break like a credit card slap in the hand,” the sales lady said.

“Yes,” the others echoed from a line that stretched around the room while sinking into the soles of their bottomless shoes.

They waited their turn to choose between heaven and hell among the wasted should have beens collecting dust on the shelf.

“It’s 20% off.” The sales lady said. “Just give me your card, and you can have whatever you want. It’s easy money. Don’t think about the mortgage or putting your kid through school. You’ve got to live in the now!”

“Greed is good,” the others chanted while toeing the line. “God Bless America.”

“Oh, say can you see. It’s bad to be thrifty. You need to spend to keep the economy healthy even if you’re dying from debtors disease.

“So, cough up the credit card. Forget about the lien against your home. Enjoy the fifty-foot flat screen TV with treble and woofer surround sound before the repo man comes to take it while they auction off your house.

“Live in the now, or you’ll live to regret the what ifs later when reality settles into the butt imprint you left on the couch, where you used to sit and click through 300 stations of shit on your remote control.

“You’ve got to live in the now!

“Stress will purify your soul. Don’t grow old and crapless. Keep the inside of your wallet free from mold. Air it out often with your debtor’s club card. Remember, money is paper. Plastic is gold.”

What’s in your wallet?