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 Banker Intervention or Let’s Make a Deal


Day 26 of 30 Days of Writing – Today’s Writing Prompt is “An Intervention.” Please swing by We Work for Cheese to link up or read other posts by the criminally insane.

A Dramatization


Five members of the Banker family are seated around a lavishly decorated living room. Their attention is on Betty who is standing in front of the fireplace. Her gaze follows Bob as he frantically paces the room.


I’m really concerned about Bob.

Bob climbs on top of a piano on the wall opposite the fireplace.


Betty Banker, come on down! How much do you think I paid for that Rembrandt above the mantel? C’mon, I’ll give you three guesses. It’ll cost you nothing to guess unless you take too long. Then, I’ll have to charge a late fee.


Bob doesn’t make sense anymore. He only wants to play games, talk about doubling his money and charging fees. That’s why I called this intervention.


C’mon, guess the price. Damn it! If you’re right, you’ll get a chance to spin the wheel. Take a risk. Show some spine. The worst that can happen. You lose your house but get a toaster.


(Shakes head)

Every time I walk into the kitchen, Bob hands me a toaster. The other day he started charging refrigerator fees every time I open the door.


If you’re within five thousand dollars, I’ll give you the green Rolls Royce parked in the garage.

Betty’s brother Stan removes a calculator, stares at the painting and starts assessing its value.


I can’t tell you how many times Bob has foreclosed on our house. He has a stack of foreclosure signs stuffed inside the bedroom closet. I can’t reach my shoe display anymore. That’s why I’m wearing these old things.

Betty glances at her Prada shoes.


Awful. Terrible. I think he needs meds.


He charges a finance fee every day we don’t have sex. Lately, my wifely income has taken a hit. Last week alone, I lost $700.

Bob dismounts the piano and lays a hand on Horace’s shoulder.


C’mon, Horace. Take a guess. What do you have to lose?


They already took the boat.


Isn’t this fun!!!


Uh, no!


He’s charging the neighbors a fixed feces fee every time their dogs crap on the lawn. The urination fee is liquid and subject to change.


I think the Rembrandt’s worth $250,000.


Sorry, Stan, that’s market value. I’m talking net value after all the auction house fees.

Bob grabs Stan’s wallet.


You didn’t say anything about market value.


It’s printed on the cocktail napkins in 2-point type.


Yesterday, Bob chopped up the bedroom furniture and sold the pieces at a yard sale. We have no idea where the pieces are or who owns them.

Stan gets up.


You can’t leave now. We just started.


I can’t afford the intervention.

Stan races out the door.

Bob laughs.


What’s so funny?


He didn’t pay “the wrong answer fee.” I just had him arrested for fraud.

After exchanging concerned looks, the family vacates their chairs and leaves the house.

Betty reaches inside her purse, removes a $100 bill and hands it to Bob.


Here, Bob.


What’s this for?


The finance charge for later tonight.

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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(

Shoe Misfits



Shoes! (Photo credit: Cynewulf)

Ode to an Ill-Fitting Shoe

Cursed is the foot that’s born too thin.

Nary a shoe will the foot fit in.

If the shoe is too wide,

The foot will slide.

If the shoe is too tight,

A blister will smite.

What in the world can a lady do

To keep a foot safe inside a shoe?


Cursed is the foot that’s born too wide.

Always the toes will cramp inside.

If the shoe is too small,

The toes hit a wall.

If the shoe is too big,

The nails dig in.

What in the world can a lady do

 To keep a foot safe inside a shoe?


Cursed is the foot that’s born too short.

Nothing you do will give it support.

If the shoe is too long,

The toes ‘ll get lost.

If the shoe isn’t snug,

They get crushed on the run.

What in the world can a lady do

To keep a foot safe inside a shoe?


Sadly, I won’t know the answer to this.

My AA foot will never find bliss,

As most shoe stores like a wide foot fit,

Into the dark my sore sole slips.

How does your foot size up?

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Teleconfusion – TV or Not TV

Television set for Wikipedia userbox icons, or...

Television set for Wikipedia userbox icons, or other things. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Teleconfusion: An abnormal condition variously characterized by stupor, stereotypy, mania, and either rigidity or extreme flexibility of the limbs, resulting from watching too much television.

Through the Chaos

Through the Chaos (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You may have experienced one of the symptoms of Teleconfusion after watching The Apprentice, or America’s Got Talent or the recent season of Survivor.

Symptoms of Teleconfusion

  • Restless body syndrome: shifting positions from sitting upright, to prone, to flipped upside down on your head, a different perspective for watching the news.
  • Excessive trips to the bathroom to floss and pluck your eyebrows then yell at the glassy-eyed lunatic who stares at you like a pheasant under glass.
  • A kitchen safari: searching the cabinets, hunting for comfort foods, Cheerios and vodka, “The Breakfast of Champions.”
  • Incessant yammering, the result of mixing sugar and alcohol, unless the blather is emanating from the television and not your sputtering mouth.
  • Shaking your head like a bulldog. Drool hangs from your chin, stretching with each back-and-forth motion, a look left toward your husband, cowering on the couch, then right toward a sound bite dive bombing your ear.

The spittle grows to elongated Silly Putty proportions, then snaps, splattering the television, walls and hubby, catapulting him from the couch.

Howie Mandel says, “You are what this show is all about.”

Me? Is he talking to me?

Sharon Osborne adds, “I vote yes!”

To what? Hauling me off in a straitjacket?

Donald Trump sits behind a city block-long conference table, staring blankly with his high-end mug and low-brow talk.

“You know I think you’re great, Lisa. I’m great, too, because I’ve got more money than the U.S. Treasury and look terrific in this Persian rug glued to the top of my head. Lisa, I love you, but you’re fired!”

My right eye twitches. I wanted Lisa to win.

The medics storm the family room with a stretcher and backward-strapped suit.

“Hi Daddy,” I say, with a Cheerio stuffed in each nostril. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

My husband signs the papers. I bark at him like a Schnauzer, as they carry me out the room.

In the distance, Howie Mandel gushes, “Your life will never be the same.”

Howie was right! They locked me up and smelted the key.

Note:  Teleconfusion is a word my late father-in-law used to describe the effects of watching crap on television, a medium in which he worked for most of his adult life. He started in radio, directing Arthur Godfrey, and then transitioned into television.

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The Case of the Missing Font Family. Hint. The Delete Key Did It!

Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes (Photo credit:

Hey, you blanking page. What happened to the Font family?

They vanished somewhere between the margins, their characters decimated by Jihadist spelling terrorists.

Alas, I fear the fragment may be dead, but I can’t find the body of words.

I need an English detective to solve the case – Sherlock Holmes. Prep your pipe and tip your bowler.

Holmes turns to Watson.

“The Delete key killed the words this time, not the Butler.”

Delete key on PC keyboard

Delete key on PC keyboard (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Are you sure, Holmes?”

“Why yes. Don’t you see? It’s the perfect crime – no evidence or DNA. Just D.O.A. Yes, I dare say, the delete key is a letter of interest.”

“We should put it under surveillance, Holmes.”

“Quite right, perhaps, a desktop disguised as a potted plant. And it doesn’t need sunlight or water.”

The conjectures stopped there.

Watson and Holmes suddenly left the scene after an incident with the Device Manager, who accidentally ejected them from the case.

Oh, well. The desktop has limited memory anyway. 2.99 Gigabytes that gobble up RAM and fragment jam that get stuck between the CPU and a hard drive.

Who cares? They’re only words and memory of words in this version of Word, an ecosystem of micro bits on the page.

If a biologist were to study the desktop habitat, he would find infinite lifeforms amid the fonts. The most noble one of all, the infamous Font de Leon, a blue-blooded Times New Roman.

With his sidekick Thesaurus, he wanders around the white drifts of spaces in a quest to find the perfect word.

One day, while traveling through the mirage of pages, the Font closed the window and lost his way. There was no turning back and no keyboarding forward. All is lost when there’s nothing to save.

This is the heartbreak of Psoriasis and flaky fingers tapping letters that don’t know an “a” from an “n” but know when a sentence ends.

Meanwhile, the Recount de Calisto hired a courier to hunt down the Algerian, who was seen lingering amid rebellious lowercase letters, along with a petulant typeface that demanded attention in bolded UPPERCASE words.

Big Boned™ Rounded Typeface

Big Boned™ Rounded Typeface (Photo credit: _Untitled-1)

All of the letters promptly disappeared in the quicksand of the document, an accidental demise, and not a felony by the prime suspect, Delete, the key to every crime.

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