“Yummy, Scummy, Cummy,” and Other Shit My Three-Year-Old Says


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A Three-Year-Old’s Lexicon
E is a master word inventor. Her current sabor del mes is immerk. The coolest part about her use of this word is that she utilizes several parts of speech with it.
Noun: You’re an immerk.
Adjective: Immerking voices.
Verb: I’m immerking you.
Adjective/noun double scoop: Immerking immerks.
You’d think that after all this immerking I’d know what the fuck immerk means. But I have a hunch that once you hear immerking voices, you will never be the same again.

Do you think rhyming is totes awesome? It’s okay, I’ll answer for you: Fo’ shizzle my nizzle bo dizzle! Rhyming appeals to us and we feel a sense of satisfaction when we make up/hear a kickass rhyme or rhyming scheme. Not surprisingly this appreciation for rhyming starts at a young age for some. For E, it started with all made up words. Hinkta sinkta linkta was the trifecta of choice for a while. Then her rhyming morphed into beginning with a real word and following it with two gobbletygook words (or words that happen to be real words unbeknownst to her) that rhyme with the first word. So, about a month ago we were out a restaurant and E took a bite of her burrito and screamed, “Mmmmm, yummy scummy cummy!” Of all the fucking sounds to precede –ummy, she chose those two. Those two. Not /ch/ or /f/ or /g/ or /h/ or /t/. Even /d/ or /b/ would’ve sounded age-appropriate. Goddamn I love my weird kid.

Okay, so I swear to god this happened yesterday: E and Babe and I were hanging out on E’s bed, surrounded by some random household objects that she’s taken into her possession and made into doctor’s instruments. She was holding one of these objects (a dropper I think) and sort of shaking it up and down on her lap when out of her mouth flies, “smooooshy cun, smooshy cu-nit, smooshy cunt!” Seriously? This is getting eerie.

P.S. If you landed on this post using the search terms “smooshy cunt,” move along now, there’s nothing here for you. And the same goes for you “itty bitty pussy” searchers, you sick fucks.

A Three-Year-Old’s Harsh Realization
A few weeks ago, upon seeing her dad come out of the shower, E pointed to his baby maker and innocently inquired, “Daddy, what’s that?”

“Well, honey, that’s Daddy’s penis. Boys have penises and girls have yonis or vaginas. You have a yoni just like Mama.”

“But I want a penis! When can I have a penis, when can I get a penis?!” E lamented as she collapsed onto the floor and bawled her eyes out.

I wanted to explain to her that if she truly felt like this when she got older, we would gladly pay for the surgery if we could afford it. But instead I just held her and said, “I know it’s hard when we want something we can’t have…But yonis are really cool and they look like beautiful flowers.” Bam! Tantrum over.

About a week later I happened to walk into her room while she was gingerly examining her nether regions. “Mommy,” she said sweetly with her legs spread eagle and feet behind her head, “when I get bigger I’ll have a penis.” I again explained to her about how awesome girl parts are and how they look like floral masterpieces. She was dubious but remained calm. “Well, but I still want a penis…Why do boys have penises?” I don’t even remember what I said exactly because all I could think about was how trippy it was that I was discussing the birds and the bees with this little person who seemingly just came out of my vagina like days ago.

Then, as if she read my mind she asked, “Do boy bees have penises?” I just about shat my pants. Then I was like, do they? I think so. Of course they do. They must. How else would they reproduce? I’ve never thought about bee penises. I can’t picture a bee penis. All I can picture is a stinger. That doesn’t sound comfortable. In case you’ve ever wondered about bee sex but were afraid to ask, drone honey bees not only have huge penises (the largest of any living creature compared to its body size) but they commit suicide just to have a little sexy time with the queen. Honey bee sex occurs in mid-air, when the queen flies out in search of mates. As the brave drone grasps the queen, he turns his penis inside out using a contraction of his abdominal muscles and hemostatic pressure, and inserts it tightly into the queen’s reproductive tract. He immediately ejaculates with such explosive force that the tip of his penis ruptures, and is left behind inside the queen. The drone falls to the ground, where he dies soon after. You’re welcome.

A Three-Year-Old’s Attempted Grasp of the Concept of Death
One of our beloved cats, Bogey, died unexpectedly a couple months ago, and of course we had to try to explain it to E the best we could in three-year-old speak. I told her that Bogey died and she replied, “Oh…That’s a real bummer.” I told her that we’ll never see Bogey again but we’ll always remember and love him. “But he’s still going to meow,” E said very matter-of-factly. We went back and forth in this manner for a couple minutes until she asked, “Where is Bogey? Is he in the trashcan?” I froze. He was indeed in the trashcan “waiting” to be buried in the backyard. I felt queasy. For one, she had no idea he was in the trashcan; she’d been sleeping when Babe informed me of Bogey’s passing and his current whereabouts. There’s no way she knew he was in the trashcan. Plus she’s never seen Babe put a dead animal in the trashcan. Secondly, I couldn’t handle the fact that my sweet Bogey Wogey was in the trashcan surrounded by garbage. “Yes, he’s in the trashcan and we’re going to bury him later in the backyard,” I said with a huge lump in my throat.

The time came for the burial. I’d never actually buried any animal let alone my own pet. Babe went to retrieve the body from the trashcan while I sobbed and E smiled in anticipation of seeing Bogey. Babe removed him from the plastic bag and we laid his body next to the hole Babe had dug. I cried tears all over his body while I gently stroked his dirty fur repeating, “It’s okay, Bogey.” It was clear E still didn’t understand what the hell was going on even though Bogey’s body lay there lifeless and stiff. She smiled while she pet him and said his name a few times just like she did when he was alive. It was time to bury him so Babe placed him in the hole. This is when I really lost it and ironically wailed like a three-year-old. Like y’know that kind of cry kids do where even after they’ve stopped crying there’s this automatic gasp that happens repeatedly for a little while? That’s what I was doing. Babe began covering the body with dirt. E screamed, “But his eyes, he can’t see!” I sobbed again. I was sobbing for the loss of our beloved friend but also for E’s ephemeral naiveté. I was envious of her innocence and already mourning the impending loss of it.

She asks about death every so often now.
“Mommy, why do we die?”
“Mommy, when can I die?”
“Can we see when we die?”
“What happens to our eyes when we die, Mommy?”
“Bogey’s dead but he can still meow.”

A Three-Year-Old’s Transition From Psycho to Slightly Less Psycho
E is finally out of her total psycho phase and currently in transition from being a weeanderthal to a semi-normal human. A couple months ago, I got the dreaded call from her teacher. She had scratched a girl in the face for no apparent reason. Then this type of behavior became an everyday occurrence. She would seemingly “choose” one person (mostly sweet little girls) and set out to torment her physically and emotionally. This is when I realized she was at the pinnacle of a major psycho-cycle and that the situation called for drastic measures. And by drastic measures I mean bribing with chocolate and ice cream. Many moms out there have their high and mighty opinions about how getting children to change their behaviors by dangling chocolate in front of them is bad, but ya know what? It fucking worked like a charm. Besides, you know me; you think I’m gonna give her a goddamn Snickers bar? Oh no, only the best, most expensive, organic, GMO-free, soy-free, dairy-free, fair-trade chocolate made by companies are not owned by selfish fuckwads for my little angel—Newman’s organic dark chocolate, fair trade cacao nibs, Coconut Bliss ice cream. Regret? None. Shame? A little.

Btw, E is officially potty trained! Ya know why? Because we fuckin’ bribed the shit out of her. Literally. She really likes looking at her poop in the toilet and comparing each one to a certain shape or animal.
“Look, Mommy, it’s a snake poop!”
“Look, it’s a starfish poop!”
“Look, my poop looks like a pentagon!”
“Look, I made an octopus poop!”
“Look, I pooped a Glenn Beck!”
Anyway, we here in Crazytown have been waiting for this for a long f-ing time. It’s totally freaking awesome. Except it’s not. Because when something bad (and by bad I mean resisting and screaming and kicking like we’re trying to murder her during almost every diaper change) turns into something good, another good thing must turn bad. It appears that the rumors of regressive behavior in conjunction with potty training are true. Ever since she became a potty rock star, she simply cannot handle seeing or even thinking about things she wants that she cannot acquire at that very moment. The other day at the park a little girl showed up in a very fancy dress-up dress. Y’know, totally normal park attire. E completely lost it as soon as she laid eyes on it. She screamed and cried and yelled, “But I want that dress!!!!!!” She couldn’t compose herself to the point where we had to leave the fucking park. E’s also gone back to her old two-year-old thinking patterns of believing that she’s the only person in the fucking world that matters and if she doesn’t get her way right away it’s equal to squashing her soul into a puddle of goo. Today, she wanted me to push her on our backyard swing for the fiftieth time and I told her I had to go get my nasal spray first because tree pollen is trying to kill me. Could she handle waiting for one goddamn minute? Certainly not. This turned into an epic, half-hour freak-the-fuck-out screamfest that ended with me lying on the couch exhausted and E lying on top of me saying, Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy…,” which actually sounded like, “MomME, MomME, MomME, MomME…,” which makes perfect fucking sense. Somebody please throw me a bone. Oh wait, don’t; it’ll probably hit me in the head.


Google : Zodka :: This Post : You


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A list of my most recent Google searches:

  • my three-year old is acting like she’s possessed
  • I think my three-year old is possessed by demons
  • why have demons invaded my child’s body?
  • why is my three-year old acting like she’s completely insane?
  • I’m pretty sure my three-year old is really an alien
  • why are two-year olds such pains in the ass and three-year olds even bigger pains in the ass?
  • what to do if my three-year old hits me
  • what to do if my three-year old hits other kids at school
  • what to do if my three-year old targets “gentle” kids at school?
  • why does my child act like I’m asking her to solve the Hodge conjecture when I’m really just asking her to put on her sweater?
  • how many shots of vodka should I do while my three-year old is throwing a tantrum?
  • average number of tantrums a three-year old throws in a day
  • average number of alcoholic drinks mothers of three-year olds consume per day
  • time of day it’s appropriate to start drinking in American culture
  • time of day it’s appropriate to start drinking in any culture
  • why do I feel like death for two days straight after having a few/some/many cocktails?
  • why does my child freak the fuck out during diaper changes?
  • oldest nuerotypcial child on record who’s still in diapers
  • why does my sanity have to depend on the amount of sleep I’m getting?
  • how can I trick my mind and body into thinking I got enough sleep?
  • why do I feel like a shell of myself?
  • specific things I can say to successfully persuade my parents to move to my city
  • why am I even bothering with you, google, because most of your search results lead me to sites that contain an inordinate amount of bullshit from bullshit-spewing motherf’ers who spew bullshit like I should be spanking my child if she hits me?
  • fuck you, google

Weeanderthal-Related Insanity, Superbug-Related Angst, and Sriracha-Related Misery


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Hot diggity damn, our old piece of shit computer is up and running again! Turns out if you ignore, curse at, threaten, and occasionally slap a broken computer, it’ll fix itself! Anyway, I vowed never to write blog posts on my iPad because I’m afraid I will inadvertently publish my insane ramblings that are meant to stay locked in the draft vault FOREVER. Blogging on a touch screen is a recipe for disaster. Anyhoo, waz up my peeps? It’s been a while. I’ll start off with an interaction that actually happened several months ago, but I’ll include it anyway because these types of interactions occur in our house every. fucking. day.

E: I want a banana!

Me: I’d love to give you a banana but can you ask me nicely please?

E: Can I have a banana please, Mama?

Me: Sure, honey, here ya go.

E: No, I don’t want a banana!!!! [swats the banana] Noooooooooo!!!!

Me: [calmly places the banana back in the fruit hanger]

E: Noooooooooooooooooooooo! I want a bananaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh! Bananaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy! Gimme the bananaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Me: Sorry, honey, you said no so I put it back.

E: Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

[An epic 20 minute tantrum ensues featuring new moves like stomping on books (I know, blasphemous!) and head-banging (not the kind I did in high school)]

Me: You want your banana now?

E: Okay. I’ll wipe the tears from my face and then eat my banana, Mama.

You can never truly appreciate the deft mind-fucking abilities of a tiny gnome child until you actually live with one.

Now lemme tell you somethin’ beotch…

Truthfully though, if another person tells me that the three’s are worse than the two’s, I’m going to seriously lose my fucking shit. Because I just can’t see how that’s possible. Never have I been the victim of such defiance, such sheer will and audacity (the teenage girls I worked with at a residential treatment center ain’t got nothin’ on this girl). And really, let’s tear off the pretty-faced euphemisms like “spirited” and reveal the ugly truth. This kid is freakin’ nuts! Aaaaand I’m pretty sure she wants to kill me. And if you think I’m just a big, fat kvetcher, you try hanging out all day every day with a person whose favorite word to say, and whose least favorite word to hear, is NO. Sheeeeeit.

The wee-anderthal’s in part-time preschool now. She is totally obsessed with dressing up. Like, totally. It’s a sleeps-with-dress-up-clothes-in-bed-and-hugs-them-all-night-long type of obsession. I play music at her school. When I get there, she’s always donning some kind of tutu or dress. Then I start playing my ukulele and singing with the kids and she stands right in front of me, mid-freaking-song, toting a frilly tulle tutu and says, “Mama, can you help me put this on?” What a trip.

You know what else is a trip? Getting her to let me change her goddamn diaper. After screaming NO!!! and plopping down on the floor in a pile of dead weight, and after I threaten to take away certain items that are near and dear to her if she doesn’t cooperate, she often plays the The Jerk hand. “Hold on, Mama, I need to bring this rock to the changing table…and this necklace and this book and this car…oh and this wand. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! I can’t carry it all!!!!” Grab the goddamn ashtray while you’re at it cuz I’m pickin’ up smokin’ again.

This is not a pile of puke.

This is not a pile of puke.

In other news, Babe’s been making kimchi! And while opening a container immediately fills your kitchen with smell of fresh, ripe shit, it’s like heaven. Shitty-smelling, fermented heaven. Hungry? No, seriously, people, eat more fermented foods. We have to in this day and age.

Speaking of, did anybody see that Frontline about the super-bug, antibiotic-resistant bacteria that are going to take over and kill us all? if you didn’t, don’t watch it. It’ll scare the crap out of you. Here is a synopsis so can scare the crap out of you instead: Due to our overuse of antibiotics in people and animals, antibiotics no longer work for some bacterial infections. These infections can kill you. Eventually antibiotics won’t work at all. Bacteria, as it turns out, are, like, super fucking smart. They can share genetic information with other types of bacteria, which “teaches” them to be resistant to

Killer packing peanuts and spiky puffballs

Killer packing peanuts and spiky puffballs

antibiotics. Turns out it won’t be nuclear war but instead some microscopic bad-ass motherfuckers that’ll wipe us out.

Anyway, children being brought up in ultra-clean environments are not being exposed to many of the beneficial microorganisms that actually help develop a healthy immune system. That’s why children have way more allergies these days. And that’s not the only problem with our addiction to cleanliness. Most antibacterial soaps contain some really bad shit. Triclosan is a popular antibacterial additive in soaps and other products. Studies have shown triclosan can interfere with hormones critical for normal development and function of the brain and reproductive system. Look, believe me, I understand if you’re addicted to antibacterial hand soap because that’s what the companies make us think we should be using to adequately kill germs. As a severe germaphobe, I totally get it. Now please, don’t stop washing your hands because someone on the internet named Zodka told you to stop washing your hands. Of course hand-washing is still very important. Simply replace your antibacterial soap with regular hand soap.

F F F F F F F F F F! You’ve got to be kidding me. This just in: The company that makes, hands down, the world’s best sriracha and chili garlic sauce, Huy Fong Foods, is being sued by the city of Irwindale, CA, because residents who live near its factory are suffering from headaches and burning eyes and throats (and the company’s allegedly denying there’s a problem). I’m not surprised; that shit is hardcore. There’s just one problem (besides all those people who are prisoners in their own homes because they can’t go outside without choking on spicy fumes): I’m fucking addicted to the shit. This is not a joke. I’m experiencing heart

I dare you to try to live without me. I fucking dare you.

I dare you to try to live without me. I fucking dare you.

palpitations and severe sweating from merely entertaining the idea of cutting these delicious spicy condiments out of my diet. Look, people, I am the queen of boycotting shit. I don’t buy from companies that test on animals. I don’t buy from companies whose CEO’s are asshole homophobes or racist bigots. I won’t buy from companies that treat their employees like shit. I won’t buy from any company that uses genetically modified ingredients in their products. I won’t buy eggs unless the chickens who laid them don red velvet robes as they roam about their castle grounds pontificating about how humans are drowning in their own stupidity. Now, I’m going to have to boycott my beloved chili sauces?! Well, I guess I’ll just have to live on muesli and pretzels because those are pretty much the only foods I don’t put sriracha on/in. Hmm, hot sauce on pretzels. I never thought of that. Could be good. I give up.

Turns out Hoy Fong’s sriracha has GMO sugar in it anyway. Would you like to come food shopping with me someday? We’ll inspect every label thoroughly and it’ll take us like four hours and you’ll want to shoot yourself and/or me in the head. It’ll be so fun!

Hi, My Name’s Pussy!


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Surprise! It’s me, Zodka. Bet you thought I got swallowed by a sinkhole. Because lord knows eventually we’ll all be a sinkhole’s dinner. It’s been over five months since my last true confession. Well, that’s what happens sometimes. I go where the wind takes me, and often it takes me down roads filled with boulders, tar, and other major obstructions that prohibit me from doing things like turning on the computer and bathing.

During this lengthy absence, E has blossomed into a fluttery little girl whose best stuffed friend is named Mr. Tall From Nepal. She still owns my boobs, which I plan on repossessing sometime during this century. She talks. Like, a lot. You’ve undoubtedly heard of the TV show turned cliché, Kids say the darndest things. Well, golly gee, ain’t it the gosh darn truth.

A case in point is the following transcript of a conversation between E and me in the car:

E: Whoa!

Me: Oh, yeah, that’s a cement truck. [followed by a riveting explanation of how it works]

E: Cement cock. Ooooh, cement cock. Wow!

[We talk about other things for a minute or two]

E: It’s pwetty cool.

Me: What’s pretty cool?

E: Cement cock’s pwetty cool.

Advertisement: Ask your doctor about Cement Cock, because when you need it hard, you need it REAL HARD. *Side effects include cracking, discoloration and eventual deterioration of penis.    

Here is another conversation that transpired in the car:

E: [talking to herself] Hi, what’s your name. My name’s Pussy.

Me: What’s your name?

E: Pussy.

Me: WHAT’S your name?


Me: Hmm. That’s an interesting name.

E: Thomas Train friend’s Pussy.

Me: OH, PERCY! Hi, Percy, my name’s Asshole.

Okay, I didn’t really tell her my name’s asshole. But have you ever heard a toddler say asshole? It. is. the. fucking. best. shit. ever. Especially when they repeat it, like, 20 times in the car with a cute little rise-fall intonation on the hole syllable.

Speaking of assholes, we just went car shopping and had to talk to sleazy salesmen because our car got smashed to pieces. Turns out that some people’s sneezes can cause them to lose control of their vehicles and crash into other people’s vehicles and total them. Mr. SneezyOur parked Honda Accord was the latest victim of this deleterious bodily function. It was a ’96, an old fart of a car but one that kept us chugging along faithfully without much of a fuss. I feel bad because we never gave it a name and I always cursed the car because the locks didn’t work correctly (from being stolen and broken into countless times) and things were falling apart on the inside. Now I’m feeling really guilty. Like when that bigoted, cantankerous coworker you always badmouth dies and then you feel like shit for thinking and saying all those horrible things because maybe you never really thought or cared about what they went through as a child and never really wondered why they were the way the were.

You wanna hear something really freaky? Last week, Babe was telling me about how our friend’s Honda, also a ’96, got hit and totaled while it was parked outside her house. She received $3,000 for it. We then joked about how great it would be if someone did that to our Honda. Two days later, Mr. Sneezy smashed into our car parked outside of our house, totaled it, and we received $3,000 for it. Um. Yeah. Totally fucking freaky. The moral of this story is: Don’t fuck with us cuz we can make shit happen, yo.

I would like to publicly thank Mr. Sneezy for not hit-n-running and for having insurance. I hope your cold cleared up quickly and I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.

Here’s a picture of Pussy the Train:Pussy the Train

Okay, I’m out. I’ll be back soon. Or not.

The Empathy Enforcer: A Dolphin Manifesto [re-post]


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A small tale with a happy ending having nothing to do with dolphins, but a cool and somewhat relevant story nonetheless. Recently on a late night bus ride home, the driver sped off from a stop, leaving a desperate, sprinting teenage boy furiously waving his arms in her wake. “Wait!” I yelled as she closed the door. But she pretended not to hear and quickly put her foot on the gas. As I watched him disappear into the black, I was overtaken with the urge to push the driver out of her seat and tell her that I was now taking over. “What the…?!” she’d scream. “Are you cr…?!” “First thing’s first,” I’d inform her, “we’ll be returning to the stop where you knowingly stranded that poor boy so he can get on this bus, tell you off for being so mean, and get to his destination.” We pulled over at the next stop several blocks down the road and, as I watched a passenger disembark through the back door, I noticed a flash of red fly past my window. There he was. The young running man. The determined, I-will-get-on-that-bus-if-it-fucking-kills-me young running man. As he walked up the bus stairs and passed me on his way to the back, I sank into my seat with a smile, reveling in the fact that all was right with the world, if only for a moment. With a fire in his belly that boy changed his fortune despite being a victim of apathy. He was one of the lucky ones. Those who don’t have the freedom or ability to protect themselves from human callousness are not so lucky.

The “people of the sea” deserve to be free. As a young girl, when anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I proudly replied, “A dolphin trainer!” This childhood dream was in part inspired by a trip to Sea World when I was an adolescent. I watched in awe as the trainer and dolphin seemed to be one. We all left the show smiling from ear to ear, much like the dolphins themselves, muttering to our family members in wonderment and joy. I longed to be a dolphin’s best friend and was convinced it was my destiny to frolic joyfully in the water and teach dolphins how to do amazing, applause-generating tricks at Sea World. The dolphins needed someone like me. Someone who would stroke their smooth bodies and tell them they are beautiful and talented.

Ric O’Barry, too, was attracted to the dolphin-training profession in his younger years. He worked with the dolphins that starred on the television show, “Flipper,” during which time he witnessed disturbing and consistent behaviors of captive dolphins. From these observations, O’Barry determined that they were suffering from what he now refers to as “dolphin depression syndrome.” In various interviews, O’Barry has repeatedly expressed that the captive dolphin’s body language is extremely revealing. In an August 2009 interview, O’Barry stated, “The real show begins when the show is over and everybody’s asked to leave. You see the dolphins go over to the side of the tank and they put their head up against the wall and just lie there like a log.”

Before hearing about the documentary The Cove, I, along with millions of others, was unaware of the covert operation, in Taiji, Japan, of the capturing, selling, and slaughtering of thousands of dolphins a year. As many who have seen the film know, The Cove is named after the inlet in which terrified and confused dolphins are forced into and trapped, and where they await their horrible fate. Employees from various aquaria and marine parks from around the world come and observe the dolphins, on the hunt for the “perfect” trainee. The one who seems the most intelligent, teachable, and well-behaved. The one who will be able to wow scads of spectators with her fluid and graceful moves. The one who will be able to generate millions of dollars to line the pockets of marine park higher-ups.

In Taiji, the dolphins and whales that get picked for marine parks are ripped away from their families and home to spend the rest of their now-shortened lives in small concrete pools. Most of the unsellable dolphins and whales are killed in unbelievably brutal ways. Their bodies are then sold for meat, most of which is unfit for human consumption because of high levels of mercury. For any dolphin or whale forced into the Cove, unimaginable suffering is a guarantee.

–The Cove

Researchers have observed that dolphins can swim up to 60 miles a day. Dolphins and whales need to roam. It is their nature. It is a necessity. Cetaceans (whales, dolphins, & porpoises) are migratory mammals and they travel through the vast underworld in search of warmer waters, ample food sources, and suitable breeding grounds. There is endless proof that captive cetaceans (even those bred in captivity) do not respond well to confinement. Virtually nothing about the confines of a small cement pool resembles that of the ocean. They’re fed dead fish, at times having to be tube-fed because eating dead fish is as backwards to them as eating live fish is to us. Ultimately, these animals are denied any semblance of their natural habitat, resulting in alarmingly high rates of depression and early mortality.

Sea Shepherd Conservation Society is an organization whose mission is to end the destruction of habitat and slaughter of wildlife in the world’s oceans in order to conserve and protect ecosystems and species. When I dream of being The Empathy Enforcer, this logo often appears in my mind.

I’ve lost hours of sleep from relentless mental pictures of dolphins dying from spears and sadness. I often lie awake fantasizing that a superpower benefactor offers to grant me a single superpower. Without hesitation I request to be incarnated with the ability to transfer feelings of pain and distress from captured to captor, from jailed to jailer, from sufferer to agent. I would free the perpetrators from their detachment, indifference, and greed, thereby granting them the conviction with which to free their victims and never capture or murder another being again. I would be the enforcer of empathy because, alas, some cannot attain it on their own.

Many have been deceived by the dolphin’s so-called smile. I know I once was. We think of dolphins as benevolent creatures, eager to swim with us and perform tricks for our amusement. This “smile” is revered around the globe. But, please, do not let this illusory perma-grin fool you. There is often tremendous sorrow behind it.

If you’d like to stay updated on the Cove and other cetacean rights-related info, “Like” the following Facebook pages: The Cove, Sea Shepard Conservation Society, Save the Blood Dolphins and/or follow on Twitter: @SeaShepard, @thecovenews. If you’re on neither, go to savejapandolphins.orgdolphinproject.org and seashepard.org.

Please don’t go to dolphin shows or participate in swim with captive dolphin programs. And please spread the word!

And Everywhere Like Such As The Iraq and the Asian Countries


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Several nights ago we had a real bad night at the Zeebler residence. It was one of those nights that made me seriously question if/how I was going to survive the rest of parenthood with my heart still intact. E got really sick and developed a super-high fever in the middle of the night. Needless to say, I was up all night alternating between comforting her when she woke and bawling my eyes out when she slept.

E came down with this horrible illness on August 24th, and apparently bad things happen to other people on August 24th, too! Imagine that. Caitlin Upton had a pretty bad night on August 24th…

An uncomfortable look back: Miss Teen South Africa Carolina, 2007

August 24th of this year was the fifth insanniversary of mega-rich, mega-moron, mega-asshole Donald Trump’s Miss Teen USA pageant, where South Carolina’s Caitlin Upton reminded us of the plight of “U.S. Americans” and “The Iraq.”

During the question/answer segment of the competition, the confused Miss Teen South Carolina attempted to answer the oh-so pressing question on all of our minds: Why can’t a large percentage of Americans find their own country on a world map? Who the hell needs to know how to read a map these days anyway? What with GPS and Siri and microchips and Big Brother and hound dogs, we don’t need maps. They’re essentially useless, which is why Ms. Upton probably had such a hard time answering the question.

Many of you have already seen said video, but if you haven’t and don’t wish to see it, or if you have and don’t want to see it ever again, then you can just read the transcript here. The following is Upton’s response to the question: “Recent polls have shown a fifth of Americans can’t locate the United States on a world map. Why do you think this is?”

I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some…people in our nation out there don’t have maps, and, uh, I believe that our education like such as South Africa and, uh, The Iraq and everywhere like, such as and…I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., er, uh, should help South Africa and should help The Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future for children.

Here is living proof that this actually happened:

And here’s a totally tubular map of Caitlin’s answer, courtesy of morningtoast.com:If you need help reading this map (because I know that the majority of you out there are map-challenged), please contact me and I will send you a detailed instructional video for only $19.95. I’ll even throw in a free tiara!

Most people don’t know this but there were some follow-up questions that were posed to Caitlin after the initial map question. These were never aired. Please read them here as you will learn lots of things like such as the things you never learned before, like such as about maps, which are strongly linked to the impending downfall of humanity.

1. Question: One percent of Americans are homeless. Why do you think this is? Answer: I personally believe that some people in our nation out there are homeless because they got lost on their way to finding their homes. Like such as in The Hawaii and Canada. I believe if these people had maps with the ocean and roads, they could find their way back home like Dolores and Tutu in The Wiz. We need to help the homeless U.S. Americans to build up our children, er, our country, for our children so that they can watch TV shows like Celebrity Apprentice for their education. There’s no place like home. Except like such as the homeland. Security. And Donald Trump’s home where I get to drink bubbly drinks that make me feel funny and jumpy.  

2. Question: 49% of homeless Americans are African-American. Why do you think this is? Answer: I personally believe that U.S. Africans are homeless a lot because some of the U.S. Africans can’t get back to The Africa. The Africa and Asia and everywhere like such as should help the U.S. Africans to find their homes by, uh, teaching them how to read maps of The Iraq and the East. If more U.S. Africans could read maps, they would be able to get back to their homes and everywhere like such as Dora the Explora in the Wiz with the little barky dog, Tootie. Oh, and like such as the wicked witch because she rides a broom and can see the roads from up in the sky.

3. Question: 35.7% of American adults are overweight or obese. Why do you think this is? Answer: I personally believe that some people in our nation out there are obese because all of their maps lead them to McDonald’s and not to Subway and everywhere like such as. The maps they are using are made in The China and Indiastan and we must teach their children how to make better maps that will help the obese go to Subway where they can order a sandwich from Jared because he’s really nice and he’ll give you extra ham. And cheese. And packets of mayonnaise and other types of condoms. 

P.S. Caitlin won 3rd runner-up in the competition.

P.P.S. Baby E’s fever broke on August 25th but continues to have a very snotty schnoz and an extremely irritable disposition.

P.P.P.S. I’d like to personally thank Ms. Utpon for giving me like such as the best. Halloween costume. ever. for our children.

P.P.P.P.S. I apologize for wasting your valuable time with this ridiculously pointless post. I hope you still like me because all I want to do is make you happy. Don’t stop believing.

It’s a Bird…It’s a Plane…It’s a Flying Wee-Wee!


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Rarely do I feel compelled to write about something totally meaningless (Zodka kids herself once again) but I can’t not write about my recent discovery of Boohbahs.

Last week Babe received a very generous gift of some children’s books from a coworker. Baby E is a very enthusiastic bookworm and it’s always exciting to add to the collection. One of these donated books was a small board book, the cover of which caught my eye immediately because of the five bloated, brightly colored, uncircumcised flying penises with arms outstretched ready to touch your child in all the wrong places. It’s called Boohbah: SCRUNCH UP! STRETCH OUT! The first page reads, “Scrunch up,  s t r e t c h   o u t, Boohbahs shaking all about!” showing the purple, blue, and yellow Boohbahs retracting their penis heads into their foreskin necks.

I had to know more about Boohbahs, specifically, who came up with these giant, fuzzy dingalings and what kind of drug(s) inspired this odd creation?

Turns out this was a TV show that aired on British channels GMTV and CITV, and here in the U.S. on our beloved PBS from 2003-2005. Anne Wood is the “brains” behind Boohbahs and incidentally happens to be the creator of the Teletubbies. Neither Boohbahs nor Teletubbies speak; Boohbahs squeak and make farting noises and Teletubbies speak in a gurgling baby language. I’m pretty sure Anne Wood wants to lower the IQ’s of children, which means she’s secretly plotting to take over the world and, when she does, everything will be rainbows and glitter and bubbles and sparkle trails so, really, it could be a lot worse.

Boohbah means doll in Hebrew, which is why I find it super-strange that the Boohbah’s names, Humbah, Zumbah, Zing Zing Zingbah, Jumbah, and Jingbah, are very Asian and African-sounding. I think their names should be Taavibah, Herschelbah, Liat Liat Liatbah, Davibah, and Orenbah. I also find it strange that, given their Jewish namesake, Boohbahs are uncircumcised penises. Quite an oversight, Anne, shame, shame.

It’s clear to me that Anne Wood is/was an LSD freak. I understand that drugs can spawn some interesting ideas but my god, lady, you should have had the smarts to realize that, after you came down, your hallucination of joyful, dancing male genitalia was one that should have been locked up in the deep, dark caverns of your brain along with all your other weird-ass ideas. Look, I had lots of great ideas when I was on acid. I thought it would be a great idea to invite the townspeople over to look at the intricate images on my bathroom wall that move and dance when you stare at them because it would surely change their lives as it had mine. Until the next day when I realized the wall was just old and full of imperfections and looked like shit. Once I thought I was a genius because I made up a new language. Turns out I was just saying “Zzz” in a cartoon-like high pitch tone over and over and sounded like a 9 month old baby. Only geniuses like Steve Jobs or Jerry Garcia are capable of turning an acid trip into something magnificent.

Anne Wood is clearly not a genius, but you be the judge of that. Warning: This video is 15 f-ing minutes long. Viewing longer than 1 1/2 minutes could result in temporary delirium. Do not drive a vehicle or operate heavy machinery for at least three hours after viewing.

Apparently even Dubya had concerns about Boohbahs.

Boohbah starts with B, kids, and this rant has been brought to you by the letter—you guessed it—B

Personally, I’ll take the ever-so-sexy Patrick Stewart delivering a parodic Shakespearean soliloquy about the letter B over flying, overweight, squeaky penises any day, but I needed to know if E would concur. To this day, she’s watched a few videos of herself on the computer and the Mister Rogers Garden of Your Mind Remix. That’s it. So, I first let her watch a couple minutes of the Boohbahs. She was absolutely transfixed. Then I let her watch the Patrick Stewart soliloquy. She was absolutely transfixed. Conclusion: Of course E’s gonna be captivated by cutesy noises and bright colors and furry creatures with giant eyes, but at least some bald dude in a frilly costume with a funny accent talking about a giant letter made of cheese held her attention even after watching bulging penises fall down and then get back up while making farting noises over and over. I think my girl’s got a promising future ahead of her…

Dolphin Manifesto, Part 1.5


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Hi everyone. Today I’m sad. And yesterday I was sad. Actually, I’ve been feeling down for a few weeks now for several reasons. But one thing I’m pretty much always super-sad about and extra-super sad about today trumps all the other things I’m sad about and makes them seem trivial and laughable.

If you’re familiar with this blog, you know that 98% of it consists of my kvetching about things like motherhood and defective gadgets made in China and uvulas and erratic fliers. I tend to stay away from the more intense stuff but, every once in a while, I just can’t help myself because there are some issues that I can’t not write about. My very first post on this blog was about the plight of exploited dolphins in “The Cove” of Taiji, Japan. You can read that here. I suppose this is a continuation of that post, although you don’t need to read it first to understand this one. I thank you, in advance, for not just sticking with me through the funny and ridiculous, but through the despairing and disturbing as well.

This is Ric O’Barry. If it’s not obvious from looking at his face in this photo and the one below, he’s sad too. Sad about the same thing I am. It’s almost impossible to find a picture of him smiling. If you knew what he knew and if you’d seen what he’s seen, you wouldn’t smile much either.

I feel that Ric O’Barry’s cause is something we need to pay attention to. He believes the international dolphin trade should be put to an end immediately and permanently, and that all dolphins and whales in captivity should be rehabilitated and released back in to the wild. In cases of permanent injury or other situations where release would pose a danger to the animals, Ric advocates that the dolphins be transferred to sea pens as opposed to living out the rest of their days in tiny enclosures and performing tricks for the public.

The market for captive dolphin entertainment is a billion dollar one. People may wonder why the dolphin trade is so incredibly lucrative. Many of us are intrigued by these intelligent sea mammals. Places like Sea World have capitalized on our curiosity by having dolphins and killer whales (which are technically dolphins and the largest species in the dolphin family) live at their facilities where they can be trained to perform amusing tricks for live audiences. But what people see at Sea World is not reality. These animals are torn violently from their ocean homes to spend their often shortened lives in concrete boxes, doing tricks and swimming in endless mind-numbing circles.

The Oscar-winning documentary The Cove exposed the entrapment and mass killings of thousands of dolphins that take place annually for six months in Taiji, Japan. Some dolphins are sold to dolphinariums or other captive environments, while others meet their fate sooner in the cove with a harpoon. The meat, which contains toxic level of mercury, is sold in Japan and other parts of Asia and is often labeled as whale meat. Although Taiji’s dolphin cove has received much attention since the movie’s debut and subsequent Academy Award, and despite O’Barry’s countless trips to Japan, The Cove’s owners have continued to dig their heels in.

The plight of these and other exploited dolphins weighs on me heavily in my daily life. While it’s true I have E to keep me distracted a lot of the time, there are times when all I can see is red. There are times when I feel totally helpless and hopeless. And there are times when I feel compelled to do something, anything, however seemingly small it may be. I periodically donate to Ric’s cause and, while this is a good thing, I know it’s not enough, especially with the small amounts I can afford. That is why I’m writing this today. Not to depress you. Not to upset you. But to motivate you. If not to give money, then just to vow to never buy a ticket to a dolphin show or partake in a swim-with-dolphins program with captive dolphins. Please spread the word if you feel so inclined. Post the link to this post and/or Ric O’Barry’s websites (find links below) to Facebook. You can even contact the Japanese ambassador to the U.S. to let him know your feelings about the situation in Taiji.

Ric’s websites are dolphinproject.org and savejapandolphins.org where you can find out more about The Dolphin Project, read informative blog posts, and donate to the cause. Besides Japan, they need assistance for campaigns in Indonesia, the Solomon Islands, Singapore, the Faroes, China, and many other places where dolphins are in need.

I’ll end with some super-cool facts related to dolphin intelligence:

  • Recently it was discovered that dolphins’ and baleen whales’ brains contain spindle cells. Spindle cells, named after their long, spindle-shaped bodies, are the cells that are credited with allowing humans to feel love, suffer emotionally, recognize, remember, reason, communicate, perceive, adapt to change, problem solve and understand. Their recent discovery in these marine mammals has stimulated debate both on the level of intelligence and on the ethics of hunting them. The concentration of spindle cells has been measured to be three times higher in cetaceans in comparison to humans, even accounting for the fact that cetacean brains are larger than ours.
  • Dolphins have been shown to recognize themselves in a mirror, which implies they are self-aware.
  • Dolphins, like humans, are capable of behavioral mimicry.
  • The dolphin’s cerebrum contains a complex of tissue folded to a similar degree as that of the human brain. Also, its brain-to-body mass ratio is quite similar to that of the human, another potential indicator of intelligence.
  • Dolphins show the ability to learn rapidly and to learn about many things. They can remember events and learn concepts, changing their behavior as a result of previous experience. They can understand symbolic (sign) language.

Thank you so much for reading this. I wish all of you well.

Airports, Airplanes, and Airheads


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Note: Parts of this story has been obfuscated for your protection.

Well, I’d just like to say that I can check get interrogated by a TSA agent off my bucket list.

A couple of weeks ago, Babe, Baby E, my sis, and I flew to Vermont so that E could meet the one and only “Diz,” her 97-year-old great-grandmother.

But this story isn’t about the actual visit, which was in fact fantastically lovely and if I tell you about it I’ll get all weepy and I’ve already reached my tear quota for this month and it’s only the 19th. Typical.

This is a travel story. The proverbial harrowing travel tale.

On the day of our departure, we awoke at 3:30a.m. and sluggishly made our way to the airport a half hour later. When we arrived at the airport, we made our way straight to the security line since we had printed out our boarding passes the night before. While we were in line the three of us had a conversation about something related to me being a moron. We exited the line. One of us was crying and on the verge of vomiting. We talked to a ticketing agent. We ran back to the line. It had doubled. I asked a nice-looking couple if we could cut in front of them because we were going to miss our flight and they kindly obliged. One of us was still crying about to hurl.

We finally got to the front of the line where I told the security man I that I’m an idiot. Because I am. And as we all know idiots do idiotic things, especially when they have to rely on things like their idiotic pea-sized brains. Before I knew it, my unbrainy brain and I were following a tall and intimidating TSA agent to a corner of the security area. He looked at me like he. meant. business. After lecturing me for several minutes about what a serious offense it would be if I lied to him, he informed me he would be calling somebody who would ask him some questions about me, which he would relay to me, and I would then answer each with the TRUTH. Yes, truthiness, got it. He informed me these questions would be of an “unorthodox” nature.

My mind raced while he made the phone call. Unorthodox questions, I thought. Hmm. A scenario quickly played out in my head…

TSAMAN: Ma’am, when was the, uh, last time you engaged in coitus with your husband?

fuckingmoron: Um, probably 8 or 10 or 15 days ago, christ, we’re parents, lay off, *ahem* Sir.

TSAMAN: How many diapers did your daughter soil yesterday and, if she defecated, what was the consistency of the stool?

fuckingidiot: I don’t know, like, 6? She produced one pretty good-sized, hard-as-a-rock shit containing several flax seeds among other unidentifiable objects around 3:30pm.

TSAMAN: Who will win the upcoming U.S. presidential election?

fuckingtwit: Well, that’s easy: If some of the peeps who rallied and voted for Obama in 2008 don’t get off their lazy asses and vote this time because they think Obama’s a shoe-in or they just don’t give a flying shit anymore or they blindingly blame Obama for the sluggish economy, and if enough voting Repubs wish to revert back to the same, disastrous policies that got us into this steaming, stinking shitpile in the first place like budget-busting tax cuts for the wealthy and free rein for Wall Street to write its own rules, then Shit, I mean Mitt Romney will be the next president of the United States. 

“Okay, ma’am, are you ready for your questions?” I took a deep breath. “I swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Gaia.” Okay, I didn’t really say that but let’s just pretend I did.

“What is your current address and how long have you lived there?” I answered with 100% truthiness and he relayed my answer to the man on other the end of the line. “What was your previous address and how long did you reside there and with whom?” I answered with 100% truthiness and he relayed the answer. “Where did you live before your last address?” Shite, I thought. “Um, I can’t remember the house number because I lived there for only five months and it was a disgusting shithole that I’ve been trying to block out of my mind since, but I know the street name,” which I stated. He relayed the information. “Ma’am, did anybody else live at your previous address with you besides your husband and baby? “No,” I answered. He told the mystery man on the phone my answer. He paused and then asked me the same question again sternly while looking at me straight in the eye like he was expecting me to break down and admit I’d been harboring a terrorist. “Um, no, I swear,” I answered with as much confidence I could muster. *long pause* *heart racing* *tears welling* “Okay, ma’am, you’re good to go.”

Unorthodox questions?! Now, with all due respect, sir, as Inigo explained to Vizzini, I do not think that word means what you think it means. Here I am ready to tell you my deepest, darkest secrets and you ask me where I’ve lived for the last five years?! Totes boring, dude, totes boring.

We raced through security and ran to our gate where the airline agents were on their way to locking the door, which, thereby, would have locked us out of the plane, which, consequently, would have fucked things up for us big time, which, hence, would have caused me to collapse into a heavy heap of heartbreak and hopelessness on the gross airport carpet.

We boarded the plane panting and sweating while everybody stared because we were those people. We vigorously stuffed our bags into seemingly non-existent spaces in the crowded overhead bins because as we all know the airlines make you pay for checked baggage so everyone brings their over-stuffed suitcases on as carry-ons, and plunked down in our seats.

You may not know this, but I hate flying. I know, I know, everybody hates flying. But I really hate flying and every time I do, it gets a bit worse. The only person who hates being in an over-crowded winged tube (flying way too high up in the sky where we wanna cry cuz we could die) even more than me is my sister. But she’s lucky b/c her “doc” prescribed her special feel-good pills and Mrs. T’s bloody mary mix and itty-bitty bottles of mediocre vodka, and she doesn’t have an over-tired elfin who wants milkies from her boobies every five f-ing minutes.

About an hour into the flight E’s diaper had to be changed, so I went back to the bathroom area and, of course, none of the fucking tiny little, itty-bitty pee closets bathrooms have a changing table. Wtf?! This was a newer plane. All newer planes should have changing tables. For the love of god, somebody think of the children!

A flight attendant who was in the little kitchenette in the back of the plane heard me telling Babe there were no changing tables in any of the restrooms. She said, “Oh don’t worry, honey, you can change her on my lap.” I thought she was kidding so I chuckled uncomfortably. “No, I’m serious, come here.” She went into a restroom, sat on the toilet lid and motioned me to follow. She told me her name was Caroline, and that she’s got tons of grandchildren so this wasn’t the first time she’d acted as a changing table. I hesitatingly placed E on her lap while silently chanting, Please don’t pee on Caroline, please don’t pee on Caroline. She talked to E in a sweet, grandmotherly tone while I quickly changed her.

Caroline, if you’re out there, you rock. I’m sure some people treat you like shit because they’re miserable little a-holes and think flight attendants are sitting targets just waiting to be shat on, but you were a shiny little gem, and I’d gladly punch anyone who’s mean to you right in the neck. And if you ever feel the urge to inflate the emergency slide after a passenger stands up before the plane’s completed its taxi to the gate, and gives you lip when you kindly ask him to sit back down, I say: Do it and don’t ever look back, Caroline.

The way home was pretty uneventful but it truly was the l o n g e s t  d a y     o f  o u r  l i v e s because we sat on the runway for over an hour before the 5 1/2 hour flight. Poor little booboo has never known such exhaustion. She fussed and she cried and she writhed and she thrashed and she literally sucked me dry. Luckily for her and my nipples, she found some solace in an itty-bitty Finnish friend…

This Week’s Vapid Headlines


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Zodka suffers from middle-of-the-night insomnia. Lying in bed causes me to suffer from what I refer to as Racing Mind Syndrome. I get up to go pee and the next thing I know it’s two hours later and I’m bawling my eyes out because I’ve now thought of all the different ways E could get hurt or die and why couldn’t I save her because I’m a terrible mother and how she’ll never forgive me if she manages to live through this horrible ordeal. Last night at 2:30am, I convinced myself that…

  • I’m going to get cancer and die and, therefore, won’t be able to see E grow up, and her view of me will be formed based on what she reads in this blog,
  • E inherited most or all of my personality traits,
  • E’s first word is gonna be crapbag,
  • E’s second word is gonna be asshat,
  • Tomorrow, during a bike ride with E, I’ll point out a pretty flower and then lose control of the bike and we’ll fall over onto the hard concrete and E’s little arm or hand will get crushed because she was pointing at the pretty flower,
  • E’s contracted a previously unknown disease for which there is no vaccination,
  • It is a good idea to put E in a bubble,
  • I need meds and/or shock therapy.

Fractals are, like, so cool. I never really appreciated fractals until recently. They’re not just some trippy designs that hippies post on the walls of their dorm rooms above their lava lamps. Did you know that one of my and possibly your favorite vegetables, broccoli, is a fractal? You probably did know this. This very much excites me and I love eating fractals because I think it makes me smarter. Some ferns are also fractals like the awesomeness seen here. Now go get your bong, load it up, take a big hit, and stare at this picture, preferably under the light of a lava lamp. It will blow your fucking mind, bro.

Babe was attacked by a crow while getting into a county car today. Crows are considered by some to be the smartest birds in the entire world, which makes me think: This crow must have had a damn good reason to want to peck Babe’s

Just pretend this poor unsuspecting chap is The Babe

noggin. Did he want to drill holes in Babe’s skull and brain to gain access to his vast array of knowledge of plastic discs and their various flight patterns so he could teach all his crownies which discs are the deadliest? Was he trying to warn Babe not to drive that particular car because maybe there was a rogue cockroach or squirrel living inside it? Or was he just reminding Babe to appreciate the beauty, intelligence, and mystery of these feathered brainiacs that most urbanites consider to be no more than winged black rats with loud mouths? I guess we’ll never know…

E doesn’t give a shit. Literally. There is a freakishly strong force living inside E’s intestines that plays tug of war with gravity and wins most of the time. When it finally tires and lets go, E gets this look on her face like the world is going to end. I’ll spare you the details but let’s just say it reminds me of birth. Poor little E and her sphincter. Why is nature so cruel to our fragile little fledglings?

The vitriolic fires in Zodka’s belly continue to burn. Surprise, surprise, I’m pissed off about something and need to bitch. How anyone today, right now, during this very second, can still be opposed to financial regulation is completely beyond me. The recent JP Morgan debacle is just the latest in a string of greedy, careless, selfish acts that are responsible for the global recession. Robert Reich states,

Wall Street’s biggest banks were too big to fail before the bailout. Now, led by JP Morgan Chase, they’re even bigger. Twenty years ago, the 10 largest banks on the Street held 10 percent of America’s total bank assets. Now they hold over 70 percent.

If you don’t know who Robert Reich is, get yourself acquainted with this brilliant man.

Word on the Street is that J.P. Morgan’s exposure is so large that it can’t dump these bad bets without affecting the market and losing even more money. And given its mammoth size and interlinked connections with every other financial institution, anything that shakes J.P. Morgan is likely to rock the rest of the Street.

The Glass-Steagall Act, which essentially separated commercial from investment banking, was repealed by the Clinton administration in 1999.

[This] allowed investment banks, the casino of Wall Street, to invade commercial banks and commercial deposits, and it allowed investment bankers to utilize commercial deposits for, essentially, gambling.

I think most of us can wholeheartedly agree that was a COLOSSAL mistake. And, yet, JP Morgan CEO, Jamie Dimon, had the unmitigated gall to vehemently argue against the Volcker Rule (a watered-down version of the Glass-Steagall Act), claiming that Wall Street was trustworthy and, therefore, did not need to be regulated. How much longer are we going to give these corporate thugs the freedom to engage in their greedy schemes and bring down what is left of the already severely damaged world economy with absolute impunity?! I agree with Reich—it’s high time to resurrect the Glass-Steagall Act and it should never have been repealed in the first place.

Zodka’s soul slips into recession+depression=repression. No further information available at this time.