Tubba Predicts the Oscars

Thing #1 about the Oscars Tubba hates is all the stupid categories that don't matter. Best animated short? Best makeup? You get prizes for that? In pre-K, you get punched in your face and your snak-pak gets stolen.

Thing #2 that Tubba hates about the Oscars is that my 2nd annual viewing party (which rivals Elton John's in its fanfare and the availability of dozens of prescription drugs) was CANCELLED this year. Let it sink in. Now you're gonna shake a little. Sit with it. Breathe.

Apparently, Helmut is not allowed to be that close to that many Jewish people all at once. Even on television. His parents, who fled to the US from Austria via Argentina, are well into their dotage and have "extremist opinions" about Jews. But who doesn't? Take Sal for example. I love him. He's on retainer and at my disposal at all times. Plus, he just adjusted his retainer from $30,000 per annum to $100,000 per annum on account of the border war I started with Connecticut. That's lower, right? Tubba only knows up to 4. It would be below me to learn numbers. That's what we have the women for. Am I right or am I right?

Thing #3 that Tubba hates about the Oscars is white people. Check out the ginger b*tch interrupting my man 'Marbles' during his acceptance speech for the movie he made about lame people.

My man 'Marbles' with 2009 Kentucky Derby winner, Mine that Bird

See that fist, indicating that she cannot count past four? B*tch probably expects people like Tubba to do all the counting for her. Little does she know that much like the US Government and Wall Street, Tubba cares little for paltry differences between and among digits. Tubba only cares for himself (that is why the Government and Wall Street pay tithings to Tubba).

And finally, #4: Jeremy is pulling the Prius around to take me to the Harvard Square IHOP, where they don't play the stupid Oscars. And that's the last thing Tubba hates about the Oscars: that I can't watch them and eat pancakes at the same time. Although this isn't really Tubba's fault. We were going to watch at Fudrucker's in Connecticut, but then Jeremy's Mom told him that she has cancer, and then Jeremy started crying, and Tubba said "isn't that just code for gay, because Father McMullin said that being gay is a terrible disease that kills you, too." And then Tubba blacked out and Jeremy made some kind of scene, and then the fire engines came, and neither of us is allowed in Connecticut anymore.

Which is really too bad because Tubba LOVES funerals.

kisses,

Tub

Olympic Fallout

Prepare to be outraged: I am on punishment. Host and Host #2 have suspended my writ of habeas corpus; they are holding me without proof or bond. The slander against me is unproven.

There is NO evidence that it was me who bedazzled the kitty. It could have been anyone. Plus, he looks fabulous, despite the intestinal shredding he's been experiencing from eating bedazzles (it's a slow and inconvenient death. After careful preparation, you can spit out the bedazzles like buckshot and reuse them).

If you really want to blame someone,

blame Olympic-fairy-ice-dance-Princess

Evan Lysacek.

It is unbelievably hard to reproduce that level

of precision with a $19.99 bedazzler.

Anyway, Host #2 was going to cancel my sleepover with Helmut on Thursday night for punishment, but she recanted becasue Helmut doesn't have something called a "reliable meal" at home. Personally, I like my meals to be spontaneous and innovative.

Helmut is an outcast, so he hasn't been indoctrinated against me. We met last week in my new afternoon pre-K class. They switched me from morning pre-K because of complaints from parents; afternoon pre-K parents are abusive drug addicts so they never notice a few extra bite marks on their child.

Jeremy is taking me and Helmut to the Fudrucker's in Connecticut because they are banned in Boston for high-leavings content. Tubba got clearance to bring lego people and trucks on the car ride, which had previously been banned due to repeat offenses of jamming things under Jeremy's gas pedal (that MAY have been my bad, Toyota).

This experience should cement our friendship. Maybe now Tubba can stop hanging out with the Autistic kid who barks at everyone, even though Host says it's good for his eye contact.

Ok. See you round the water cooler, kids.

T-bone out.

Hot Egg, Cool Meat

I had a lot of assistants before Jeremy. First there was Sandra, then Ming, a Ph.D. candidate from MIT, followed by many others whose names and identities have mummified in my tiny, tiny mind along with the condiments with which I seasoned them.

Jeremy, still life, frightened

Jeremy is different. First, he is from Connecticut, which as you know is an entire state dedicated to housing dim-whits. Second, he is an indentured servant whose bus fare interest compounds hourly. Third, he is much, much faster than Tubba.

One of Jeremy's duties is to get me a hot sausage and egg sandwich every morning. It's wrapped in wax paper and I don't eat it until the paper has become completely saturated with grease and has melded in places with the cheese.

Jeremy lives in the guest bedroom, except when we have guests, when he must sleep in the closet (where he spends most of his time anyway). I trip over him to remind him of his place.

I admire his resilience because in my experience, these people are so much more pleasurable to break. Slowly, I wear him down. I introduce him to my afternoon pre-K class as my assistant (all of the other assistants are called "Nannies"). In public, when he tries to stop me from ankle-biting and candy stealing, I scream "go with you where? You're not my Host!"

But Jeremy has found ways to thwart me. He carries cheddar bunnies in his pockets. He purchases (and keeps in a safe deposit box) bi-yearly tickets to a live Rush Limbaugh taping, along with a whacking salami and decoy Oxycontin.

He just... gets me. He anticipates my needs. And that's really important in an assistant. Plus he brings home drunk co-eds on the weekend and those bitches be so f'ing easy to catch, as long as they don't wake up while you're hosing them down.

T-Bone out.