RIP Jazzy

You've served me well, old friend.

When I think of the hours I've spent cleaning lunch boxes and pacifiers out of your grill, I get that special "down there" feeling Jeremy talks about.

You've been clocked at just under 5 mph. You are... majestic. But it is now time for you to go...

Meet My Destiny...

Have you ever tried driving a jazzy through sand? Seriously. This new vehicle will give Tubba the autonomy he deserves. I think I love you.

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.

Ask Tubba

Dear Tubba,

In 2008, my husband was laid off. After we went through our savings, I took a job as as a bartender, despite having an MFA in studio art. Even though I take care of our two young sons during the day, my husband asks his mother to watch them when I work at night. She says she doesn't mind, but it's putting a great deal of strain on our relationship. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Candice in Cincinnati

Dear Candice:

First, love the name. Is that pronounced like 'canned-ass'? Or like the combination of 'candy' and 'class'? Please fill us in on the etymology when you get a minute. We will be holding our collective breath.

Second, I'm reminded of a recent episode of Hey Paula!, the neorealist offering from E! featuring Paula Abdul as her quirky, horse-faced self (sidebar, my column is now called Ask! Tubba!). After paying a visit to QVC to look over her new line of terrible, terrible jewelry, Paula laments to her assistants that "it's a curse to be this creative."

2009 Kentucky Derby Winner

'Mine That Bird'

Like Paula, my public does not appreciate how much fame takes out of me. Last Halloween, when Host said I was punished for making threats, did I leave you hanging? No; sporting a cardboard Burger King crown and a pillowcase, I knocked on doors. "And what are you supposed to be?" they asked. "Oedipus. Where your Mom at?"

That's why we had to leave Wellesley.

Third, you have way too much education to be married. Only ugly girls need graduate degrees.

Fourthly, strain is not always bad; in fact, it's a natural part of the day for many people. Unless you start to see blood in there. Then defiantly call someone.

Finally, send me your children and I will consume them. If you think they can run faster than a late model Jazzy, please notify Jeremy via email.

Best,

T. Le-La

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.

Things I Invented

Host #2 is sick today.

Normally I would consume her but Host made meatballs and I burned my fingers on them while they were in the pan so I don't have much traction. Plus, Host #2 has school tomrrow and I LOVE rolling in the isles and moaning and fat breathing until they ask us to leave. They HATE it when I fat breathe.



Things I invented: cast iron pans, Hulu, Acorn Squash--I needed something for you hippies to eat so you stay away from my cereals and commodity meats-- the British saying 'biscut' instead of 'cookie' and your MOM.

This is My Nemesis

Kitten showed up about a year ago. He is free range.

I agreed to this on two conditions: first, that Kitten be allowed nowhere near my food safe, and second, that he would be consumed once he reached maturity. We're not running a charity here.

Did I occasionally feed Kitten a little extra after Host and Host #2 were asleep? Did I massage Kitten gently to achieve high quality marbling? Did I read Kitten countless recipes and ask how he'd be best prepared to give him some measure of control over his destiny? Did I take Kitten to see "Julie and Julia" to illustrate all that we learned?

But Host has ignored my efforts. Host tells me to leave Kitten alone. Kitten is part of the family. Now, Kitten and I are locked in an eternal death struggle, and I WILL BEST HIM!