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

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.

Now this is what I'm takin' about

Nough said.