Bush visits the war-ravaged Gulf Coast to make himself feel, er, look better. I'm rich, biatch.

Wolfgang Fuck! What is Hep?!

More news for Hollywood: Vitamin DOA.

The Giver of Life lets it rain like PacMan Jones on faithful servant. So who does He bank with?

Welcome to ICU!

On a more serious note, have you noticed that guy who wants to kill Simon? Seriously, two weeks in a row now they've panned to this guy in the audience just after Simon says something smartass about that girl with the underbite, Leslie Hunt, and this guy - I think he was wearing the same clothes both weeks - is looking at Simon like he's wondering if he'll fit in his freezer. A raving lunatic. Anyway, Simon is right: that Pippi Longstocking needs to go home. And she can take all of the other white girls with her. American Idol this year, at least when it comes to the gals, is - or at least should be - a black affair. They are in another league. And, no, I don't mean the National Urban League. Lakisha, Jordin and Melinda are on point, as Randy Dog Jackson would say. Put them in the top four right now with that beat boxer - just to mix it up a bit - and let 'em go at it. My money is on Lakisha.

As for Antonella, I'm going to hate to see her go home. News flash: she's hot. But I'm sure we've all heard (read: seen) by now that she has some smutty pics on the web. Word is that so long as she's on the show, she'll be one of the first five contestants to perform for fear of what she might do with the mic if she had to use both hands to show people which number to vote for. Snare, snare, cymbal!

The results show is tonight, so I'm sure you'll both be tuning in.

Did you watch last night? Al Gore was this close (pretend like you're holding a tic-tac between your thumb and index finger) to being fellated on stage. If not that, at least some sort of hand release. They loved him. They wanted him. They praised him.

And there was ole Tipper with her black and white labels. Seriously, I find it funny that she's at an awards show that, ultimately, celebrates freedom of speech, when she was one of its biggest obstacles back in the late 80s and early 90s. Her war seemed less about putting stickers on albums and more about getting rid of language and imagery she deemed gratuitous and uncivilized. Hey, did you catch The Departed? It won Best Picture.

As for that, Scorsese winning for Best Director was like Denzel winning for Best Actor in Training Day. That movie was not very good, and his acting wasn't either. If I remember correctly, there was a lot of fuss about a black man never winning for Best Actor leading up to those Oscars. It was always Best Supporting Actor or Best Boy or Best Use of a Black Man as a Computer Geek. Things of that nature. Never the big one. A stink was afoot. Sure enough Denzel's name was called. Why? Because Oscar has a way of righting its past wrongs. The wrong then was obviously that a black man got robbed (how ironic) back in the day. And the wrong in this case was Scorsese never winning for Best Director or Achievment in Directing, whatever they call it now. Everyone was like, "Oh my God, y'all, he's only the best director ever! I loved him in The Godfather! He should totally get awarded an award for his directoring. I saw him once at The Ivy and he was so professional. Hey, Marty, still waiting on Annie Hall 2!"

Enter: Standing ovation.
Exit: Reason.

Boring. The only thing left was Best Picture. I really thought they'd give it to Clint seeing as how he was probably still on stage translating. It would have been easy. Not to mention, he tackled an "issue". But it was Scorsese's night! Look, The Departed was a good movie with a bad ending. It was as if they developed these great characters and storyline (thanks Donnie Brasco!), only to realize they were 2 hours into their movie and needed a way out. I've got it! Let's kill everyone and hammer home the we're-all-a-rat idea by showing an actual rat run across the screen. Yeah! Loose ends are deep and artsy. Sure. So it was just a good movie. And good movies shouldn't win Best Achievement in Picturetude.

Anyway, I feel asleep picturing Al Gore hiding Oscars up his ass. He's got my vote in '08!

Okay, it seems as though there are still a few poor souls out there who are confused about the Kustom Kard thing. I think I know where I'm losing them. You see, Kustom is actually Custom with a k, and Kard is actually Card with a k. So if you do the math you'll see that Kustom Kards are really just Custom Cards. I know it's tricky. And not to confuse matters, but my name is Keller, not Celler. That's the exception to the rule when it comes to hokey brands like mine.

Peace out, suckas.

The three questions I hear the most:

"Keller, how did you get to be so cool?"
"You are so handsome! What gives?"
"Are you in?"

After those questions, I'd say I get the one about my Kustom Kards the most. People can't seem to figure out how they work. Yes, most people are idiots, but I still have an obligation to them. I have to hold their hands from time to time.

Basically, with my Kustom Kards, you give me a recipient and a topic, and I write that person a personal letter using one of my cards. Here are a few examples of cards that I sent out . . .

This one was all about how uncool this Lindsey person is and how this Matthew person agrees with that assessment. Anyway, Lindsey got this in the mail a few days later - handwritten by me on one of my cards. I even paid for postage!

Dearest Lindsey,

It has come to my attention - and to Matthew's - that you are not cool. Bad news for you, no doubt. But look on the bright side: being cool isn't as easy as it seems. I mean there's the paparazzi, all the invites and subsequent rsvps, the catcalls from construction workers. You get the point. You won't have to worry about any of that stuff because you're uncool. You're like that girl who ate lunch by herself in 7th grade. The girl who had no one to sign her yearbook. And it's not just me. Matthew feels as strong, if not stronger. . . . you are the epitome of uncoolitudeness.

Cheers, S

Here's another one in which the sender's dog had run away - the sender insisted that I sign off as Ima Truthful. Whatever. Anyway, apparently the recipient wasn't sympathetic enough. Also, according to the instructions I got, the recipient has an ugly face:

Dearest Veda,

I am writing to let you know that your face is pretty ugly - maybe even the dreaded fugly. In fact, if you had a dog, it would stray, too. It certainly wouldn't come when you called it. No, it'd rather spend its life roaming the highways snacking on carrion than facing your nauseating mug day in and day out. So maybe you should look into some sort of surgery for that. I saw something on Dateline about it. Or maybe that was Vanilla Sky. Anyway, I'm sure something can be done. Til then, do us all a favor and stay indoors, or, if you must run errands, wear one of those balaclava thingys.

Yours, Ima Truthful

This gal requested that I use the magic eight ball card (scroll down to the one with the rocket) of mine and wanted me to make sure the woman receiving the card knew she sucked. I think it turned out well:

Bad news for you, huh? But look on the bright side, you could have like 360 days left to live. Then again, you could have like 3 days to live. My eight ball isn't that specific. But, boy, is it ever right! One time it told me that I'd meet the most god-awful person in the world, and then, bam, I met you like 3 hours later. How could it possibly know that someone so hideous - someone so reprehensible - would walk into my life? It's magic, that's how. Anyway, enjoy your last day(s) on earth. I know I will.

Regards, Your Worst Enemy

# posted by keller @ 12:32 PM 1 comments   

Thanks to the Corn-Cob-Wielding Rapist, my Valentine's Day was made. Check this gem out: Hand Banana!

And while you're at it, check this loser out: I've had him.

And since I'm writing poetry these days, I thought I'd leave you with my newest, most favorite poem about love and February 14th.

Cupid, why are you so awesome?
You fly around with a bow
And arrow looking for mates
To make fornicate.
I think you hit me with one
And my 8-year old neighbor
With the other.
He didn't it see it coming.
Or me.
I'm pretty sure he felt me, though.
I mean, I'm not positive;
He could have been crying
For some other reason.
Anyway, Cupid, you're
The most awesome angel ever.

Next Saturday night my brother is getting hitched to some blonde floozy. Around the time of that emasculation, Arcade Fire will be rocking NPR. I said rocking, didn't I?

Here's where I might be the night before.

Thanks to Neil French and Lane Foard for the inspiration.

The Colts won the game, but who won the ads? Gosh, I bet no hack in the ad realm started their column like that yesterday. Never been done. So, seriously, who were the winners? I'd like to say the viewers, but that ain't the case. I'll give some props to Bud Light for not jerking off on an inflatable doll or anything. The Rock, Paper, Scissors ad was no doubt their best in quite some time. Still doesn't match the Real American Heroes radio spots, but it wasn't stupid, which is what we've come to expect from them. The only problem I had with it, which seems to be a Bud Light disease, is the "low five" hiccup, or whatever you want to call it. The joke is over. I laughed. It was funny. And then they bust out with a fart as exclamation point. Guys, you had us. You made us laugh. Now take a page from Costanza's book, and exit, stage left, pronto.

Why, Bud Light? Why? I just don't get it. I will never get it. Too bad you didn't buy 60 seconds, because then you could have done so much more with that guy on the ground, because that was the funny part, right? Yeah! You could have had like three or five hot girls walk by and say something like, "This party rocks!" And maybe the guy on his back could have caught a glimpse up the skirts of the hot women and he could have smiled as if to say, "Maybe I didn't lose after all." But just then a high heel would have to crush him in the gonads and drop an empty Bud Light on his head, and then that whammy noise from Press Your Luck would come in to take us to the logo. Still, kudos for doing something better than you've done in years.

Budweiser? Fuck those goddamned horses. Stop trying to force-feed me heritage. I don't get emotional when I see a bunch of Clydesdales pulling a wagon. I get pissed because they're usually blocking traffic and urinating in the streets. I like your beer. I do not like your saccharine bullshit. And I don't stand up and salute the flag everytime I chug a Bud.

Sierra Mist. I like your style. I like the hot pants and I like the combover.

That's about all I can remember from the ads. I DVRed'd the game to watch the commericals later, but I can't stand to sift through all of the crap. Oh, I should mention that I loved those ads for SearchGenie or whatever it was. It was like I was blasted back to 1982 and these handsome men with hairspray and gold chains were driving cherry red sports cars and dating strippers. Man, I'm walking on rainbows and dancing on clouds. Maybe I'll grab dinner with the boss after I bang my secretary. Thanks, SearchGenie!

Speaking of bananas for fingers, this kind of reminded me of those old Snapple radio spots that asked questions like, "Would you rather have hotdogs for fingers or be 3 feet tall?" Those aren't the exact scenarios - the real ones were actually funny - but you get the idea. Anyway, this reminded me of that. In a weird way: Bananas!

But first I feel like I have to get something off my chest so that we might move forward as a society, you know, evolve: Unless you're under the age of ten, please stop dancing and waving behind people while they're being interviewed on TV. That means you with the buzz cut and Flyers hat, gripping your GoPhone in one hand and crotch in the other, no doubt asking some slack-jawed dolt back in Cleveland if he can see you on TV or whether you should slide over to the left a couple of feet. And that means you with the mustache and Brian Urlacher jersey, holding a bag from Champs Sports and a 64-ounce beer at 10AM, raising both as if anyone other than your retarded kids gives a shit. And it definitely means you mouthing the words "I love you, Jen" while telling the world that your team is Number One! with your sausage fingers. Guess what, guys . . . You look dumber than you actually are. And I'm guessing that's no easy feat. Still, you manage it beautifully. Nothing drives me bonkers quite like watching a couple of ex-NFL players talking about the Super Bowl while a half dozen tiny heads bob around their shoulders, holding up illegible signs that I can only assume read, "They let me out! They actually let me out!" Get a fucking life, people.

Okay, so remember that Peter Pan freak? Sure you do. Here's another one people won't stop forwarding to me that I'm sure you've seen: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!

And this is just unspeakably disgusting: Talk about your lipo!