I Turned 51 and All I Got Was This DVD From Amazon, or How I Managed to Screw Up My Mom's Birthday, Albeit Less Than The Time I Forgot Her Birthday

My mom, as one of my friends who listens to too much rap music would put it, is what you would call a "cool ass female." She plays the unfortunate role of dealing with a family that acts like this, and she does it with a smile on her face (the obvious exception being holidays, where she insists on crying). This is a woman who allowed me to grow out a mullet my senior year of high school, let me take a spring break in Chicago so I could go to Wrestlemania and Jerry Springer, and only seems to be disappointed in me when I send my brother Johnny cool shirts from Good Will that wouldn't fit me (she thinks he's never going to grow up. Sorry Mom, I think you're thinking of Peter Pan). At this point, you might be saying "she kind of sounds like an enabler" to which I say two things:

1. Dude, that's my mom you're talking about. Watch your mouth
2. Enablers deserve great birthday presents

Because of this, I set out from my house in Tucson in search of a gift that would make her say "Ooh!" and "Aah!" and if I was lucky, for the first time in my life, "I love you" (kidding! She said it to me once but she thought I was Johnny). I quickly realized, however, that I had no clue what physical, tangible gift my mom might like.

This isn't to say that I couldn't have picked out a gift certificate to some place or bought her concert tickets or got her something functional - I could have. But where is the originality in getting your mom an iPhone cover? I needed a gift that said "you will remember this, even if you get Alzheimer's." Besides, there is no material gift that I could give her that wouldn't have both an impressive monetary value and also reprieve her of any kind of "gift receiver's remorse", where she wonders whether or not she could have found a higher rated model in some Consumer Reports magazine she got at Kroger or article she clicked on on AOL. We are dealing with a woman who spent 2 months trying to decide which digital camera she wanted to get, only to be faced with a whole new slew of seasonal models to choose from when she finally thought she had made up her mind. Listen, Annie Leibovitz, you're dealing with point and shoots here...they're all the same.

So I'm racked with the pressure to come through on a gift that my mom will remember forever - something so good that it will replace some of the bad ones, like the time I got mad at my older sister and carved KATY into my mom's new dresser with a straight pin. My mom came home and she was devastated. I stuck by my story that Katy did it. She was 21, I was 11. Guess whose story my mom believed? Ageism at it's finest I tell you.

Those were the bottom of the barrel memories I needed to replace - I won't even mention some of the bad ones - so this present had to be rocking. Needing a moment of inspiration, I decided to ask my other three siblings what they were getting my mom for her birthday. The conversations went something like this (summarized):

• Johnny - "I've been too busy studying all week to get anything. School's actually hard when you're pre-med like I am and not some fruity English major or whatever you are" DOUBT IT.
• Katy - "I've been too busy taking care of Ashley and working to get her anything. Besides, I have a full time job. Get her something for all of us." Heard that one before
• Ashley - "I just had surgery to remove a tumor from the base of my spine." I'm not one to point fingers, but isn't it awfully convenient that you decided to get the surgery done BEFORE mom's birthday? I'm just saying.

At this point not only did I not have a gift of a sibling to piggyback and draw ideas off of, I also had the added pressure of getting a gift to signify my entire family's love. Well, shit.

First thing was first, and I went to search for the one thing I knew my mom couldn't resist - George Strait. There's something about that man - be it the cowboy hat, the tight jeans, or the ability to produce over 50 different number one country hits - that drives my mom crazy. She calls him George, or, when she really wants to bring our family shame in a public setting where other people might overhear, Georgie. She makes it a point to see him in concert every time he comes to Indianapolis. I'm 99% sure she would leave my dad for him, which would be terribly ironic for Bill because he would inevitably become the main character in so many of George Strait's songs. DOUBLE WHAMMY!

To my most certain misfortune, there was nothing worth anything of his to be found on eBay or anywhere else that could deliver it in time. I did manage to send her a copy of his 1992 classic movie Pure Country, where his only stage directions seemed to be "grow out a beard and just keep on being yourself." Throw on a nice little note, and we at least have a stopgap should all else fail. Pure Country? They should call that movie Pure Entertainment. At least I knew I had the ability to keep her satisfied for two hours (...screw it, I know this is about my mom, but THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID). With this taken care of, I set off to add some pizazz to her birthday.

Had my mom been born on October 19th instead of November 19th, I would have been presented with a number of different options to choose from when it came to her present. Then Ashley's tumor decided to exist. This eliminated two things I had in my back pocket saved for a time like this - an Edible Arrangement and a Skype voicemail.

For those of you who don't know what an Edible Arrangement is, you obviously don't watch enough of the Food Network during the day, which causes me to wonder what the purpose of your life even is? Seriously, spend a couple hours every now and then watching Giada de Laurentiis overpronounce every Italian ingredient she uses just to prove that she should have an Italian cooking show. Watch Rachel Ray (on mute obviously) prepare a meal in 20 minutes that will take you at least an hour and a half. Watch Paula Deen come up with recipes that encourage all of the young mothers in the country to turn their children into Type 2 diabetics. And then, during the commercial, check out the ads for Edible Arrangements. They start off making you think that they're just your everyday run of the mill flowers, but then you start to say "hey, those look like strawberries" and that quickly forms into "HOLY SHIT THEY'RE DIPPED IN CHOCOLATE." As soon as I'd finished that commercial, it was on. One day I was going to get an Edible Arrangement for someone, and they were going to go crazy for it.

The initial plan involved me being present when the arrangement arrived, so after the recipient marveled over the incredible bouquet of calories, I could tear into it myself, devaluing the gift and using the excuse that "I needed more fruit in my diet." Then Ashley's tumor happened.

A funny thing about having a large incision made in your torso for the doctors to lift out your internal organs and get to your tailbone (besides being able to answer "yes, look at this picture" and "well, actually, it IS a tumor" to the Nickelodeon GUTS theme song and Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop, respectively) - is that you are in incredible pain and the morphine makes you feel depressed. Needing to send my sister a little pick me, I cashed in the Edible Arrangements idea, attached balloons wishing her a Happy Sweet 16th, A Happy Hannukah, and to Get Well Soon. Fast, fast, slow, kind of like a waltz (note: I have no idea if a waltz is actually fast, fast, slow, but I'm not going to be bothered to look it up to find out).

Pictured: Opportunity RUINED

Because of this, I could no longer send my mom an Edible Arrangement, because sending two in such a short amount of time put me dangerously close to becoming "the guy who sends Edible Arrangements" and I'm not one to be pigeonholed, unless said pigeonhole is "the guy who wears horse shirts." I'm cool with that.

The other idea I had was to set up a Skype voicemail for my mom, much like the one we have set up for people to call and leave drunk dials to Club Trillion. So I'm cruising along thinking it would be a great idea and GODDAMMIT ASHLEY WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GET A TUMOR?

(A quick aside: why is dammit spelled like that and not damnit? It doesn't make sense. You are saying damn and it, the word should be damnit, dammit. This might have been the only thing I learned my senior year of high school, and that was only because I was super into The Catcher in the Rye and Holden Caulfield says it roughly 1900 times in the book. Still, you know you agree with me on this subject)

In the haste of trying to say "get well soon" while maintaining my emo stance against "greeting card corporations and their manufactured notions that everything can be made better with a simple card", I decided to set up a Skype voicemail for people to call Ashley and wish her well. This idea could have been easily done for my mom's birthday as well. I might not have a super wide influence, but my knowledge of all relevant Club Trillion passwords and my ability to sound like Mark in 140 character bursts would have allowed me to set up a Twitter notice to call that at least 10 people would have complied with. But I had used it already for Ashley, and being pigeonholed as "the guy who sets up Skype voicemails" is only a slightly less creepy pigeonhole than "the guy who is always eating yogurt"

So my top two ideas were out the window. Now, I'm not devoid of great ideas by any means, as you've read in the past I've come up with everything from the the formula for FOIL to the formula for Wayne Blasters. Ideas were not the difficult part. Working against me, though, were time and location. What could I string together on a day's notice and what could I have set up and paid for all from my location in Tucson? This is where things got difficult. I had a few ideas that I thought could work, but, as I was soon to find out, wouldn't.

The first idea was to have a barbershop quartet or singing telegram come by and serenade her with a little happy birthday action. Who doesn't dream of having four random strangers or one random Elvis impersonator coming to their door to serenade them? Okay, nobody dreams that. Nobody normal at least. But who wouldn't MIND if four random strangers or one random Elvis impersonator came to their door to serenade them? That's what I thought. There stood to be three problems with this:

1. It turns out that Hughie Mizell does not like to sing (Brownsburg, IN reference. Don't worry if you don't understand it)
2. The people who do this for a living are probably incredibly weird. Would I trust them to sing to my mom if she was going to be home by herself? And
3. How would I know she was home?

Shoot. I couldn't necessarily ask her in any kind of logical way what her plans on her birthday day were, because that would either serve to make her think that I had something incredibly grand planned, thus raising the level of whatever was going to happen to a possibly unattainable pre-birthday idea of what was to come. Or, it would make her think that I wanted to know when she was going to be out of the house so my sketchy friends from back home could rob us using the garage door code I gave them. So no dice on the quartet. And it would have been great too.

A couple other ideas I had that quickly were deemed impossible were having an airplane flying overhead carrying a banner wishing her a happy birthday, and, after surprisingly long negotiations, having John Cusack hold a boom box outside her window blasting happy birthday. The plane just wasn't cost effective, and I couldn't guarantee John Cusack wouldn't start playing "In Your Eyes." It wasn't a risk I was willing to take.

That left me with one final option. My mother is an irrational hater of many things. She calls them "skanky", "gross", or says "I can't stand _". I would list what some are but they totally put her into old lady Get Off My Lawn territory, and she would emphatically deny them, so I'll spare her since it's her birthday. Consider that gift number two. Anyway, one thing I can say my mom irrationally hates are these large signs that get placed in the front of our neighborhood in Indiana. They are, in my estimate, upwards of 10 feet tall and their lettering is similar to the rearrangeable ones that fast food places like McDonalds or small churches have that you desperately want to reword to make funny phrases and dirty words. Usually the signs are congratulating a group of graduates from our neighborhood, or someone that just had a baby, but one other thing the signs display are birthdays.

Since irritating my mom is half the fun of being her son (the other half is getting money from her), it seemed like a perfect plan to have one of those signs put up featuring an especially embarrassing message. Instead of "Lordy, Lordy, Look Who's 40!" I could replace it with "Lordy, Lordy, Look Who's 51!" Or maybe even straighter to the point with "Dear Mom aka Becky Keller, 51 is old. Like, really old. Love, Katy, Andy, Johnny and Ashley." The more mortified of a ten foot sign in one of the busiest intersections of town that she had no choice but to pass, the better.

So I set out to google and find the place in Brownsburg that does said signs. THE PHONE WAS OFF THE HOOK. Read that again, this time emphasizing it in the way K-Smoove said MY LOGIN INFORMATION DID NOT WORK.

THE PHONE WAS OFF THE HOOK

To borrow from another one of my literary friends, Gus Trotter, what am I F'ing supposed to do now? If this were a horror movie and I was a woman/black person, I would have started mumbling "No...NO!" in an ever-increasing volume. But since I'm resilient, I sat down here and started writing. My dream of getting the embarrassing sign was crushed, but my ability to embarrass and, at the same time, enliven my mom through written word had not been altered.

So enjoy this, mom. Sorry that we didn't get you anything good for your birthday. It's my bad. I told Katy, Johnny and Ashley I'd take care of it and all you came away with was a copy of Pure Country and a long-ass blog. Since this is the second time in a row my gift to you has been writing, I'm starting to get worried that I'm being pigeon-holed as "the guy who writes all his blogs about his mom" and "the guys who writes his mom blogs instead of getting her presents." These are really best fit for Buster Bluth, so don't worry, you won't be getting another blog for Christmas. Mostly because I already wrote that one.

We all love you. Happy birthday.

Andy...Katy, Johnny, and Ashley

A Blog For Mama

As I write this, I realize that my mother is probably furious at me. Actually, I hope that she's furious at me. Indifference on her part would indicate that maybe she doesn't love me as much as I thought she did. You see, in the 24 hours that encompassed May 10th, I didn't call my mother and wish her a happy Mother's Day.

There's a historical precedent to this, too. One year in high school, I actually forgot her birthday, which is awful since I almost certainly remembered my half birthday a mere six days before it. To this day I still have no idea how I managed to forget one of the ten most important days of the year (not as important as my own birthday, Christmas, the Friday of Halloween week, the Saturday of Halloween week, textbook buyback day, the first day summer ales come out, or the first day of the new season of Psych, but definitely more important than Bring A Friend Day at King's Island, Father's Day, Easter, and Wrestlemania. Yeah, Wrestlemania. If that doesn't show her how much she means, I don't know what will), but I did. In true "Son of Bill Keller" fashion, I apologized and got her a birthday card - that was written in Spanish.

So hopefully she spent today cursing my existence and trying to talk herself into the idea of having Johnny Keller as a favorite son (terrifying, I know). Unbeknownst to her, the non-contact was just a posturing so I can uplift her that much more when she reads this. You see, I may be forgetful, but I'm not stupid. There is no way in hell I'm going to screw up on Mother's Day when my birthday almost always falls just days afterwards (in this case, three). That's just not good for business. If I leave my mother with a bad taste in her mouth from Mother's Day, and then try to reason with her as to just why I deserve some extravagant birthday gift, do you really think she's going to be reasonable about it? Of course not. Missing a birthday is nothing. What's the worst that happens? She's mad for a few days and then we have Thanksgiving? Well, my mom gets upset and cries at Thanksgiving every year already (and Christmas), so really, I'm just doing you a favor by giving you a Thanksgiving crying practice run a week before the real thing happens.

When thinking up Mother's Day ideas, I was really tempted just to e-mail her this Onion article and let it be, but this year I'm looking to get a new computer, so I really had to step my game up. One thing my mom loves to do is nag. If nagging were an occupation that came with health insurance, I'm quite sure that my mom would be an executive in the industry, or at the very least, some high ranking manager whose career mobility has stagnated at this point. My mom loves to nitpick and bug me about every little thing. Besides the usual parental staples for nagging - school, career ambitions, and creepily asking me if I "have my eye on any girls" - my mom has established her own niche questions that she likes to repeat 3-5 times every time she leaves me a voicemail. How do you manage to spend so much money every month? (you don't buy me groceries and do my laundry like you do for your son who goes to school only an hour away), When can I come visit you in Tucson? (never), and Why don't you write on your blog more often? (I'm not actually writing about things that happen in my current life, you tell me how other parents from Brownsburg read it, about 5000x more people read it if it's on Club Trillion, etc). In the third question is my jackpot. What could be better (besides playing a game of golf with a gator) than satisfying a maternal acknowledgement and answering a question she wont shut up about at the same time?

If you've made it this far, prepare yourself - shit's about to get real. Mom, I hope two things come from this: one, you can brag to all your friends about how your son wrote a blog about you, and then pretend not to listen when they tell you about how their kids don't have time to write blogs because they are majoring in engineering or actuarial science or some other major that requires actual work and provides adequate career opportunities after graduation, and, two, that you find my words to be the second most poignant ones you've ever felt as a mother about motherhood, behind 2pac's "Dear Mama." I'm not going to get stressed out about being second place though, because your own experiences of being pregnant and in jail make the song speak to you on a level that doesn't reach other white people.

So here it goes. Eat your hearts out, other mothers of Brownsburg.

Rebecca Lynn Eggleton was born on November 19, 19(I got into Stanford, I think I'm smart enough not to reveal my mother's age. She does, however, weigh 125 pounds, for all those who are curious). She lived a relatively uneventful 17 years, that, based on the only stories she every told about her childhood, involved being poor, and because of this meant that I was forever doomed to be an "ungrateful bastard" any time I desired something more than she thought I did. 17 year into her life, she met my dad Bill, who wooed her with promises of peach prom tuxedos, not-quite mullets, and teenage pregnancy. And I'll be damned if he didn't go 3 for 3 on that. A mother at 18 to my older sister Katy, my mom began an arduous journey of selflessness that has not left her to this day.

Unfortunately for my parents' first marriage, Katy turned out to be an awful daughter who, despite both my mom and dad telling her that "it wasn't her fault," was directly responsible for my parents' divorce. My mom began her nearly decade long career as a single mom, where she (I think) worked at a Kroger and (I know) possessed enough sass to rival any single mother in a sitcom.

Possibly unfortunately for her and definitely fortunately for me, some 8-ish years later, my mom decided to take back that peach tuxedo wearing stud of a father, who had now graduated (not really graduated, Bill is still a sophomore in college technically) to playing in rec softball leagues so serious that they took both team and individual photos, much like any rec soccer league readers my age played in. One thing led to another, my dad used a super suave pickup line (presumably "Do you like your eggs scrambled or fertilized?") and voila, my mom's pregnant with me. Nothing makes a couple get married quicker than a baby on the way, so years after my parents were divorced, they remarried. Andy Keller: bringing families together since circa Labor Day Weekend, 1986.

Anyways, on May, 13, 1987, I entered this world and began to form the bond with the woman I called MaMa (1988), Mom (1989-2000, 2006-present), Satan (2001-2002), or Becky (2003-2005). I'm not going to force you to read about the births of my other two siblings. They are generally disinteresting people, so you aren't missing out on much. The rest of this is going to be about the most important woman in my life. The jokes stop here, which is absolutely not a promise.

Note: The rest of this is a message to my mom. If you don't like it, I really don't care.

Mom, I wish I was 10% of the amazing person you are. Over time I've realized that I have this strange inability to give out simple compliments - in my brain, that person already knows how good they look, how well they did, whatever, and my input isn't really necessary. So, even though I don't tell you that often how great you are, I think it to myself almost every single day. There is no reason for you to do the things you do for us - we definitely haven't deserved it all - but you do, and you sacrfice things for yourself to make us happy. I've sat staring at this screen for 5 mintues trying to put into words just how humbled and grateful that makes me feel, and there's no sentence that I can write that could do justice to your thankless compassion.

It's strange to talk to people who didn't have the ability to do things that I did growing up. I mean, you and dad drove me all the way from Indiana to Maryland, then up to New York, and then back to Indiana for the 2 indoor national track meets my junior year. I sucked in those meets. I came in dead last in one and was the worst thrower who didn't foul every throw in the other. And not once did you complain about the hours spent in the car driving, the hundreds of dollars spent on gas, hotels, food and entry fees just to watch me do nothing of note when I was there. You were so proud of me that I even made it to that point that you would have driven even further and paid even more if it would have made me feel good about myself. I didn't really realize it then, but looking at it now, god damn I'm so grateful that I had you in the car with me.

It's not like these are isolated incidents either. It doesn't seem like a few weeks go by between every time you bail me out for spending a little too carelessly or send me a package just to let me know that you were thinking about me. And really, I don't deserve any of it. There is no way I have been able to reciprocate the amount of unconditional love you show me, and I just hope that even though you don't see it except in isolated incidents like this, you know that it's deep down in the pit of my stomach everytime you save me from falling on my ass or lift me up with some small gesture of kindness.

I brag to my friends out here about you. The ones you've met have had the ability to see how amazing you are and I almost feel bad for the ones who haven't because they're missing out. I wish you could hear how all my friends from back home beam about you. Josh, Jeromy, Kevin, Mark, Drew, Curtis, all of them say nothing but good things about you and have no hesitation putting me in my place when I'm irrationally upset about something you did.

The three hour difference between here in Tucson and Indianapolis really put a strain on when I can call you and when I'll be awake to answer your calls. But the difference is also just another testament to you. You knew that I wanted to get out of Indiana, and instead of pressuring me to stay around and stay close to home like some parents do, you encouraged me to go wherever I wanted, to be happy regardless of how far away from you that I got. Thinking about it now, your support in such a huge decision of my life has been my rock. I wasn't afraid to turn down Stanford to come here, I wasn't afraid to decide to transfer after my freshman year, and I wasn't afraid to change my mind again and return later that summer. I knew you supported me 100% in anything that I did, and it's helped put my mind at ease. I've become a better man out here, and I think we've even grown closer in spite of the distance.

There's a very good chance you'll be reading this before you go to work in the morning. I could give examples of how you've sacrificed or gone above and beyond to give your kids a better life, but you're getting up 4 or 5 days a week to go work at a job that's beneath your skill level just to get health insurance and give your kids a little bit more money for college. I'll go on record as saying there is no question that you do not deserve to have to work when financially the family doesn't need it just so I can enjoy a little bit lower student loan title after I graduate. I don't deserve that. Johnny doesn't deserve that. Ashley doesn't deserve that. I've seen you bust your ass as a babysitter, I've seen you bust your ass as a successful business owner, I've seen you bust your ass as a stay at home mom who made sure all of her kids got everywhere they needed to go and everything they needed without so much as a thank you. There is no reason you should be having to bust your ass now doing what you do. You shouldn't have had to work the night shift this summer for us. But the amazing thing about you is that there is no way I could convince you of this. Any work you do is worth it if it makes our lives better. Thank you for this. I love you for this.

I always joke that you love the dogs more than you love us, but I know there is no way that it's true. There have been too many times that you've slept downstairs so you would wake up when I came in at 3am, letting you know that I got home safely. There have been too many times that you've got up at 5am to wake me up because you know I still had a paper to finish, even though you could have slept in all day if you wanted. There have been too many times where you have dropped everything you were doing to come bring something to me that my dumbass forgot. There is no way that I could ever doubt the love that you have for me. You love me when I'm the best son in the world and you love me when I'm the biggest idiot in the world. I wish I had the ability to show you an inkling of appreciation compared to the love you show me.

I'm not going to go back and proofread or edit or do anything to this writing. Yeah, I could, and yeah, I probably should, but I know that even if I had just written the dumbest thing ever, you would lie to me and tell me it was amazing. So I'm not going to change a thing. And I hope you don't change a thing about yourself.

I love you mom. Happy Mother's Day.
Andy

From The Vault - The Life and Times of K-Smoove Vol 1-4

Note - I wrote these blogs in the summer of 2007, when Greg Oden first started writing his blogs on Yardbarker (Note inside a note - for anybody unfamiliar with Kevin Durant, he was the player who was in the running with Greg for the #1 pick in the 2007 NBA Draft. I signed up an account with the username KevinDurant and was originally just going to use it to comment on Greg's blogs, but I was bored at work one day and in a stream of consciousness-type of moment hammered out the first entry. I'd never met or even heard stories about Kevin Durant before this point, so I had no real basis for the all caps or the insane shit I was typing, except for I had heard once his nickname was K-Smoove. I based his voice (in the literary sense) off a mix of Tracy Morgan, every insane person you've ever met in your entire life, and my favorite human being of all-time, Victor Yates.

People were dumb enough to believe that this really was Kevin Durant, so I rolled with it a little bit longer, and ended up writing another two blogs with a large portion of the general public thinking this was actually Kevin Durant saying things like "I HAD A SIXTH TOE ON MY RIGHT FOOT WHEN I WAS BORN AND THE DOCTOR CUT IT OFF!" It was eventually picked up by a couple sports blogs, as well as the WNBA beat writer for the Seattle Storm (who actually asked Durant at a WNBA about his comments. I looked for the old link but couldn't find it), then my username was changed to FakeDurant after Kevin Durant's handlers freaked out, and I wrote one more blog before calling it quits. I've thought about bringing back a K-Smoove blog but it's too hard to be topical or over the top at this point. It was great when people actually thought it was Kevin Durant, now I doubt it would be as effective. I still use the phrases "WHAT UP DJ?!?!?!?" and "OMFG I love Chipotle" to this day, though.

The Yardbarker account is here.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF K-SMOOVE VOL ONE

HEY EVERYONE!!!! K-SMOOVE KEVIN DURANT HERE AND I'M BLOGGING ON YO HEAD!!!!!

I just got back from Orlando. I WENT TO DISNEYWORLD!!!!! Myself and a few other guys had a testing session for the NBA teams. I know that I didn't have the best showing (YOU DON'T HAVE TO REMIND ME!!!!!!!) but I don't think I should have been the 78th worst athlete there. I mean, look at Jason Smith. Yeah, he beat me in a few tests, and outjumped me, and is 7 feet tall, but he showed up to the combine AS A WHITE GUY!!! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?!?

People keep bringing up my bench press, but do you know how hard it is do lift that much weight with arms as long as mine? Sure, it's nice and all to have such a long wingspan, and it comes in handy sometimes (example: DUNKING ON FOOS!!!!), but a lot of the time I don't like having long arms. High fives. TALK ABOUT A BIATCH!!! AINT NOBODY WANNA HIGH FIVE ME CAUSE THEY CANT REACH!!! And long-sleeved shirts. THEYRE ALWAYS TOO SHORT!!! It's like, if I really wanted you to see the middle of my forearms, I would have just rocked a tall tee! The arms help though in certain menial tasks like reaching behind refrigerators and DRAININ THREES FROM WAY DOWNTOWN!!!

I'm really going to miss Texas. IT WAS OFF THE HOOK!!!

I passed by a homeless man the other day and he was all like "Can I have some money?" and then I said "GET A JUMPSHOT!!!!" LMAO. Everybody wants to ball if you can't shoot the trey YOU DONE FOR.

I WISH I COULD DO THE SPLITS!!!

My first act as president would be to grow out a baby fro. NOBODY WOULD SEE IT COMING!!! I know you have to be 33 or something to be president, but you know you would vote for me right now! Here's my platform: 25.8ppg, 11.1rpg, 1.9spg, 1.9bpg and 647 shots!!! My running mate would be DJ Augustin. He's always got me ROFL! WHAT UP DJ?!?!!?

The question mark/exclamation point combo is just genius. It's like, I really want to know your answer!!!

One of my teachers at Texas (THE WORLDS GREATEST UNIVERSITY!!!!) once said it's best to end something with a quote (even midterms LOL). SO.....here it goes:

"K-SMOOOVE GONNA DO THE HEISMAN ON THE WHOLE NBA!!!! J/K"

-Kevin Durant, 6/15/2007

K-SMOOVE OUT!!!

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF K-SMOOVE VOL TWO

WHAT UP EVERYONE ITS YOUR BOY K SMOO...hold up, let me get you a napkin, cause you got my blog ALL OVER YO FACE!!! LOL JKJK

WHAT UP EVERYONE ITS YOUR BOY K SMOOOOOOVE!

I met with the fine folks of the Seattle Sonics this week. They asked me what number I wanted to be and I said "69!" I mean DUH LOL. I told them I didn't care as long as I had a chance to play in the league (I love lying to teams...EVERY1 and THEY MOMS KNOW THAT IMA BE REPPIN THE 24 CAUSE IM ONE BETTER THAN JORDAN!!). The Sonics asked me if I had any questions and I was all like "YEAH...DO YOU THINK THAT WE COULD CHANGE OUR JERSEY COLOR TO BLUE AND MAKE THE SONIC LOGO SONIC FROM SONIC THE HEDGEHOG?" Thanks for that one DJ! You had the whole front office ROFL!

I HAD A SIXTH TOE ON MY RIGHT FOOT WHEN I WAS BORN AND THE DOCTOR CUT IT OFF!

People are always interviewing me and they all want to know whether or not I think Joakim Noah is ugly. I DO! Sorry bro BUT YOUS HIDEOUS lol!!! But I think everyone agrees with me when I say I'd love to team up with the MilfHunter and hunt down his mom! I mean OMG good thing I'm wearing compression shorts right now! Speaking of interviews...this cat was interviewing me today and I drained a trey RIGHT IN HIS FACE. AIN'T NOBODY GONNA CHECK K-SMOOOOOOOOVE!

I got kind of excited when I found out Portland and Seattle got the first two picks. I figured me and Greg could have an East Coast/West Coast kind of feud. He'd be Biggie - LOL! Then I found out I was thinking about the wrong Portland. Boy was my face red.

WHAT UP DJ!!!

On a more serious note, OMFG I LOVE CHIPOTLE!!! I swear i'm going to open one up in my crib...I seriously can't live without it. I'm going to pay people to run it. Just don't bring that barbacoa in my house...I HATE IT SO MUCH!!!

I took a poop today and the inside of the toilet looked like a smiley face...does that mean i might be gay? FREE BRITNEY (aka MILF)!!!

I'd like to keep blogging, but DJ is over here and he wants me to whip up on him in XBOX 360...IMA MAKE YOU CRY DJ! LIKE THAT TIME WITH THAT GIRL AT THAT PARTY!!! LOL YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!!!

"I really don't like AJ Abrams...he's a dbag." - Coach Barnes. LOL COACH BARNES YOU HAD ME ROLLIN!

K-SMOOVE OUT!!!!

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF K-SMOOVE VOL THREE

BLOG ON MY KNOB, LIKE CORN ON THE COB!!! CHECK IN WITH ME, AND DO THE JOB!!!

OMG I'm about to go to the NBA DRAFT!!! I'm flying to New York tomorrow. I'm bringing DJ along with me. When the plane starts going down the runway, he's going to take off his seatbelt, go into the aisle, and shout "K-SMOOVE IS ABOUT TO TAKE FLIGHT!!!!!" And if the flight attendant tells him to sit down, HE'S GOING TO FLIP HER OFF!!! OMFG DJ YOU ARE HILARIOUS!!!

THE FIRST THING I'M GOING TO DO WHEN I GET MONEY IS BUY A PONY!!!

Coach Barnes sent me some crazy pictures with his camera phone. I was like LOL Coach Barnes ever heard of a razor? DANG. I hope that I make enough money in my lifetime to buy the WNBA and SHUT IT DOWN!!! OMG every time I go to one of those games I try to start a "BOR-ING" chant. I mean seriously, I would dunk in every single one of their FACES!!! Diana Taurasi I would BLOCK YO SHOT SO HARD!!!

My favorite time of the year is right now. I LOVE GOING TO THE FIREWORKS STORE TO BUY FIREWORKS!!! I LIKE SHOOTING THEM AT HOMELESS PEOPLE!!! OMG MAN THATLL PUT YO EYE OUT!!! I SHOT IT IN YO FACE, JUST LIKE ON THE COURT!!!

So me and DJ were on the internet the other day, and we found this website. I want you all to go there right now!!! It's www.youtube.com. THEY HAVE ALL THESE VIDEOS ON THERE!!! I don't know how people haven't seen this already?? But newayz, me and DJ found the old WAZZZZUP commercial. DJ DONE PEED HIMSELF!!! We was laughing so hard OMFG! It was like, "ALL ABOARD THE ROFLCOPTER!!!" We seriously said WWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAZZZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP back and forth to each other for like 3 HOURS!!!

WWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPP DJ?!??!?!?!??!?!???

I HATE CATS!!! I WANT TO SHOOT EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM WITH A HANDGUN!!!

Okay you little K-SMOOOTHIES, I gotta hit the sack (AKA JACK OFF!!!). I'll catch you guys after the draft!!!

"I don't care who they is...they can be fat, BUT THEY GETTIN NAKED!!!"

-DJ!!! LMAO! FUNNIEST THING EVER!!!

K-SMOOVE OUT!!!

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF K-SMOOVE VOL FOUR

WHAT UP IT'S YO BOI K-SMOOVE AND WE GOTTA DEAL WITH SOMETHING FIRST THING...

...

WTF DJ?????!?!?!?

I was kicking in the hotel with DJ before the draft and everything and I get on here to address all the K-Smoothes out there, but MY LOGIN INFORMATION DID NOT WORK. So I look around on Yardbarker and all of a sudden I see this guy named FAKEDURANT. So I'm like WTF IMPOSTOR YOU'RE NOT K-SMOOVE!!!! But then I looked closer AND IT WAS ME! SO THEN I'M LIKE WTF TIMES TWO!!! All of a sudden DJ starts CRACKING UP on the bed. HE CHANGED MY NAME WHILE I WAS TAKING A POOP!!! OMG DJ YOU HAD ME ROFL SO HARD WHEN I FOUND OUT IT WAS YOU, BUT SERIOUSLY, YOU GOTTA CHANGE IT BACK NOW LOL!!!

I'm sure a lot of you saw that I went number two in the draft. Well STFU!!! I DID THE BEST THAT I COULD!!! I Know a lot of you guys were emailing me asking about stuff you saw during the draft, so let me address those:

-The first time I was laughing, it was because DJ called Yi "Yi JUNGLEBOOK". LOL I KNOW!!!

-The second time I laughed it was because DJ called David Stern "The Jew" LIKE BORAT. I'M NOT KIDDING!!!

-And most importantly, I know a lot of you were wondering about my mom wiping my face on NATIONAL TV WTF. To clarify, I DID NOT HAVE MY BLOG ALL OVER MY FACE!!! DJ is a liar and a drunk and he told my moms that I did!!!

-I grabbed Joakim's mom's boob and yelled MILFHUNTER!!! She smiled kind of funny and then Tito Horford looked at my all crazy-eyed. He was JEALOUS OF K-SMOOVE!!!

I MICROWAVED A HAMPSTER!!! IT EXPLODED!!!

Some WNBA message board was all PMSing over my last blog. Well, guess what? K-SMOOVE DONT BACK DOWN!!! The WNBA is the single most boring "sport" on the face of the earth!!! I don't feel threatened. One of you WNBA fans wished I would "break a leg"! STFU!!! How would you like it if I broke YO FACE WITH A THUNDERDUNK?!?!? I'm COMIN AT YO AZZ BECKY HAMMON LOL!!! And one of you guys said DJ was my butt buddy? I AINT NO HOMO!!! Me and DJ double team hos all the time but that aint gay!!! Plus I'm bigger (NO HOMO LOL)!!!

I STABBED A TAXI DRIVER IN NEW YORK AND I DIDN'T TIP!

I will for real hit anyone - man or woman - in the face if they try to tell me that Tupac isn't alive. Seriously. Ask around. K-Smoove don't play.

I DIDN'T REALLY MISS ALL THOSE DUNKS IN THE NBA LIVE COMMERCIAL!!! Gilbert and the producers were trying to get me to miss the dunks and I TOLD THEM TO F OFF!!! K-SMOOVE DON'T NEVER MISS ON THUNDERDUNKS!!! I think they had to edit the video. OMG, funniest thing. Gilbert was flapping his jaw and DJ was all like "Agent Zero, more like GAYGENT ZERO!" LOL even the NBA Live people couldn't help but bustin out laughin!

UNIQUE NEW YORK!!!

Okays for real I gotta bolt...I'll catch you K-SMOOVIES ON THE FLIP SIDE!!!

"How do you make something not a sport? Let women play it!!!"

-DJ!!! ROFLMMFAO!!!

K-SMOOVE OUT!!!

Why Did My Academic Mustache Grow So Soon?

Near the end of 6th grade and going into high school, there was a guy in my grade who dominated the competition in athletics (this is a composite of people, for anyone from Brownsburg reading this and thinking that I'm talking about you). I was convinced he was the white Bo Jackson. He wore wifebeaters underneath his basketball jerseys in 6th grade to show off his muscles and had a goatee to compliment his white pukka shell necklace in his 7th grade school picture. At that point in my life I thought the only thing slowing him down from being a cross between Barry Sanders and Michael Jordan was a black linebacker on the opposing team. Those guys scared the shit out of him. But I had completely forgotten about one thing - puberty.

I don't think he grew another inch after the tenth grade. Athletically, he stopped improving as the other kids passed him by. As someone whose athletic glory came senior year of high school and on, I always wondered what it was like to have your greatest glory before you could even drive a car. Then I realized something awful, it might have happened to me - academically.

I've always been smart, but at this point in my life, I wonder if I might have peaked at a young age in a lot of the core subjects. I hate math, find science to be terribly boring, and have very little artistic or musical ability. About the only things I can do above average in my life at this point is write, be funny, and turn on my heel and toe at the same time with 16 pounds in my hand. Even if I subconsciously rejected those subjects, I still haven't had glory days in them since I was in elementary school, and that's crazy. I'll break it down into categories so you can see.

Science

To be 100% honest, the only thing I remember from my high school science courses was that my freshman biology teacher, Mr. Shiffer, was batshit insane. He proved this on an almost daily basis. He informed the class bi-weekly that he was impotent and that he hated his adopted son, who happened to spend much of much of my freshman year in a mental institute. Go figure. Shiffer was also one of the most comically angry people I've ever dealt with in my entire life. He would have outbursts on the class every single week, sometimes twice a week. Since he was unable to get blood to his penis, it all went to his face, leaving him bright red and screaming. One time, he was beginning his loud verbal assault on the class when he went to slam his door. He didn't know that there was a doorstop in, so when he put his full force behind the slam, he instead sent himself tumbling to the ground. Another outburst he paused mid-tirade to look me dead in the face to mock my yawn (I had yawned before class) in a voice that I can only describe as "someone impersonating Helen Keller." It was awesome. It took a whole lot out of me trying not to laugh.

To be honest, I don't think I have any significant memories about scientific achievements in my whole academic career. The only thing I can remember is a time in second grade when we were asked what we thought the quickest way to melt snow would be. In my infinite wisdom I retold a story where after getting a microscope for Christmas in 1st grade (thanks for that one mom) I tried to bring snow from outside in on one of the glass slides, but it melted as soon as I got into the house. Of course, I thought that the glass and not the temperature of the house melted the snow, but I still had the best answer of the whole class. Granted, I was measuring my answer to kids who said "throw an electric blanket on the snow" so it wasn't exactly the hardest victory.

Art

I've never been artistically inclined. Like, ever. In Kindergarten, we were asked to draw a picture of ourselves on the beach. I did a shirtless number of myself, and decided that I had sweet pecs, so I drew what were intended to be bulging muscles but looked like female breasts on my male body. It never really got better from that point.

In the third grade, I had probably my closest moment to artistic greatness. As I was leaving for school in the morning, I caught a glimpse of my cat, Missy, lying on the ground underneath my dining room table. She looked so peaceful and happy. And, oh yeah, my mom was about to take her to the vet that day so she could get put to sleep because she had leukemia. In art that day, we were told to draw a room or some shit like that, and of course I channeled my emotions onto the construction paper, and added an image of Missy in my picture of my dining room. The brown lines outside of her mouth? Those aren't whiskers, that's dried, crusted blood. I told my art teacher why I had drawn it and I think she cried with me, but then she told me she would put my art on display in the hallway. Hell yeah! Moral of that story - if your cat dies, use it to get your art displayed for the school to see.


Math

In college I've taken Calculus II and it might as well have been Arabic because I didn't have a damn clue what was going on. This hasn't always been the case though. Earlier in my life, I was a math genius.

What kind of a math genius you say? I'm not talking being the fastest timed test taker with multiplication and division, though I was (suck it Jason Hiquet). No, I invented a math formula. On my own. In the 6th grade. So yeah, I was kind of smart.

Since my 6th grade teacher did nothing besides freak me out (She was always giving creepy massages) and narc on me to my mom (for putting down my classmates too much. Shocking, I know), I chose not to listen to her when she spoke. Instead, I chose to spend much of my time devising math equations whose end result would equal "BOOBLESS" on my four function calculator, that I would later steal from the school. Yeah, I stole calculators. I was a weird kid.

Anyways, one day I was messing with square numbers, when I noticed that 20x20 is 400 and 21x21 is 441, and the difference between the two was 41, or 20+21. I tried it for a few other consecutive square numbers, and the difference between the two was always the two numbers being squared added together.

Naturally, I stopped class to point this out. I could see it in the bespectacled eyes of my female classmates in my gifted and talented class that I was the man that they were going to marry. My teacher wasn't even mad, she was impressed. She took out an index card, and wrote the equation (x+1)(x+1) = x^2 + x + x + 1. Ms Baggarly then began to explain the mathematical significance of what I had come up with on my own, but I wasn't focused on that. The only thing I could think about was the fact that I was about to get published in fucking Highlights magazine. I was going to be Gallant, and the rest of my classmates were Goofuses. I taped the index card down on my desk to show off my math triumph with my heavy duty scotch tape dispenser that I had asked for for Christmas (yeah, for Christmas. Why would my mom actually buy that for me, even if I asked for it?) and basked in my glory. The next day, I would get in trouble for taping 3 rolls of tape down on Matt Jackson's desk while he was sick from school. My moment was over.

The next year, in Algebra, I would learn that I had created what is known in the math world as F.O.I.L. I never made it in Highlights, and I was never quite as good in math again after that.

Music

I can't sing. There's no two ways around it. I'm awful. In the third grade I auditioned for a solo in the school Christmas play by singing completely in falsetto in front of my whole class. Except I was completely serious about it. I didn't get the part, and never tried for one again after that.

One thing I was always good at in the Christmas musicals was puking. I think I went something like 3 for 8 over the course of school. It started so innocently in kindergarten, when I hurled like a madman during "Jingle Bells," and repeated itself in the 2nd grade from the top risers. I think it happened again in the 5th grade too. But like so many professional athletes, I failed in my final go-round, in 8th grade when I was offered $20 to puke on Mike Lopez but couldn't. Easily one of my biggest regrets.


Phys Ed

I know a lot of you might be wondering how I could have peaked as a youth in Phys Ed if I'm doing college track. The answer is simple actually - I knocked a kid out in dodgeball in the 8th grade. Yeah, you read that right. I'm talking unconscious. Before the Nazis took over in high school, we were allowed to play dodgeball as much as we wanted in 8th grade. In retrospect, maybe we weren't allowed to even play in 8th grade either but our gym teacher didn't care about the rules. I mean, if he didn't adhere to the "don't have vodka in your filing cabinet" rule, do you really think he would follow a "no dodgeball" rule?

When it's all said and done, if you had the choice between saying "I was on a college track team" and "I hit a kid in the face with a dodgeball so hard that he was knocked unconscious", which would you pick? Exactly. I peaked too early in gym.


If you read this far, you deserve to know - that badass 6th grader? Not a composite at all. If you have to ask who I'm talking about, you don't deserve to know.

Greg York - Proof That Chivalry is not Dead

The best words of wisdom I ever received came from Wil Fleming in 2005 when he said "the face you make when doing leg curls is the same face you will make during sex." Wil would later open up his own gym, and I have grown to realize that he was wise beyond his years. Creepy football manager guy who works out in McKale even though you're not an athlete? Keep the lights off when you're boning pal, trust me.

The second best advice I ever got came from my mother, when she told me to stop picking on my little sister and her friends because "one day they are going to grow up and you're going to want to date them." Granted, at the time I thought my mother was a moron (I still do today, though for different reasons. I'm talking about you putting t-shirts on our dogs, mom) but since I was a senior in high school on forward, those words have been very, very true. Kate Goedde, call me sometime.

Now, I could choose to take one of two things away from my mom's teachings. First, I could realize that she got pregnant at 17 when my dad was 20, so maybe she knew that the older guys were eventually going to come around. Or, that I should always treat women with respect, because eventually you are going to want to have sex with them. Since I dry heave at the thought of my older sister Katy being conceived, and the only thing I want to remember about my parents circa 1977 is this, I tend to go with the latter.

For awhile, I thought I was the only person who practiced chivalry. I swear, the looks I’ve got when I show up places and the back of my jacket is dripping wet really piss me off. If there’s a puddle and a woman is trying to cross the street, you lay your jacket down. I don’t care if that just means she will step into a puddle still but this time soak your jacket and her foot too, or that it would make a lot more sense for both of you to just walk around said puddle, it’s just something you do. It’s in the Bible, LOOK IT UP. It’s not? Shit.

But still, there is an alarming amount of men who are not chivalrous to women in this society. It’s sad, really. With the social power that celebrities yield, it’s disheartening that they choose to make scarves and not chivalry fashionable. It began to slowly dawn on me that perhaps myself and Sir Lancelot were the only two people out there who still felt chivalry should not be dead. For the 11^th time in my life, I was wrong. I had completely forgot about Greg York.

Pictured: Two parts Dreamboat, one part Hunk, Three parts Chivalry

Who is Greg York you may ask? For the basis of my friendship with him, he is my teammate on the Arizona Track and Field team. More specifically though, he is a man who was born with the gift and curse of chivalry, much like how Luke Bryant was born with a horrendous, incurable lisp. While your attention span prevents me from listing each and every chivalrous quality that Greg possesses, I will talk about the most chivalrous idea I’ve ever heard from someone who doesn’t write for KellerThrows.com. Greg York wants to bring corsages back into style.

Ladies, before you swoon all over yourself and send naughty Facebook messages to Greg, let me finish the story. A couple of our teammates were having a holiday get together. The dress code was upscale (any chance for me to wear a Christmas tie, I will take) and we were supposed to find dates to accompany us to said party. Greg is a precocious young gentleman, and he had his hopes up to ask a girl whose Facebook he had visited so many times that stories about her showed up every third News Feed item (blame it on the algorithm, Greg). Since this is no ordinary girl, and as you have read Greg is no ordinary guy, he wanted to make a great impression with a dash of chivalry sprinkled all over her flat-ironed hair. Since he didn’t have my phone number (it’s 317-797-8006 for reference, ladies) he did the next best thing – he asked Zach Hauer for advice. Before any of your wandering minds imagine a conversation involving latex, bananas, and a confused look on Greg’s face, it was a much more PG and much more awesome. Greg, you see, wanted to get his date a flower corsage to this party.

When this story was repeated to me, I agreed so strongly that Greg should do this that I almost offered to buy it for him. I even threw out the suggestion that Greg should buy a corsage made of mistletoe, so after he put the corsage on his dates hand, he could kiss it in his best Humphrey Bogart impression that didn’t end with him slapping or shaking the girl to put some sense in her. Unfortunately for all parties involved, aforementioned girl and Greg were unable to go to the party together, so no corsage was purchased, and the public was unable to see one of the greatest displays of chivalry in the 21^st century.

I feel that this shouldn’t be the end of Greg’s story. Ladies, if you’re out there, you are passing up an opportunity to get to know one of the nicest guys out there. I’m talking like “I can’t believe you weren’t homeschooled” nice. That’s why I’m calling on my friends to join my new initiative. I call it the “Find Greg York a Girl to Buy a Corsage For So He Can Live Happily Ever After World Tour 2009.” The task is simple – tell every one of your single girl friends about the awesomeness that is Greg York. The link to his Facebook is right here. If you find yourself saying, “oh, Andy, I believe everything you say, but I still am not sure if this Greg guy is okay or not,” know this – Greg York walks with a slight droop to his left side. At first, I thought this was some kind of physical defect, but I soon learned why. His heart is made of gold, and it weighs his 115 pound frame down. Still think he’s not a good guy? I thought so.

A philosopher in life once said everything requires five winners. If Greg finds a lady to give a corsage to, this will be the case. First, Greg gets the hottie with the body that he so rightfully deserves. The girl getting the corsage gets a flower around her wrist and Greg York in her life. She is arguably the biggest winner. I get to see the World Tour as a raging success, so I win. Society gets a proliferation of chivalry, so it wins. The fifth winner? Why, that would be you, person who got your friend to go out with Greg. If you are the person whose friend gets Greg’s corsage, I will send you a signed copy of the 2009 KellerThrows.com Beefcakes and Kittens Calendar. If you are a girl and you submit yourself to get Greg’s corsage? Double winner, coolest person ever.

I'll leave this with one last bit of advice, and it's to my man Greg York - keep going with the corsages, and start doing your leg curls in the mirror so you can see your face. It's better to be safe than sorry.

From the Vault - Keller Family Christmas (My First Story)

Note - I wrote this Christmas Eve of my senior year of high school. It's not my best work, but everything I mention in the story had happened at one of our Christmases in years past. Since it's Christmas time and I'm bringing back KellerThrows, I figure this is a good jumping off point.

Christmas is supposed to be the happiest holiday every year. Well, it seems like each and every year my family finds some way to make this not the case. The fifteen or so years that I can remember Christmas have blended together over the years so I can’t remember specific instances, but they tend to follow the same storyline….

Christmas Morning:

7:00 am – Andy awakes, clad in pajama pants and old t-shirt. He is excited for Christmas to begin because he really, really wants to find out what presents he got for Christmas this year.

7:01 am – Disappointment overcomes Andy when he realizes for the fifth year in a row, he knows what presents he is getting because he was the one to order them online two weeks before. Andy looks around to see that Johnny has been up since 5:00 am because he went to bed at 8:30 on Christmas Eve. Ashley is awake too, but is downstairs opening the corners of her presents to see what they are.

7:05 am – Andy sees that the cookies that were set out the night before have been eaten. Granted, none of the Keller children still believe in Santa, but Bill “still wants some goddamn cookies.” He tells us not to bother with the milk, because “Santa doesn’t like warm milk, and neither does Bill Keller.”

7:15 am – Becky is nowhere to be seen. This doesn’t bode well for the rest of the Keller family. Just like every year, Becky has waited until 3:00 am to begin wrapping presents. Andy knows this combination of no sleep and holiday stress will lead to hostility later on in the day. The door to his parents room is shut, where Becky and the dog have locked themselves in for the long haul.

7:30 am – The greedy children cannot wait any longer. Ashley’s annoyed cries of “when are we going to open the presents?” and Johnny’s shouts of “Mom, let’s get going with the goddamn presents!” set off the eruption Stress Mountain, located in Becky Keller National Park. Tears and slamming sounds are intermittently strewn in between the annual “WE AREN'T GOING TO HAVE A F*CKING CHRISTMAS” and “I HATE THIS FAMILY!” Father of the year Bill Keller aids the situation with a “Well, how about you just hurry up.”

8:00 am – Katy has arrived, and she has managed to calm Becky down just a little bit. Katy also helps with the presents, which she announces will be done in “10-15 minutes.”

9:28 am – Still no word on the rest of the presents, or what really is going on in the wrapping room

9:41 am – One hour and twenty-six minutes after the presents were supposed to be downstairs, the last presents have been put under the tree. Looks of excitement from the children are quickly killed by Becky’s announcement that “not a single goddamn present will be opened until you guys have all showered!” Andy knew this was coming, and had showered at 8:30 am. Johnny and Ashley head upstairs to get their showers.

10:15 am – Ashley and Johnny both have their first presents firmly lodged in their hands. Bill announces “nobody’s opening any presents until I get some goddamn cinnamon rolls!” The Keller family looks at Bill with a glare, then proceeds to open their first presents. Bill then threatens to “knock down the f*cking tree if we don’t eat some cinnamon rolls.”

10:37 am – Bill finishes his “goddamn cinnamon rolls” and it is time to open up the rest of the presents. Ashley’s eyes dart to the biggest box, and she immediately opens it up. Put it this way: her eyes show that a pillow for her bedroom was NOT the gift she was anticipating being in the big box. Johnny has opened up 7 of his action figures and has taken a break from opening presents to roleplay with his Marvel brigade.

10:44 am – Bill has called a halt to the present opening to grab the infamous Yellow Trash Bag. This makes its appearance every year around this time, when Bill makes everyone throw away all the wrapping paper before anybody can open more presents.

10:55 am – Becky has started to cry when she sees one of the bows for a present in the Yellow Trash Bag. “YOU GUYS DON’T APPRECIATE ANYTHING I DO! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH THOSE GODDAMN BOWS COST?! I GOT A TUBE SOCK FOR CHRISTMAS WHEN I WAS YOUNG! NOT A PAIR OF SOCKS! ONE F*CKING SOCK! MY FEET WERE WARM EVERY OTHER YEAR GODDAMNIT! AND I NEVER ONCE COMPLAINED!”

11:08 am – The spiel has finally subsided. Bill has opened all four of his presents – one from Becky, Johnny, Ashley, and Katy. Andy wrote his name on whichever present to Bill he saw first. Bill has become restless and is now making comments on everyone else’s presents. Andy decides to fuel the fire by asking Bill what he got Andy for Christmas. Bill’s response: “Son (he always says son…I’m not sure if he even knows my first name), I paid for all of this. I worked hard all year to pay for this.” Andy reminds him that Becky is the president of the company and that most of Bill’s days are spent walking around the house in his underwear. The pout is beginning to form on Bill’s face.

11:13 am – It is becoming evident as to why it took so long for the presents to be wrapped. “Mom what the hell!?” are the words resonating from Johnny’s mouth. Turns out Becky got a real kick out of the “To:/From:” part of the presents. Instead of the presents being from “Mom and Dad” or even “Santa”, Becky has decided to unveil her inner comedienne. “To: Johnny/From: Donna J.” and “To: Johnny/Love: Amy Roll” has made Johnny beyond furious. Becky turns her head, and Johnny, seeing a window of opportunity, throws an unopened present at her head. The corner of the box hits her, and in typical Keller fashion, yelling ensues.

11:29 am – Everything is following according to Keller Christmas plan. After Andy informs Bill that his Battleship mug appears to be on fire when coffee is put in it really ISN’T cool, he starts bumbling with an insult that can be best classified as “unintelligent.” After telling Bill that he really needs to put the hood on his hooded sweatshirt down while he’s inside, and for that matter when he’s outside, in the car, and everywhere else too, Bill loses it. He uses his patented hissy fit trademark of “F*CK IT” and goes up the stairs, slamming his feet on every stair like a 4 year old. Christmas is complete.

11:30 am – So here is the conclusion to the annual Christmas at the Keller’s: Becky has cried on multiple occasions, Johnny has freaked out, Ashley has been disappointed as usual because she didn’t receive a gift over $2000, and Bill has stormed upstairs to shut himself in his room to pout, most likely with his sweatshirt hood up.

Christmas 2005 took it to a whole new level. There is white trash, and then there is our family. Because of poor timing, and a general lack of preparation on our part we have reached a new low. While I can’t recall a single time that our family put lights outside, this year we didn’t have a Christmas tree. Becky’s wandering mind came up with the brilliant idea to make a tree out of presents, complete with garland. My mind immediately became excited at the prospects this new “tree” presented, even playing a scenario in my head where Johnny and Ashley battle over whose present gets to be the top of the tree, leading to Bill promising to solve the situation by “knocking that f*cker right down!” followed by everyone staring at Bill, then Bill going up to his room to pout. Alas, this situation never came to be, but that’s the beauty of Christmas at my household – Bill is always going to wear his hood up indoors and say the F word, Johnny is always going to talk too fast and do something inappropriate, Ashley is always going to ask for $5,000 worth of stuff and bitch when she only gets half, and Becky is always going to cry because she’s generally unprepared. If something doesn’t happen one year, you just wait for the next.

End note - When I wrote this, more than a few people thought I was upset about the way my Christmases ended up. This was not the case. I wrote the story as a way of showing the humor I saw in my Christmases, not the shame. Trust me - I would much rather have a Christmas like the one I described than one with hot chocolate, Jesus hymns, and a ham for the whole family (too salty). We'll see how this year's Christmas goes - if anything good happens, I'll be sure to write it.