Dave on Demand: All those cardboard celebrities

Let's get something straight, shall we?

The concept of what constitutes a "celebrity" has gotten bizarrely warped. Stretched beyond all recognition, like bad Play-Doh.

For example: Kim Kardashian. She's everywhere - on red carpets, splashed all over the magazines at the checkout counter, and now, on every other TV commercial.

Why? Beats me.

In the oddest twist of the week, Old Navy has launched a new TV ad campaign featuring a Kardashian look-alike. (I could tell it wasn't the real thing because the girl in the commercial can dance. Kim only strikes poses.)

As Popeye used to say, Enough is too much. Engaging in a sex tape does not elevate you to celebrity status. In fact, it disqualifies you. (Sorry, Paris.)

Where did we go off track? Keeping Up With the Kardashians was intended to be a joke, people! Like The Osbournes, it was a chance to snicker at a family that seemed utterly unaware of its own weirdness. It was The Addams Family without a laugh track.

Just so we're clear: There is no such thing as a "reality star." Not Snooki. Not Lauren Conrad. Not Omarosa. Not Kate Gosselin. And certainly not KiKa.

They are, at best, curiosities that in five years will persist only as the answers in trivia contests. Who is Boston Rob, Alex?

There is an important distinction between celebrity and notoriety. The former is based on accomplishment. The latter is achieved through face time. And in this frenzied tabloid era, we have more of that than at any time in history.

By that standard, Justin Bieber is not a celebrity, any more than Zac Efron or Robert Pattinson is. He's a teen idol. Come back in four or five albums and we'll talk, little dude. Until then, you're just this year's Joey McIntyre.

I saw an article this week reporting how much the Kardashian sisters made in endorsements and appearance fees in 2010. It was a staggering sum, more I would guess than the gross national products of all but about five industrialized nations.

Now that's just obscene. More so, Kim, than that sex tape that is your dubious claim to fame.

Delayed response. On last week's Blue Bloods, someone tried to rub out the commissioner (Tom Selleck) as he enjoyed a stogie outside a New York steak house.

At the sound of gunshots, his security detail sprang into action, sprinting to his side. Well, all except the plainclothes officer in stiletto heels.

She teetered gingerly down the sidewalk like a beachgoer hoofing it across hot sand.

If ever a job called for sensible shoes, this is it.

Spinoff with a spin move. During the NBA All Star Game on TNT, color commentator Reggie Miller informed us that explosive Oklahoma City Thunder guard Russell Westbrook is "a byproduct of UCLA."

That's right. The primary purpose of the university is manufacturing widgets. Rocket-powered ball handlers are merely a side effect.

Your ad here. Did you see the crash-happy Daytona 500 won by (barely) 20-year-old Trevor Bayne?

It started with Josh Duhamel, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, and director Michael Bay from the forthcoming film Transformers: Dark of the Moon serving as grand marshals. Together, they raggedly delivered the famous order: "Gentlemen, start your engines!"

That ceremonial moment was followed immediately by an eye-popping commercial for Tranformers.

Boy, you can't buy publicity like that. Wait, I guess you can.

Deja vu. This week, Fringe is once again in flashback mode, featuring a far younger Walter. His modish hairstyle in these episodes always seems familiar. But who inspired it?

Then it hit me: Long-ago Walter is a dead ringer for the long-ago version of another flustered father on Fox. The one, the only Homer Simpson.