mickey_ubermaus' Journal
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Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in
mickey_ubermaus' LiveJournal:
| Monday, March 28th, 2005 | | 10:40 pm |
| | Monday, March 7th, 2005 | | 11:09 pm |
My people call it maize. Your people find it in their poop.
Michael and I are such horrible people...The other day, we had a conversation that changed the course of my life forever...
MICHAEL: *something about teen girls having abortions in bathroom stalls*
ME: You know what we need to make? You know how in bathrooms, they have tampon dispensers and pregnancy test dispensers? We should make a dispenser for trash bags so teenage girls can have their kids and then suffocate it to death.
MICHAEL: *laughs hysterically* "ONLY 35 CENTS AN ABORTION!"
ME: "IT'S ABORT-A-RIFIC!"
ME: Plus, there's the fact that we're fighting terrorism. Southern Baptists blow up abortion clinics, but they can't blow up high school bathrooms for fear of hurting innocent teenagers.
MICHAEL: We're helping the greater good!
And the sad thing is that, if nobody stops us, we may develop this product. The instructions alone have ensured that I'll never have a career in politics. (The hand-drawn ones were funnier, IMHO, but I can't scan 'em.)
( Click here to see the instructions for our great and terrible invention... ) Current Mood: damned. | | Thursday, February 17th, 2005 | | 10:40 am |
It's so bizarre that, when you Google image search for "stargazing", over half of the pictures were taken in the daytime. The other half are of naked elves and shit.
That said:
| | Tuesday, February 15th, 2005 | | 11:08 pm |
| | Monday, January 3rd, 2005 | | 1:38 am |
What the fuck.
While Michael and I were bored and looking at porn, hoping to find a certain hilarious video again, we decided to sign me up on a bondage-specific personals site, free, just for the fuck of it. While editing my profile, we found some sick-ass shit. Among your profile options on this site, you can list your fetishes, which include but are not limited to: amputees ballet balloons blood breath denim diapers gyno-medical lipstick menstruation religious scars scent scat-shit shoes smoking sock "Hi, my name is Roger. I'm a ballet dancer with no legs. My breath is bad, and often bloodlike. I wear only denim--even my condoms, socks, and shoes are denim--except when I go out on the town; then it's diapers only. I like balloons. Sometimes, I visit a gynecologist, but there's just something about it that feels wrong. I want to shit with you while we smoke and put on lipstick. Then we'll compare scars. Afterward, we'll go to church, because I'm a practicing Pentacostal and will not tolerate sinners." Hello, so-called humanity. This is Michael and Adam. You're fucked up. | | 12:43 am |
The power of Christ compels you...to go get me a donut!
We hate to admit it, but we watched Muppet Babies when we were younger. One episode focused on the fact that Fozzie was completely unfunny. He was as unfunny as a one-legged man tap-dancing. Yet Nanny encouraged him to try hard and one day, he'd be a famous comedian. Now, the problem with that is that if you ain't got any talent in an area, you never will. Adam doesn't have the ability to metabolize sugar; if his parents had lied to him as a child and said, 'Work hard, Adam, and one day you'll be able to eat a Snicker's bar without the aid of insulin", not only would it have set false expectations for him, he'd have died within six months of being diagnosed with the disease. Which, really, would have worked out well for them. He could work hard and be able to buy a shitload of Snickers, but he can't fuckin' eat them without insulin, no matter what his lying parents might have told me on the subject. Parents want their kids to feel good about themselves and their prospects. When that kid grows up and realizes he or she is a complete fuck-up, though, they'll hate their parents, drop out of college, and become prostitutes. The next time you visit a hooker, be sure to bring a thank-you card for her parents--they're the reason she fucks people for money. For example: Little Jimmy Rothenstine of Baton Rouge, LA, wrote us an inspiring letter telling us of his desire to fence with 5-gallon water jugs. This is an admirable goal, as 5-gallon water jug fencing has a noble history going back hundreds of years. Michael's great-grandfather, Pierre Mercer*, was a champion 5-gallon-fencer, as well as 5-time winner of the ZZ Top Look-Alike Contest. It is impossible to fence with 5-gallon water jugs without making the "how-how-how-how" sound. (That's how it sounds, but we don't know the name of the song.) Unfortunately, Jimmy has no style or sense of rhythm, so he can not pronounce the line properly. Moreover, his hands were crushed in a freak accident involving his dog and a pair of wooden spoons. ** Jimmy, whose parents lie because they are French, attempted to tie 5-gallon water jugs to his stumps and use a tape recorder to play the line from the ZZ-Top song. During the competition, the jugs fell off his stumps and his tape recorder jammed mid-"how". His head was knocked off by Bubba "Big Jugs" Locklear, heavyweight champion of the Southeast. Bubba then commented to Jimmy's corpse, "You got pretty stumps there, boy." A girl in the audience heard this and was so distraught that she killed herself. All because Jimmy's parents lied to him. You see it everywhere you go: the teens at Libby Loo's Teen Boutique being told that they can become pop stars, but then get duped into gang-banging old Japanese men in business suits who say they're in the record business but sell kidneys to the real executives just to get near the studio, much less get record time, and then learn they have no vocal chords; the hordes of fat people that post pictures of their naked bodies, convinced that their girth makes them BBWs; Church of Holiness people telling their kids they'll go to Heaven; Michael Jackson promising children they'll see daylight again, after they meet his special friend "Spot the One-Eyed Unicorn." End the cycle now. Tell your kid he's fat, ugly, has a skin condition, and will never amount to anything more than ingesting semen in alleys by the harbor while begging mobsters not to throw him in said harbor. At least he'll be able to adequately prepare for his career. Michael & Adam *During the writing of this line: ADAM: What's a good French name? MICHAEL: Oh, God. ADAM; No, He's Jewish. MICHAEL: Adam. ADAM: Also Jewish. I have Jewish first name, a Scottish middle name, and an Irish last name. MICHAEL: You're a genetic whore! **And this line: MICHAEL: That makes no sense. ADAM: We're discussin' fencing with 5-gallon water jugs, you fuckin' moron! MICHAEL: I don't fuck morons! I used to use my hand, but since you crushed it when we were fencing with 5-gallon jugs, I have to resort to using pie! We really did this. We're at Michael's cousin's house, and he has spare 5-gallon jugs for easy water distribution, or in our case, fencing. They make this bad-ass "bong!" sound effect when they collide, are adequate for reenacting Star Wars fights, and can crush Michael's hand easily. No, we're not smart. At all. | | Sunday, January 2nd, 2005 | | 11:48 pm |
Satisfy your woman with balloons
We at mickey_ubermaus are highly concerned that you're not getting enough wacky amusement out of our disjointed ramblings and curse words aimed at strangers in the mall. We've also ingested a certain herb that rhymes with "Carrie Huana." Though in all honesty, we've had, what, five entries so far? And you've read them. We don't understand why. So with that in mind, feel free to fill out our customer satisfaction survey, available to you at no cost... ( The survey )On behalf of the hard-working staff at mickey_ubermaus, as well as the saints that made it out of question #29 alive and Gandhi's ashes, as well as Keith Richards and Ozzy Osbourne who will snort Gandhi's ashes, we thank you for your time. Your attention and devotion to mindless gibbering warms our hearts and makes our adult diapers squishy. With erections, Michael & Adam. | | Wednesday, December 22nd, 2004 | | 1:59 am |
Sometimes, I'm not a very nice person.
I'm sure the guy from See's Candy (re: the shitty, inferior candy franchise that set up shop down the hall from our booth and makes our customers snark at us because we're not giving out samples like they are, despite the fact that they can do so simply because their candy sucks ass) is actually a very nice man. I imagine that he's a father, possibly a grandfather. He's probably very active in his church and community. Maybe he breeds dogs when he's not selling candy. At the worst, he's touched a few kids here and there, but he's old, and what old person hasn't done that? However, he has one glaring flaw: He's not too bright. Case in point... SEE'S GUY: [to Tasha and me] Hey, let me ask you professional chocolate people a question. TASHA: Shoot. SEE'S GUY: I've been in the candy business for six months now, and I still don't know what to call those little paper cups we put the samples in when we give them to our customers. Is there a technical, candy-business term for them? ME: *pauses to think "what a fuckin' moron"* Sir, that's called a "flagel". TASHA/SEE'S GUY: *stare blankly* SEE'S GUY: It is? ME: Yes, sir. That's the original German term for it. It's named after its inventor. It's really obscure, and most people just call them "little paper cups", but really, it's a flagel. SEE'S GUY: Huh. I didn't know that! TASHA: He's an English major. ME: Though technically, that's German, but still. SEE'S GUY: Learn something new every day. Well, thanks! See you later! *leaves* ME: *looks at Tasha, bursts into hysterical laughter* TASHA: Did you make that up?! ME: Yes! Did you believe me?! TASHA: I can't believe you did that to him! | | Monday, December 20th, 2004 | | 11:51 pm |
Incoherent curse filled rant...
Filthy yeast-filled cuntfaced torturous electronic plague of bloated maggot filled carcass ravaging demons from the depths of hell mangled semen filled poop-chutes blood soaked asshole raping convicted Carrottop fans fucking goddamn vile wasted bastards grown fat on eating aborted fetuses and puppies and GODDAMMIT!!! WITHOUT BALLONS!!! In other words, Adam still has no LJ access. | | Friday, December 17th, 2004 | | 11:34 pm |
Because I damn well feel like it: A special masturbatory report
There's just something about a stressful day and a half that really makes you crave masturbation. Prior to tonight, I hadn't had an orgasm since some time yesterday morning. I felt like it had been a fucking year, people. So after a shift at Godiva's; half-assed studying for finals; a bare minimum of sleep; taking both finals; going to Best Buy only to learn that every human, humanoid and Holy Roller in Huntsville was Christmas shopping at eleven in the fucking morning--doesn't anybody work any more?--; and a long-ass shift at Godiva's, I turned to Michael and said: "Dude, today has sucked, and when I get home I am going to furiously masturbate." Instead, I got home, ate, and fell asleep for about an hour. I woke up quite annoyed with myself, truth be told: Why was I going out of my way to ignore Me? Didn't I deserve some lovin'? Hadn't I received enough frustration from Treva (a friend from HS days), who had walked by Godiva and wound up hugging me for the better part of a minute, completely unaware that I nearly bore a hole through her pelvis? Not to mention the bit with accidentally feeling up a manager, for Christ's sake. I won't even get into the fact that she used my leg as a writing pad, nearly murdering me on the spot. In case I haven't made it clear: I severely needed to whack. On the other hand, anticipation makes the hand grow fonder, so I watched TV with my mom for a couple of hours. It's so bizarre to sit there in the living room, waiting to see how and when Jack McCoy's gonna make the priest confess, and then look at your hand and think, "You? Are gonna be MINE." Finally, around eleven, I decided I could wait no longer. Just when I thought the sheer asininety (I'm not sure if that's a word, but I'm an English major and I say it is) of the evening had fully hit me, I realized how excited and nervous I was. I'm sitting there doing a pre-wank bathroom break when I realize my heart's beating, I'm eager, and yet I feel like a virgin on her friggin' wedding night. Over my hand. Rest assured: I got the lovin' I needed. It was very nice. Sparks flew, emotions ran high...it was so nice, the thumb on my other hand hurts too. This may be love. I may have found the one person that I can truly be with, free of games and manipulation and, well, being a woman. Pure, simple, honest connections, and nothing more. Plus, orgasms. Current Mood:  silly | | Monday, December 6th, 2004 | | 10:14 am |
The oddest thoughts pop into my head sometimes...
1. I'm going to write a parody of Mariah Carey's "Butterfly". Now, I generally hate her music--even though I always try to see her "All I want for Christmas is you" video, because she looks good in it--but I have to write this, if only for the line: "Spread your legs and prepare to cry". 2. Somewhere in America, there's a guy in a wheelchair preparing a lawsuit against his local arcade, solely on the basis that they won't let him play Dance Dance Revolution. | | Sunday, December 5th, 2004 | | 12:50 am |
Greetings, salutations, and a handful of penis.
Howdy. You may know me as ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) silent_r_infork. So why, you might ask, am I here in this bizarre new place that smells like blood? The answer is astonishingly simple.
invalid_sex and I were discussing the fact that a lot of people have been tricked into reading the incredibly stupid and funny crap that we write in our LJs. After pondering the possibility that someone's put an extremely random chemical in the water, one which affects people's minds and makes them want to read stupid crap...one which is so random that only thirty people out of the myriad on the Internet received it...we came up with a brilliant idea: A Livejournal shared by the two of us, with both of our shit in one place.
Bear in mind that this is hopefully the first step in our eventually selling out, and has nothing to do with your convenience. After all, I can't speak for Michael, but I'm still going to be using silent_r_infork for my regular shit. No, this journal is mainly just the two of us trying out some shit in an effort to see what a creative collaboration between us would be like.
Both of us, in my opinion, are extremely funny people. Together, we're a comedy act waiting to happen, and I have no qualms about admitting it. We have that bizarre comedic chemistry that you can't create--it was just there, waiting for the two of you to meet and say something horrible about using blood as lubrication. Almost anything the one says, the other has a sick and twisted concept in response.
Um...I should have something insightful to say here, but alas, I am tired and my hand is trying to seduce me. Take note: hand=more important than you.
What say you, invalid_sex?--silent_r_infork |
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