Mickey Mouse Quotes

I love Mickey Mouse more than any woman I have ever known.

You dare to stand with my enemy? (Stryker) Against you, Father, I’d stand with Mickey Mouse. (Urian)

Perhaps Bach and Beethoven are strange bedfellows for Mickey Mouse, but it's all been a lot of fun.

Another guy barked orders to a small army of brooms, mops, and buckets that were scuttling around, cleaning up the city. "Like that cartoon," Sadie said. "Where Mickey Mouse tries to do magic and the brooms keep splitting and toting water." "'The Sorcerer's Apprentice,'" Zia said. "You do know that was based on an Egyptian story, don't you?

Girls bored me - they still do. I love Mickey Mouse more than any woman I've ever known

Nothing could be taken for granted. Women who loved you tried to cut your throat, while women who didn't even know your name scrubbed your back. Witches could sound like Katharine Hepburn and your best friend could try to strangle you. Smack in the middle of an orchid there might be a blob of jello and inside a Mickey Mouse doll, a fixed and radiant star.

It was an excess of fantasy that killed the old United States, the whole Mickey Mouse and Marilyn thing, the most brilliant technologies devoted to trivia like instant cameras and space spectaculars that should have stayed in the pages of Science Fiction . . . some of the last Presidents of the U.S.A. seemed to have been recruited straight from Disneyland.

Mickey Mouse is just a rat in suspenders.

There’s a whole psychological reason for those cartoons about good against evil. We have "Superman" and all those other hero people, so that we can go out into life and try to be something. I’ve got most of Disney’s animated movies on video-tapes, and when we watch them. Oh, I could just eat it, eat it. […] Jimmy Cricket, Pinocchio, Mickey Mouse – these are world-known characters. Some of the greatest political figures have come to the United States to meet them.

I'm not Mickey Mouse, I'm a human being.

Want your boat, Georgie?' Pennywise asked. 'I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.' He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore. Yes, sure,' George said, looking into the stormdrain. And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue...' Do they float?' Float?' The clown’s grin widened. 'Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy...' George reached. The clown seized his arm. And George saw the clown’s face change. What he saw then was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings of the thing in the cellar look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke. They float,' the thing in the drain crooned in a clotted, chuckling voice. It held George’s arm in its thick and wormy grip, it pulled George toward that terrible darkness where the water rushed and roared and bellowed as it bore its cargo of storm debris toward the sea. George craned his neck away from that final blackness and began to scream into the rain, to scream mindlessly into the white autumn sky which curved above Derry on that day in the fall of 1957. His screams were shrill and piercing, and all up and down Witcham Street people came to their windows or bolted out onto their porches. They float,' it growled, 'they float, Georgie, and when you’re down here with me, you’ll float, too–' George's shoulder socked against the cement of the curb and Dave Gardener, who had stayed home from his job at The Shoeboat that day because of the flood, saw only a small boy in a yellow rain-slicker, a small boy who was screaming and writhing in the gutter with muddy water surfing over his face and making his screams sound bubbly. Everything down here floats,' that chuckling, rotten voice whispered, and suddenly there was a ripping noise and a flaring sheet of agony, and George Denbrough knew no more. Dave Gardener was the first to get there, and although he arrived only forty-five seconds after the first scream, George Denbrough was already dead. Gardener grabbed him by the back of the slicker, pulled him into the street...and began to scream himself as George's body turned over in his hands. The left side of George’s slicker was now bright red. Blood flowed into the stormdrain from the tattered hole where his left arm had been. A knob of bone, horribly bright, peeked through the torn cloth. The boy’s eyes stared up into the white sky, and as Dave staggered away toward the others already running pell-mell down the street, they began to fill with rain.

If we found a ticket to Disneyland would you think we should arrest Mickey Mouse?

I don't think I'd want Mickey Mouse pimping for me anyway.

Still hanging on to your Mickey mouse ears at age 50? Hope someone loves you enough to take you to your psychiatrist

The clerk is looking at me. His expression hasn't changed. What I want to do is punch a hole in the front of the desk, reach through, grab his balls, and make him sing The Mickey Mouse Club song. But these days, I'm working on the theory that killing everyone I don't like might be counterproductive. I'm learning to use my indoor voice like a big boy, so I smile back at the clerk.

Son, We're in no mood for Mickey Mouse. Get out of the road." Chief Miller, Into the Looking Glass

Kiddies, Graphic Design, if you wield it effectively, is Power. Power to transmit ideas that change everything. Power that can destroy an entire race or save a nation from despair. In this century, Germany chose to do the former with the swastika, and America opted for the latter with Mickey Mouse and Superman.

I'm find," her voice squeaked out. Remembering the maggots-and not one hundred percent sure the ghost had taken them with her-Kylie leapt up, yanked the covers off the bed, and tossed them on the floor, she backed away from the pile of bedding. "Yeah. You look just fine," Della said sarcastically. Kylie jumped from foot to foot and brushed off imaginary maggots that she felt crawling on her skin. Della stood there in Mickey Mouse pajamas, staring at her as if she didn't' know whether to laugh or run. Kylie stopped dancing and tried to breathe normally. "If I die, promise me I'll be cremated." Della frowned. "Die?" "Not that I'm planning to die anytime soon." She gave her arm one more swipe. "But still." Della shook her head. "I don't know why you pretend you're okay.

If Mickey Mouse could fly, he'd be Donald Duck.

Actually, there are,” she’d said. “Want to see who can make the most inappropriate picture out of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?” So they’d done that. She hadn’t realized how . . . creative a bunch of teen boys could get. But at least it had cut through some of their tension.

It’s as though I went down to Disneyland and assassinated Mickey Mouse.

Gordie: Alright, alright, Mickey's a mouse, Donald's a duck, Pluto's a dog. What's Goofy? Vern: If I could only have one food for the rest of my life? That's easy-Pez. Cherry-flavored Pez. No question about it. Teddy: Goofy's a dog. He's definitely a dog. Gordie: I knew the $64,000 question was fixed. There's no way anybody could know that much about opera! Chris: He can't be a dog. He drives a car and wears a hat. Gordie: Wagon Train's a really cool show, but did you notice they never get anywhere? They just keep wagon training. Vern: Oh, God. That's weird. What the hell is Goofy?

He was in stature but a small man, yet remember that so were Napoleon, Lord Beaverbrook, Stephen A. Douglas, Frederick the Great, and the Dr. Goebbels who is privily known throughout Germany as "Wotan's Mickey Mouse.

Planning is helpful. If you don’t know what you want, you’ll seldom get it. But, no matter how well you plan, you will fare better if you expect the unexpected. The unexpected, by nature, comes unseen, unthought, unenvisioned. All you can do is plan to go unplanned, prepare to be unprepared, make going with the flow part of your agenda, for the most successful among us envision, plan, and prepare, but cast all aside as needed, while those who are unable to go with the flow often suffer, if they survive.

Best friends stick together.

Unless you're under 12 or into role playing, you shouldn't be wearing Mickey Mouse ears #AHOLE

Helium is widely recognized as an over-the-counter, low-density gas that, when inhaled, temporarily increases the vibrational frequency of your windpipe and larynx, making you sound like Mickey Mouse.

We could’ve even made the thrones six inches tall. Personally, I would have loved to see that. A demigod hero straggles into our presence after some horrible quest, takes a knee before an assembly of miniature gods, and Zeus squeaks in a Mickey Mouse voice, Welcome to Olympus!

Mickey represented an honest product, a pure spirit and a cheerful heart, a sort of staggeringly simple pleasure in the exercise of the imagination.

Things were going well. Work here was hard, but there was nothing in the way of Mickey Mouse bullshit.

People are obsessed with spectacle. We live in the society of the spectacle. People are addicted to the spectacular. They want bigger and better spectacles. They need more and more to keep them stimulated. They crave entertainment. They crave more powerful simulations, more breathtaking special effects, more everything. No one wants POR – plain old reality. Simulation – hyperreality – the simulacrum – these are what the people desire. We all live in Disneyland now – an utter fantasy world. Our true God is Mickey Mouse. At least he’s a lot nicer than Yahweh.

He thought that they were walking there like Mickey and Minnie Mouse and that they probably appeared ridiculous to the passers-by.

This leads me to ask how it came to be that Pluto is Mickey’s dog, but Mickey is not Pluto’s mouse. Something is awry in the taxonomic class of mammals in the Disney universe. I

On Freud’s understanding, there is a fundamental conflict between the self and the world; that is essentially what the experience of guilt tells us. Such conflict is a source of anxiety, but it also serves to structure the individual. The project of becoming a grown-up demands that one bring one’s conflicts to awareness; to intellectualize them and become articulate about them, rather than let them drive one’s behavior stupidly. Being an adult involves learning to accept limits imposed by a world that doesn’t fully answer to our needs; to fail at this is to remain infantile, growing old in the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

Once we face our fear, once we treat our anxiety itself as a thing, we can then choose otherwise. Instead of filling the unknown in our minds with expectations of the tragic, we can choose to fill the void with a different expectation – the expectation of adventure. For example, Seneca, the Greek philosopher, refused to be afraid of what he did not know. When asked if he was afraid of dying, he replied, “Absolutely not, why should I be afraid of something I know nothing about.” His orientation toward the unknown of death was not to fill the gap in his understanding with horror but potential.

It’s why Ronald McDonald is said to be more recognizable to children everywhere than Mickey Mouse or Jesus. Personally, I don’t care if my little girl ever recognizes those two other guys—but I do care about her relationship with Ronald. I want her to see American fast-food culture as I do. As the enemy.

For the fact is that neuroscientists who study memory remain unclear on the question of whether each time we remember something we are accessing a stable “memory fragment”—often called a “trace” or an “engram”—or whether each time we remember something we are literally creating a new “trace” to house the thought. And since no one has yet been able to discern the material of these traces, nor to locate them in the brain, how one thinks of them remains mostly a matter of metaphor: they could be “scribbles,” “holograms,” or “imprints”; they could live in “spirals,” “rooms,” or “storage units.” Personally, when I imagine my mind in the act of remembering, I see Mickey Mouse in Fantasia, roving about in a milky, navy-blue galaxy shot through with twinkling cartoon stars.

As a young cartoonist, Walt Disney faced many rejections from newspaper editors who said he had no talent. One day a minister at a church hired him to draw some cartoons. Disney was working out of a small rodent-infested shed near the church. Seeing a small mouse inspired him to draw a new cartoon. That was the start of Mickey Mouse.

Where you from?" "Florida." "Florida," he repeated. "Wait, you mean with Disney World and all?" "Yep, we have Disney World." "You ever been?" "A few times," she said. Always with friends, though - never with her parents. "Aw man," said Walter. "Disney World. I'd like that, walking around and everything looking like it's out of a cartoon or something. Ever meet Mickey Mouse?" "I have." Walter laughed. "That's cool. You met Mickey Mouse. That's cool." "I'm from Ireland," said Glen. "I don't care," said Walter.

Families are weird. You'd think that people who live and eat and sleep in the same place would always have a lot in common. But sometimes they don't have anything in common AT ALL. You can have a brother who really likes ballet and a sister who thinks it's girlie. You could probably have Darth Vader and Mickey Mouse in the same family; they're that weird.

I have it on good authority that I was born in Utah.

If you can dream it, you can do it!

But if that kind of recognition is the measure of power, then Mickey Mouse is a million times more powerful than she is, and Mickey Mouse doesn’t even exist.

The Mickey Mouse Protection Act is unlikely to produce any public benefit whatsoever, not a single cartoon character or song. It’s pure corporate welfare.

Mickey Mouse is a three-fingered son-of-a-bitch with no soul.

You bastard, how will the kids watch Mickey Mouse now?

Why did Mickey Mouse take a trip to space? A: He wanted to find Pluto!

Oh, good grief. The Mickey Mouse Club of werewolves wanted to throw in on my side.

There was plenty going on in and around the town. With the War Effort there used to be parties and dances, travelling circuses, fairs, cinemas and the like to cheer people up. There weren’t many men about. “Our boys are away fighting” the women used to say. Things went onto rationing and everyone was given a gas mask. Mine was a pink one called a Mickey Mouse mask.

People who go to Disney who have magic in themselves experience magic there, just as people who go to the grocery store who have magic in themselves experience magic at the grocery store. The principle is simple: fun, joy, and happiness, are something we bring to life, not something life, circumstance, or situation bring to us. There are truly no magic kingdoms, only magic people. Fun, joy and happiness are choices, orientations, approaches, attitudes, a way of living in the world, not the world itself...

One good thing about this place, you got all the hot water you want, and no Mickey Mouse on the housekeeping. Now, if they could just turn the fucking heat on at night--" "Where the hell are we?" "Colorado. I know that much. Not much else, though.

His life would become an ongoing effort to devise what psychologists call a “paracosm,” an invented universe, that he could control as he could not control reality. From Mickey Mouse through Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs through Disneyland through EPCOT, he kept attempting to remake the world in the image of his own imagination, to certify his place as a force in that world and keep reality from encroaching upon it, to recapture a sense of childhood power that he either had never felt or had lost long ago.

Why? Oh, Holy Cow!” I groaned. “Please not to use these ridiculous expressions,” he exploded in exasperation. “I have never heard any other Americans use them except those—what do you call them—those cartoon animals. Mickey Mouse.” “Micky Mice,” I said firmly.

In Hollywood, a young cartoonist named Walt Disney was inspired to create an animated short feature called “Plane Crazy” featuring a mouse who was also a pilot. The mouse was initially called Mortimer but soon assumed a more lasting place in the nation’s hearts as Mickey.

Perhaps it was that I wanted to see what I had learned, what I had read, what I had imagined, that I would never be able to see the city of London without seeing it through the overarching scrim of every description of it I had read before. When I turn the corner into a small, quiet, leafy square, am I really seeing it fresh, or am I both looking and remembering? [...] This is both the beauty and excitement of London, and its cross to bear, too. There is a tendency for visitors to turn the place into a theme park, the Disney World of social class, innate dignity, crooked streets, and grand houses, with a cavalcade of monarchs as varied and cartoony as Mickey Mouse, Snow White, and, at least in the opinion of various Briths broadhseets, Goofy. They come, not to see what London is, or even what it was, but to confirm a kind of picture-postcard view of both, all red telephone kiosks and fog-wreathed alleyways.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one. Mickey Mouse is filing for divorce and the judge looks down and he says: I understand that it is your contention that your wife Minnie Mouse is mentally deranged. Is that correct? And Mickey says: No, Your Honor, that’s not what I said. What I said was she’s fucking nuts. The

Barney, the big purple cartoon dinosaur with the perpetual stupid grin. Barney, and Smurfs, Mickey Mouse, unicorns, and a lot of other fictional characters were painted on the truck. Whoever decided which characters to paint on the truck had made interesting choices, like, why was Iron Man waving to the Smurfs?

Initially, I began writing myself into my favorite shows. I was a detective on 77 Sunset Strip, the missing Cartwright sibling they never talked about on Bonanza, and the Girl from U.N.C.L.E. before there was a Girl from U.N.C.L.E., not to mention an active participant in the serialized stories on The Mickey Mouse Club.

The Feynman Dilemma A diner says to a waiter, “What’s this fly doing in my soup?” And the waiter says, “It looks like the backstroke.” Yet if the same scene is viewed while plunging into a black hole at the speed of light, it will look like a Mickey Mouse lunch pail from the thirties, except that Mickey’s head has been replaced by a Lincoln penny

Dream on, Bullwinkle.” “Oooh, a classic cartoon reference. Now you’re talking my language.” I couldn’t help a grin. “You like cartoons?” “Hell yeah! The classics, though. Looney Tunes, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Mickey Mouse, The Flintstones, The Jetsons, Transformers. I’ll even include the 1990s Batman animated series, but I usually stick to pre-1990.” I

Mickey Mouse woke me up, my alarm jangling noisily, his little hand on two and the big hand on twelve. I wanted to smack the clock for waking me up, but I reined in the impulse. I’m not against a little creative violence now and then, but you have to draw the line somewhere. I wouldn’t sleep in the same room with a person who would smack Mickey Mouse.

(When the San Francisco Chronicle first computerized they had similar problems. I remember one story in which the Chief of Police, denouncing drugs, rambled off into a sentence about the thrill of meeting Mickey Mouse and Goofy. I assume that line came from another story but it made the Chief sound as if he had gotten into some weird chemicals himself.)

Walt famously said that it-- "it" being being the Disney empire--all started with a mouse, but the mouse was created because the rabbit was purloined.

It looked as though it belonged in some kind of anti-Disneyland where Donald Duck had strangled Huey, Dewey, and Louie and Mickey shot Minnie Mouse full of heroin.

I was named Minnie Mouse after my dad’s watch present, and Elder…is called Miki. I shook my head in disbelief. Mickey and Minnie.

People were encouraged to wear their gas masks for thirty minutes a day, so that they would grow accustomed to their use. Children took part in gas-attack drills. “All the little children of five have Mickey Mouse gas-masks,” wrote Diana Cooper in her diary. “They love putting them on for drill and at once start trying to kiss each other, then they march into their shelter singing: ‘There’ll always be an England.

Sorry,” Wakefield insists, “but what exactly is cultural imperialism?” The boy turns his good eye to Wakefield. “That when Indian kids play with Mickey Mouse instead of kachinas. Kachinas mean something to their people. The Mouse means nothing.” “He must mean something,” Wakefield says. “Yeah, he means money. A Kachina tells the story of the earth, of the people, of dances, rituals, how to make rain… Talk to the fucking mouse and see what he tells you.

You’ve got body armour on, haven’t you?’ Harry twisted round to check. ‘Have you or haven’t you?’ She tapped her chest with her knuckles by way of reply. ‘Lightweight?’ She nodded. ‘For fuck’s sake, Ellen! I gave the order for ballistic vests to be worn. Not those Mickey Mouse vests.’ ‘Do you know what the Secret Service guys use?’ ‘Let me guess. Lightweight vests?’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘Do you know what I don’t give a shit about?’ ‘Let me guess. The Secret Service?’ ‘That’s right.

In shelters, the danger posed by poison gas was a particular concern. People were encouraged to wear their gas masks for thirty minutes a day, so that they would grow accustomed to their use. Children took part in gas-attack drills. "All the little children of five have Mickey Mouse gasmasks," wrote Diana Cooper in her diary. "They love putting them on for drill and at once start trying to kiss each other, then they march into their shelter singing: 'There'll always be an England.

Do you ever think about it? About nothingness. I do, I think about it all the time. Because of course it’s nothingness that awaits us. Of course it is. If it weren’t why would our hearts keep pumping any longer than they had to? Why wouldn’t we all emerge into the world pure and innocent, and then before we had a chance to get in any trouble, before we had a chance to take our first oily shit, just immediately shut down our systems and head straight to the hereafter? If there were a better life after death, why bother getting fitter for survival’s sake? Why would evolution even be a thing? Why fight for something second best? If death was really awesome, in a life or death situation, our bodies wouldn’t muscle up with epinephrine and cortisol. Our brains would hit us up instead with sloppy, sleepy happy love. Hannibal Lecter would be our Mickey Mouse. No, there’s fuckall to look forward to. Our bodies understand this. The real problem is, it’s unbearable to know this. So we cope.

wealth and power are shifting to those who control the platforms on which all of us create, consume, and connect. The companies that provide these and related services are quickly becoming the Disneys of the digital world—monoliths hungry for quarterly profits, answerable to their shareholders not us, their users, and more influential, more ubiquitous, and more insinuated into the fabric of our everyday lives than Mickey Mouse ever was. As such they pose a whole new set of challenges to the health of our culture.

If there was one kind of hat Terry despised above all others, it was the baseball cap. There was nothing wrong with children wearing it, of course, but whenever he saw it on the head of an adult it seemed to symbolize everything that he most hated about America, even more potently than the figure of Mickey Mouse or the latest Coke adverts or the hordes of giant yellow ‘M’s which were even now beginning to advance across Britain like an unchecked virus. And even worse, Kingsley was wearing it back to front. This, without doubt, was the ultimate badge of imbecility.

On Tuesday, I saw Danielle at the Kids Club meeting. Her return was triumphant. She showed up with presents for everyone. Each member of the Kids Club, except Becca and Charlotte, got a Mickey Mouse sticker. Danielle had chosen special presents for Becca, Charlotte, Mr. Katz, and me. For Becca, a Donald Duck T-shirt. For Charlotte, a book about Disney World. For Mr. Katz, mouse ears with “Mr. K.” written on the back. And for me, a delicate silver necklace in the shape of a star. “It’s a wishing star,” Danielle told me. “Because you helped make one of my wishes come true. I’ll never forget that.

Want your boat, Georgie?” Pennywise asked. “I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.” He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore. “Yes, sure,” George said, looking into the stormdrain. “And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue. . . .” “Do they float?” “Float?” The clown’s grin widened. “Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy. . . .” George reached. The clown seized his arm.

But this day he was lost in the story he made of their bodies. The men were in the midst of saving a six-inch Mickey Mouse trapped in a prison made of black VHS tapes. ...Before he could make out his mother's face, the backhand blasted the side of his head, followed by another, then more. A rain of it. A storm of mother. The boy's grandmother, hearing the screams, rushed in and, as if by instinct, knelt on all fours over the boy, make a small and feeble house with her frame. Inside it, the boy curled into his clothes and waited for his mother to calm. Through his grandmother's trembling arms, he noticed the videocassettes had toppled over. Mickey Mouse was free.

I was afraid of anyone in a costume. A trip to see Santa might as well have been a trip to sit on Hitler's lap for all the trauma it would cause me. Once, when I was four, my mother and I were in a Sears and someone wearing an enormous Easter Bunny costume headed my way to present me with a chocolate Easter egg. I was petrified by this nightmarish six-foot-tall bipedal pink fake-fur monster with human-sized arms and legs and a soulless, impassive face heading toward me. It waved halfheartedly as it held a piece of candy out in an evil attempt to lure me into its clutches. Fearing for my life, I pulled open the bottom drawer of a display case and stuck my head inside, the same way an ostrich buries its head in the sand. This caused much hilarity among the surrounding adults, and the chorus of grown-up laughter I heard echoing from within that drawer only added to the horror of the moment. Over the next several years, I would run away in terror from a guy in a gorilla suit whose job it was to wave customers into a car wash, a giant Uncle Sam on stilts, a midget dressed like a leprechaun, an astronaut, the Detroit Tigers mascot, Ronald McDonald, Big Bird, Bozo the Clown, and every Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, Pluto, Chip and Dale, Uncle Scrooge, and Goofy who walked the streets at Disneyland. Add to this an irrational fear of small dogs that saw me on more than one occasion fleeing in terror from our neighbor's four-inch-high miniature dachschund as if I were being chased by the Hound of the Baskervilles and a chronic case of germ phobia, and it's pretty apparent that I was--what some of the less politically correct among us might call--a first-class pussy.

Walt Disney's orchestration of his animation studio was often likened to that of a Renaissance artist's workshop: 'Of all the things I've done,' he stated, 'the most vital is coordinating the talents of those who work for us and pointing them at a certain goal.' Disney understood the amorphous nature of his role as repeatedly relayed in what may be an apocryphal anecdote: 'You know,' Disney said, 'I was stumped one day when a little boy asked, 'Do you draw Mickey Mouse?' I had to admit I do not draw any more. 'Then you think up all the jokes and ideas?' 'No,' I said, 'I don't do that.' Finally, he looked at me and said, 'Mr. Disney, just what do you do?' 'Well,' I said, 'Sometimes I think of myself as a little bee. I go from one area of the studio to another and gather pollen and sort of stimulate everybody.' I guess that's the job I do.

Benetton markasının düzenli yayınladığı Colors dergisinin 2000 yılının ilk sayısı, kültürlerin devamlılığı önündeki en büyük tehlikelerden biri olarak ‘tektipleşme’yi sayıyor ve bu savını destekleyecek çeşitli örnekler veriyordu: Bugün dünyada yaklaşık 300 milyon evde Amerikan müzik kanalı MTV izleniyor. Yaklaşık 200 ülkede gençler, artık Sevgililer Günü'nü kendi bayramlarından çok önemsiyor ve sevgililer gününde sevgililerine Hallmark'ın hazırladığı kartlarla aşklarını ilan ediyorlar. Tüm dünyada çocuklar, Disney'in Mickey Mouse'unu, kendi devlet büyüklerinden daha iyi tanıyor. 1998'de dünyada en çok gişe yapan 20 filmin 19'u Amerikan filmlerinden oluşuyordu. Güneydoğu Asya'da gençler saçlarının Jennifer Lopez veya Meg Ryan gibi olmasını istiyorlar. Bunun yanında, Dünyada her 5 saatte bir McDonald's restoranı açıldığı belirtiliyor. Aralarında binlerce kilometre fark olan ülkelerde aynı hastalık (AIDS), aynı ilaç (Viagra), aynı içecek (cola), aynı haber kanalı (CNN), aynı haber (Clinton'ın aşk maceraları), aynı maç (Avrupa futbol şampiyonası finali), saat farkıyla popüler oluyor.

Why can't we sit together? What's the point of seat reservations,anyway? The bored woman calls my section next,and I think terrible thoughts about her as she slides my ticket through her machine. At least I have a window seat. The middle and aisle are occupied with more businessmen. I'm reaching for my book again-it's going to be a long flight-when a polite English accent speaks to the man beside me. "Pardon me,but I wonder if you wouldn't mind switching seats.You see,that's my girlfriend there,and she's pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes,I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when...well..." St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around. The paper crinkles dramatically. The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend? "Thank you.I was in forty-five G." He slides into the vacated chair and waits for the man to disappear before speaking again. The guy onhis other side stares at us in horror,but St. Clair doesn't care. "They had me next to some horrible couple in matching Hawaiian shirts. There's no reason to suffer this flight alone when we can suffer it together." "That's flattering,thanks." But I laugh,and he looks pleased-until takeoff, when he claws the armrest and turns a color disturbingy similar to key lime pie. I distract him with a story about the time I broke my arm playing Peter Pan. It turned out there was more to flying than thinking happy thoughts and jumping out a window. St. Clair relaxes once we're above the clouds. Time passes quickly for an eight-hour flight. We don't talk about what waits on the other side of the ocean. Not his mother. Not Toph.Instead,we browse Skymall. We play the if-you-had-to-buy-one-thing-off-each-page game. He laughs when I choose the hot-dog toaster, and I tease him about the fogless shower mirror and the world's largest crossword puzzle. "At least they're practical," he says. "What are you gonna do with a giant crossword poster? 'Oh,I'm sorry Anna. I can't go to the movies tonight. I'm working on two thousand across, Norwegian Birdcall." "At least I'm not buying a Large Plastic Rock for hiding "unsightly utility posts.' You realize you have no lawn?" "I could hide other stuff.Like...failed French tests.Or illegal moonshining equipment." He doubles over with that wonderful boyish laughter, and I grin. "But what will you do with a motorized swimming-pool snack float?" "Use it in the bathtub." He wipes a tear from his cheek. "Ooo,look! A Mount Rushmore garden statue. Just what you need,Anna.And only forty dollars! A bargain!" We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane,followed by rude pictures of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair's eyes glint as he sketches the man falling down the Pantheon's spiral staircase. There's a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears. After a few hours,he grows sleepy.His head sinks against my shoulder. I don't dare move.The sun is coming up,and the sky is pink and orange and makes me think of sherbet.I siff his hair. Not out of weirdness.It's just...there. He must have woken earlier than I thought,because it smells shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy.Mmm.I doze in and out of a peaceful dream,and the next thing I know,the captain's voice is crackling over the airplane.We're here. I'm home.

Syn finished with dispatch then called his first officer. While waiting for the phone to be answered he told Furi to pack a bag with whatever he would need for the next couple of days. Furi didn’t move. “Furious,” Syn growled. He wanted to get the hell out of that apartment just in case Sasha wanted to come finish the job. “I’m not leaving. She is not going to run me out of my own damn place.” Furi jutted out his chin in defiance. Syn forgot about his phone call and came to stand directly in front of Furi. “Go and pack a bag now. That crazy bitch is not going to get a second chance if I have anything to say about it.” “You don’t have anything to say about it.” “The hell I don’t,” Syn barked. “Your foolish pride will get you killed. Let's deal with her and then you’re more than welcome to come home. Don’t let your stubbornness make you an easy target, because that’s just stupid.” “You calling me stupid?” Furi snapped right back. Syn rolled his eyes in frustration. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Furious we don’t have time for this Mickey Mouse bullshit right now. Go get your shit and let’s move.” Syn went over to the only window in Furi’s apartment and stood watch while Furi threw some clothes, toiletries, books and a laptop into a bag, grumbling curses the entire time. Syn let him say whatever he wanted to, as long as he was doing what needed to be done. Furi had a large duffle draped over his shoulder when he came to stand in front of Syn. “Done, Detective. Anything else you want to order me to do?” Syn took a quick calming breath. He took Furi’s duffle off his shoulder and set it gently at his feet. He put his arms around Furi’s waist and pulled him to him. “I’m not trying to order you around. I just can’t let anyone hurt you.” Syn squeezed his eyes shut.

If a man jumped as high as a louse (lice), he would jump over a football field. In Ancient Egypt, the average life expectancy was 19 years, but for those who survived childhood, the average life expectancy was 30 years for women and 34 years for men. The volume of the moon is equivalent to the volume of the water in the Pacific Ocean. After the 9/11 incident, the Queen of England authorized the guards to break their vow and sing America’s national anthem for Americans living in London. In 1985, lifeguards of New Orleans threw a pool party to celebrate zero drownings, however, a man drowned in that party. Men and women have different dreams. 70 percent of characters in men’s dreams are other men, whereas in women its 50 percent men and 50 percent women. Men also act more aggressively in dreams than women. A polar bear has a black skin. 2.84 percent of deaths are caused by intentional injuries (suicides, violence, war) while 3.15 percent are caused by diarrhea. On average people are more afraid of spiders than they are afraid of death. A bumblebee has hairs on its eyes, helping it collect the pollen. Mickey Mouse’s creator, Walt Disney feared mice. Citarum river in Indonesia is the dirtiest and most polluted river in the world. When George R R Martin saw Breaking Bad’s episode called “Ozymandias”, he called Walter White and said that he’d write up a character more monstrous than him. Maria Sharapova’s grunt is the loudest in the Tennis game and is often criticized for being a distraction. In Mandarin Chinese, the word for “kangaroo” translates literally to “bag rat”. The first product to have a barcode was a chewing gum Wrigley. Chambarakat dam in Iraq is considered the most dangerous dam in the world as it is built upon uneven base of gypsum that can cause more than 500,000 casualties, if broken. Matt Urban was an American Lieutenant Colonel who was nicknamed “The Ghost” by Germans because he always used to come back from wounds that would kill normal people.

Enfin, personne ne déteste Mickey Mouse, mais personne n'en fait une maladie non plus.

college student was arrested for photoshopping Mickey Mouse ears onto Sissi’s head.

The architectural uniformity, down to plantings and the color of curtains seen from the street, was ridiculed. Jokes were made about residents being required to wear Mickey Mouse ears and practice aggressive friendliness that is the hallmark of the theme parks. At one point in the town's early days, the Orlando Sentinel ran a spoof about Disney extras being paid to walk dogs in Celebration to create a homey feeling. It was perhaps an early indication of the town's growing sensitivity that not many living there were amused.

He said to Dale Crowe Junior, "I know you think you can drive when you've had a few. How good are you when you're sober?" This marshal not sounding like the usual hard-ass lawman; Dale Junior was glad of that. He said, "I had a Caddy myself one time, till I sold it for parts and went to work at Disney's. You know what I tried out for? Play Goofy. Mickey Mouse's friend? Only you had to water-ski and I couldn't get the hang of it. Sir, I like to mention that these three years since I took off? I been clean. I never even left the state of Florida all that time, not wanting to be too far away from my folks, my old mom and dad, except I never did get to see them." The marshal, Raylan Givens, said, "If you're gonna talk I'll put you in the trunk and I'll drive.

Manhattan is dangerous, though not for the old reasons: muggings, pickpocketing, prostitution. The danger is that the longer you stay - the longer you're bathed in the glow of blinking screens in Times Square, swept along by swarms of commuters, pursued by a mangy imitation of Mickey Mouse who wants a few dollars to pose for photos - the less you're able to feel the wonder. The lights dim. The little battles with subway doors, your radiator, the rat that walks into you in Union Square as if you were the rodent, wear you down. You grow tired, switch off certain receptors. For years I paid little attention of my city, and in time, it disappeared. I put on sunglasses, put in earbuds, and blindly walked the streets that Billie Holiday and Roy Lichtenstein had walked. Every parade was an inconvenience, as was every stranger, talking too loudly, walking too slowly. I was living in one of the most visited cities in America, working in a skyscraper that people from all over the world stopped to photograph, and skipping town whenever possible.

The actors who voiced Mickey and Minnie Mouse were married.

Walt Disney in fact, later admitted that it was Charlie’s tramp template on which the cartoon character Mickey Mouse had been based.

Do you always carry a gun?’ Peach asked. *** ‘It’s Florida,’ Annalie said. She hefted her purse up and down as if she were working out with weights. ‘Even Mickey Mouse probably carries a piece.

Mickey Mouse Clubs started to spring up all over America. At their meetings, kids recited the Mickey Mouse Club pledge: “Mickey Mice do not swear, smoke, cheat, or lie.” There was also a special club song.

It’s always a party. At six a.m., he bounds out of bed, juggles eggs, whips OJ, makes pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse or the alphabet. He sings, he dances. He leads the kids in jumping jacks. I roll over, hoping he’ll close the door behind him.” —Lucy, West Hempstead, NY

Similarly harmless are the albums by Lil' Romeo... Only you will know whether you want to listen to an album by an eleven-year-old rapper. "It's teen-age music, but it's also adult appealing," the biography on Lil' Romeo's Web site claims, but this seems extravagently hopeful, because it's hard to imagine that anyone in his teens would swallow this stuff, and it certainly didn't appeal to this particular adult. The intro features a version of "Frere Jacques;" track two is effectively a rap version of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star;" and "Somebody's in Love" contains the line "Be my Mickey Mouse, and I'll be your Minnie.

Next you’ll tell me that Mickey Mouse is just a guy in a costume.

Mickey Mouse is the most miserable ideal ever revealed.... Healthy emotions tell every independent young man and every honorable youth that the dirty and filth-covered vermin, the greatest bacteria carrier in the animal kingdom, cannot be the ideal type of animal.... Away with Jewish brutalization of the people! Down with Mickey Mouse! Wear the Swastika Cross!

Adolf Hitler banned Mickey Mouse cartoons from German theatres. His “reasoning”: Mickey Mouse is the most miserable ideal ever revealed.... Healthy emotions tell every independent young man and every honorable youth that the dirty and filth-covered vermin, the greatest bacteria carrier in the animal kingdom, cannot be the ideal type of animal.... Away with Jewish brutalization of the people! Down with Mickey Mouse! Wear the Swastika Cross!

Can I ask you a question?” he asks as we complete our first loop on the train. “Okay,” I say, warily, not sure what to expect from him at this point. I mean, he arranged a date that I had no idea about. The possibilities here are endless. “You’re writing this big love story,” he says, his arm casually slung over my shoulder. “What do you think love is?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “What?” he asks. “That’s not a question, that’s thequestion,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Okay,” he starts again. “Can I ask you the question?” I look at him for a minute, trying to think if I’m ready to answer this question considering all the things that are happening right now. “Do you know who my favourite fictional character is?” I ask him instead. He shakes his head. “Mr. Darcy,” I answer. “He’s every girl’s favourite character,” Travis says. “And there is a reason why,” I say. “Mr. Darcy was a self-important man. He met Elizabeth Bennet and immediately dismissed her because she didn’t fit into the life that he was comfortable with. Once he got to know her, he discovered that what he should have wanted and what he actually wanted were two completely different things.” “That’s every chick flick I’ve ever watched,” Travis says as he we pass the bumper cars again. “Yes, but here’s the kicker. Hechanges. Not because Elizabeth wants him to, or tells him to. He changes because he wants to be a different person, a better person. Someone who is worthy of her. And in order to do that he has to act in a selfless way with absolutely no hope of reward,” I say, and I know my voice has taken on a slightly dreamy tone. “That’s what I think love is. Loving someone who makes you want to be a better person.” As we make the final turn and the train comes to a stop, Travis still hasn’t said anything. I lightly laugh. “At least I hope that’s what love is. I dart my eyes in Travis’s direction, expecting him to be a little uncomfortable with my declaration, but his face is soft and he seems pleased with my answer. As we stand in line waiting to get on the Merry-Go-Round I turn to him. “So, who is your favourite fictional couple?” I ask. Travis seems to think about it, scrunching up his mouth with the effort. “Mickey and Minnie,” he nods decisively. “As in Mouse?” I laugh. “They like each other, they’re nice to each other, and they always look like they’re having a fun time,” he says, shrugging at his explanation. And the more I think about it, it’s actually a pretty good choice. I mean, obviously it isn’t Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, but it has some worth.

You say a name, but its not known to anyone. Either because that man died or because He was a celebrity on the banks of another river. Chiaromonte Miomandre Petőfi Mickiewicz Young generations are not interested in what happened Somewhere else, long ago. And what about the teachers who repeated: Ars longa, vita brevis? Their laurel crowned deceptions will soon be over. Do you still say to yourself: non omnis moriar? O yes, not all of me shall die, there will remain An item in the fourteenth volume of an encyclopedia Next to a hundred Millers and Mickey Mouse. A traveler. Far away. And a low sun. You sit in a ditch and to your bearded mouth You raise a slice of bread cut off with a penknife.

You know, I was stumped one day when a little boy asked, 'Do you draw Mickey Mouse?' I had to admit I do not draw any more. 'Then you think up all the jokes and ideas?' 'No,' I said 'I don't do that.' Finally, he looked at me and said: 'Mr . Disney, just what do you do?' 'Well,' I said, 'Sometimes I think of myself as a little bee. I go from one area of the studio to another and gather pollen and sort of stimulate everybody. I guess that's the job I do.

Pregúntate si lo que estás haciendo hoy te acerca al lugar en el que quieres estar mañana.

At their peak, Roy estimated, there were over eight hundred chapters in the country with, by another estimate, more than one million members—more, according to the Motion Picture Herald, than the combined membership of the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts of America. The Mickey Mouse Clubs had become a movement.