Mike Myers Quotes

My theory is that all of Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.

Canada is the essence of not being. Not English, not American, it is the mathematic of not being. And a subtle flavour - we're more like celery as a flavour.

In fact, NASA doesn't use the F-word; instead, they call failure "early attempts at success.

While the big government culture-identity program that I’ve called the Next Great Nation movement of 1967–1976 was abandoned, it doesn’t mean that it failed completely.

Remember that the poor are people with names,” writes Bryant Myers, author of Walking with the Poor. “[They are] people with whom and among whom God has been working before we even knew they were there.

to think something is good, to do something is God.

As long as people are still having promiscuous sex with many anonymous partners without protection while at the same time experimenting with mind-expanding drugs in a consequence-free environment, I'll be sound as a pound!

Do you guys ever feel like you're locked inside a car that's moving really fast? "What kinda car?" Chris asks. Like a fucking red Monte Carlo with a black racing stripe cutting through the middle of it, and there's some superintense Fantomas shit jolting from the car speakers, like Mike Patton and Buzz Osbourne just completely losing it, but no steering wheel. The car doesn't have one. And the car is so out of control, right? It's swerving all over the road, and you're crying, pounding your fists against the window trying to jump out of it, trying to bail from it, and then all of these people start popping up on the road, like your parents and your sister and your friends, and the car is playing human dodgeball with them. It's trying to not run anyone over, but it's not slowing down, either, and then some junkie babe pops up in the middle of the road and the car destroys her, leaving her mangled body in its burnt rubber path, and then it keeps on going and going even though it can't maintain anything close to the same speed.

In Canada, for eighteen days out of the year, if you don’t have an artificial heat source, you’ll die within forty-eight hours. Margaret Atwood and Northrop Frye said that this created, for Canadians, a “garrison mentality,” whereby the central conflict of much of our literature is man versus nature. That sort of conflict breeds cooperation more than it breeds rugged individualism. It breeds caution more than it breeds entrepreneurialism. It’s cold here. It’s so cold it can make you cry. It’s so cold you want your dad to come pick you up. Even when you’re fifty-three years old.

I’m British by heritage, American by God’s grace, and Canadian by divine intervention.

When I hear people complain about fame, it always sounds to me like, “Why do they pay me in gold bars? Gold bars are so heavy.” But fame is not creativity, it’s the industrial disease of creativity. Fame is a real experience, but it’s not a Canadian experience, and nothing about growing up in Canada prepares you for a public life.

Me on Halloween. I went into a supermarket thinking that I wouldn’t be recognized in such elaborate makeup. A young lady approached me and said, “You are him, right?” I thought to myself, “How could anyone recognize me? The makeup took me three hours!” Reluctantly I said, “Yes.” The lady said, “Mister Colonel Sanders, it is an honour to meet you.

I WANDER THE film criticism district, formulating theories, grinding axes; it keeps me sane in these insane times to return to my roots, to praise those films and filmmakers worthy of an audience’s attention, to destroy those filmmakers who loose self-satisfied garbage onto the world. Consider Stranger Than Fiction, I say to my imagined lecture hall full of cinephiles: a wonderfully quirky film starring William Ferrell and the always adorkable Zooey Deschanel. The work done here by director Marc Forster (who directed the unfortunately misguided, misogynistic, and racistic Monster’s Ball) and screenwriter Zachary H. Elms is stellar in that all the metacinematic techniques work, its construction analogous to that of a fine Swiss watch (no accident that a wristwatch figures so prominently into the story!). Compare this to any mess written by Charlie Kaufman. Stranger Than Fiction is the film Kaufman would’ve written if he were able to plan and structure his work, rather than making it up as he goes along, throwing in half-baked concepts willy-nilly, using no criterion other than a hippy-dippy “that’d be cool, man.” Such a criterion might work if the person making that assessment had even a shred of humanism within his soul. Kaufman does not, and so he puts his characters through hellscapes with no hope of them achieving understanding or redemption. Will Ferrell learns to live fully in the course of Stranger Than Fiction. Dame Emily Thomson, who plays his “author,” learns her own lessons about compassion and the value and function of art. Had Kaufman written this film, it would have been a laundry list of “clever” ideas culminating in some unearned emotional brutality and a chain reaction of recursional activity wherein it is revealed that the author has an author who has an author who has an author who has an author, et chetera, thus leaving the audience depleted, depressed, and, most egregiously, cheated. What Kaufman does not understand is that such “high concepts” are not an end in themselves but an opportunity to explore actual mundane human issues. Kaufman is a monster, plain and simple, but a monster unaware of his staggering ineptitude (Dunning and Kruger could write a book about him!). Kaufman is Godzilla with dentures, Halloween’s Mike Myers with a rubber knife, Pennywise the Clown with contact dermatitis from living in a sewer. He is a pathetic—

My mother is a wonderful, eccentric lady who has no concept whatever of interior monologue. We'll be driving along in the car and she'll suddenly say, 'Ants don't like cucumbers, you know. And roaches don't like cinnamon. Do you want some cheese, Michael? Rembrandt was the Lord of the day.' -Mike Myers

Hadn't Gary Gygax simply invented a game, and an esoteric one at that? It was hardly a footnote in the increasingly fast and complex information age that we live in. What was all the fuzz about? The reason for all the fuzz among those who understood his work was simple. Gary Gygax and his seminal game creation, Dungeons & Dragons, had influenced and transformed the world in extraordinary ways. Yet, much of his contribution would also go largely unrecognised by the general public. Although it is debatable whether D&D ever became a thoroughly mainstream activity, as a 1983 New York Times article had speculated, referring to it as the great game of the 1980's, D&D and its RPG derivatives are beloved by a relatively small but dedicated group of individuals affectionately known as 'geeks'. Although the term 'geek' is not exclusive to role-playing gamers, the activities of this particular audience have often been viewed as the most archetypal form of 'geekiness'. Labels aside, what is notable is that the activities of this RGP audience were highly correlated with interests in other activities such as early computers, digital technologies, visual effects, and the performing arts. In this way, these geeks, though relatively small in number, became in many instances the leaders and masters of this era. With the advent of the digital age, geeks worldwide found opportunity and recognition never previously available to their predecessors. Icons and innovators such as George R. R. Martin, Mike Myers, Richard Garriott, Vin Diesel, Tim Duncan, Anderson Cooper, David X. Cohen, John Carmak, Tim Harford, Moby, and the late Robin Williams, to name just a few, were all avid role-playing gamers in their younger years. The list of those who include D&D as a regular activity while growing up is both extensive and impressive.

I’ve always felt sorry for Mike Collins, driving all the way to the moon but not allowed out of the car to look around.

In order to get a foothold into the London alternative comedy circuit, new acts, like ourselves, had to get booked in one of the smaller venues, usually clubs above pubs, on the outskirts of town. The crowds were small, typically about ninety people.

I like to think of the relationship between Canada and the United States as that of two brothers. We both share the same mother, Britain. Canada and the United States grew up in the same house, North America. The United States left home as a teenager and became a movie star. Canada decided to stay home and live with Mother.

Yeah, like Dieter from Sprockets.” “Mike Myers is a god.

Every country has certain people who are visionaries, who have the gift to make things. Often these people are called “strivers”. In America, these strivers are celebrated: Thomas Edison, the Wright Brothers, Steve Jobs, etc. In Canada, we have no tradition for cultivating, protecting, and ultimately celebrating our strivers. It’s true that much attention is given to Frederick Banting and Charles Best, the two Canadian scientists who created synthetic insulin, but that’s the exception that proves the rule. It’s almost as if Canadian schools should have a Strivers Ed. Program. This is a fundamental difference between Canada and America.

Well, if that’s me dinner, I’ve had it.

It’s one thing to be poor. It’s another thing to be poor and feel unsafe. One could say crime is the insult to the injury. But, it's really the extra injury to the injury.

The song of the Canadian dialect is referred to, by linguists, as the Canadian rise. In the Canadian accent, there is a tonal rise at the end of each sentence, until the last sentence, which returns to the Canadian monotone. The rise at the end of the sentence is an indication that the speaker intends to continue. The end of the final sentence has no rise, which tells the listener, “Now it’s your turn to speak” … Essentially, we Canadians have encoded, “after you”, into our speech patterns. It’s subliminal etiquette.

Not everybody has to be a striver. Canada does a very good job of trying to raise the standard of living of all its citizens. I think this is admirable and appropriate. However, those poor, tortured Canadian souls who are driven to innovate and make things, don’t just have to endure the typical loneliness of genius, they also must overcome the inertia of a culture that continually asks strivers, ‘Who do you think you are?

That was one of my dad’s greatest gifts, as well as one of the greatest characteristics of the English, they find things funny quickly. My dad would say, ‘There is nothing so terrible that can’t be laughed at.

Every time we’d pass a cemetery, he’d say, ‘That’s the dead center of Toronto. People are dying to get in there, mate.

When a comedy was on in our apartment, everything was better. Somehow, even the apartment smelled better.

My dad saw hockey as almost an improvement on soccer. My British relatives would say, ‘But, Eric, football is the thinking-man’s game.’ My dad would say, ‘True. But, hockey is a fast thinking-man’s game.

Skiing was for Canadians. Tobogganing was for us immigrants.

...the strength of a democracy is not how well we agree but how well we disagree.

What was all the more alarming to me was that I had actually thought that assimilating into Britain would be a breeze for me. I’m of British heritage. Growing up, I ate English foods, listened to English music, watched English TV shows, watched English soccer (Liverpool, of course). My parents had English accents, with my dad having one of the strongest and most recognizable—the Liverpool accent. But nothing makes you feel more Canadian than moving to Britain. Even more than moving to America. We can “pass” in America. Not so in Britain.

While Canada and America did not become one country, we became like two brothers who live in the same duplex. The Canadians have the drafty top floor; the Americans have the preferred ground floor, the fun floor, so fun that they often forget that somebody is living upstairs, us.

By June, if you’re a Leafs fan, the season is over. Truthfully it is usually over by December. Every year, the Leafs have a great team on paper, but, unfortunately hockey is played on ice.

I hesitate for a moment, pondering which mask I’ll wear. I can go with the Ghostface one that I’ve covered in pink gems, or maybe the goth girl version of Mike Myers, or the little LED one. I opt for the pink Ghostface mask. “Very cutesy… very demure… very mindf⁠—” Shut the fuck up, Tylisha, I scold myself. TikTok has fucking ruined me.

Scotland has its own martial arts; it's called Fuq Yu. It's mostly headbutting and kicking people on the floor.