seagal_sheen_moustaches

“How about this one?” Steven Seagal held a thin, salt and pepper fake moustache up to his lip and admired himself in a hand-mirror. “I think this one looks pretty good. Sharp. I look like a wise old sensei. And it’s thick! You know, the zen masters would always say that you could tell a man’s character by the thickness of his–”

“No way.” Charlie Sheen was shaking his head. Steven Seagal gently laid the fake moustache on the tray of fake moustaches and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you kidding me, Steven? You’ve been dying your hair black for 72 years. Why would a man’s moustache be salt and pepper but his hair be jet black? It makes no sense.” Steven Seagal stared at the salt and pepper moustache and his shoulders sagged. “Look,” Charlie continued, “when you called and said that you needed help picking out a disguise because your former executive sex assistant was giving you trouble, I agreed to help you pick out the very best disguise that $4.00 could buy, not to sugar coat the truth and hold your tiny little baby hand.”

“With these hands I used to punch holes through solid concrete. You know, the zen masters say that a man’s character is defined by the strength and speed with which his hands can manipulate–”

“Oh, are your hands not included in the lawsuit you’re facing that I am trying to help you get out of with an excellent and perfect disguise?”

Steven Seagal looked shamed.

“No fucking salt and pepper moustaches. I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation.” Charlie Sheen was getting so worked up that there were now visible sweat stains in the armpits, chest, and back of his diamond-patterned silk bowling shirt. “Pick out a black moustache, end of story.”

Steven Seagal sat down cross-legged on the floor and began to meditate.

“What are you doing, Steven Seagal?!” Little bits of cocaine froth formed at the edges of Charlie Sheen’s mouth, and his erection now protruding from his pants angrily.

“The old zen masters would always say to be one with your environment. They said that you should always release your pent up–”

“Seamen!” Charlie Sheen was pointing at a group of sailors who had just entered the costume shop. He smiled and waved at them. Charlie Sheen loved seamen. He returned his attention to Steven Seagal. “Get up, Buddha. We need to get these disguises and get out of here before anyone recognizes us. The prostitutes are going to start wondering where we are.”

Steven Seagal stood slowly, exhaling loudly, pretending like it was some kind of Tai Chi move just to stand up. Charlie Sheen rolled his eyes. It was always this way when Steven Seagal was around. Ah, here we go. Charlie Sheen found a nice, full, chestnut fake moustache with just a hint of red in it that would match his soaked-through-with-anger-and-cocaine-sweat Charlie Sheen Signature Collection silk bowling shirt. He placed it over his lip and looked in the mirror. He didn’t even recognize himself. He looked over at Steven Seagal who was not paying any attention, busy still trying out fucking salt-and-pepper moustaches. Charlie Sheen decided to try his disguise out

“Hey, Steven Seagal, can I get your autograph?”

Steven Seagal turned around and smiled. “Why sure, little boy, who should I make it out to?”

“Haha, I got you, Steven Seagal! It’s me, Charlie Sheen!”

“Nice try, little boy. But playing tricks on senior citizens isn’t the zen master way. If I was your mom I would be very disappointed in you. If I was your mom I would take you out back to the sweat lodge and make you stay in there until you had a spiritual awakening, and then I would make you go to sleep on a wooden board without any cooked millet. And absolutely none of the milk from my breast, that goes without saying at this point.”

Charlie Sheen made a face because what the fuck was Steven Seagal talking about. He took off his fake moustache, and Steven Seagal had a heart attack and died. “I am so surprised,” he said, just before going to heaven.

It was a shame about Steven Seagal, but he was probably better off. A man who is being sued for one million dollars because of his one-man sex slavery ring and insists on picking out a salt-and-pepper moustache despite having a jet black ponytail is fighting an uphill battle. Charlie Sheen pulled Steven Seagal’s eyes closed and put quarters over them. Then he decided that was too much, and took the quarters back and replaced them with nickels. He straightened his fake chestnut moustache. “Goodbye, wonderful friend,” he said to the dead body of Steven Seagal, lying there on the dirty carpet of the costume store. On his way out, he paid the cashier five dollars for the fake moustache and told her to keep the change. It was a lot of change to give some civilian for doing nothing more than pushing a couple of buttons on a cash register, but Charlie Sheen was in a hurry to go have sex with a prostitute or something.

Outside, Charlie Sheen was immediately recognized in his stupid disguise.

Comments (114)
  1. TERRIBLE PEOPLE, YAAAAY

  2. Another Job Well done, Gabe. Here’s a sandwich for your trip. I made it with my feet.

  3. Well my Halloween outfit is sorted.

  4. Videogum Monsters Present You Can Make It Up:

    A single candle flickered dully in the centre of the circular room. Gabe sat next to the dying flame, a number of screwed up sheets of paper lying around his feet. The candlelight was giving Gabe a headache, how was he supposed to come up with new Best New Party Games under these conditions? But no matter, rather this natural light than whatever the kids were using these days. E-flames? I-lights? It was so hard for an old man like Gabe to keep up.

    Picking up his quill once more, Gabe scrawled another idea across the parchment. “Replacing one word in a film title with a plant” and “Adding the words ‘In Your Pants’ to the end of film titles” had already been crossed out harshly by their creator, whose cold heart when it came to the culling of ideas was known and feared throughout the land. But finally… finally Gabe knew that this idea was the one.

    “21: #grossmoviequoteomisions”

    As Gabe finished writing, he noticed that he had left a single “s” from the word omissions. Before he had the time to correct this minor error, Steve Winwood slammed the door of the hut open, and screamed “LOL, you made a spelling mistake!”, before producing a katana from underneath his garb, and impaling the shocked Gabe upon it.

    With his final breath, Gabe let out, almost as a whisper, his dying words.

    “Steve Winwood… Why can’t you just let me be great?”

  5. Coming this fall on CBS, Steven Seagal and Charlie Sheen are Boozin Buddies

    • too on-the-nose

      or was it too Under The Nose??? did you see what i did there?!?!?!!

      yuck – sorry. but honestly, dude looks like a water buffalo in a bowling shirt.

  6. In the movie version of this, Charlie Sheen would be played by Sam Rockwell. And Steven Seagal would be played by Ryan Phillippe.

  7. Charlie Sheen is the new voice of logic.

  8. You Can Make It Up: Gabe Delahey’s Day Off

    Gabe Delahey shut down his computer monitor for a well deserved vacation from all the rigorous “work” of cutting and pasting youtube links and making snide comments about celebrities who make more money than he does (he’s jealous). He felt he was entitled to some “me” time and so the trolls who all march in lock step with his LOST recaps and Topher Grace analysis would just have to subsist on their own without him to kick around for a day or two.

    But Vice Principle DS3M’s Ghost wasn’t having it. Gabe Delahey was lazy and had missed too many days of blog school, so he needed to be taught a little lesson. He decided to go pay him a little visit at his mansion in manhattan and try to ruin his day off.

    Gabe spent the day at the New York art museum of fine art and then went to the top of the empire state building with his girlfriend Gwyneth Paltrow and his best friend Jeff Dunham. Gabe conned his way in to a fancy restaurant, stole a cab his dad was about to get in to, and then crashed a clown parade and sang “who let the clowns out” in unison with all the marching clowns.

    Meanwhile, Vice Principle DS3M’s Ghost was at Gabe’s mansion, getting his ass mauled by Gabe’s attack dog, then he got beat up by Gabe’s sister Kirstie Alley, and then his car got towed after he lost his shoe in the mud. Suddenly an explosion of blood erupted out of Vice Principle DS3M’s Ghost’s shoulder and his … arm fell off? “And that’s why…” said Steve Winwood as he took off his DS3M’s Ghost mask, “you don’t teach blogger babies a lesson.”

    The End.

    • Pretty sure you are breaking some TOS rules with that last paragraph, Winwood.

      In fact, here’s one:

      “k. “stalk” or otherwise harass another;”

    • ????
      Something tells me this thread will become very thick lo these next few days without a Gabe.

    • Also, If I understand you Correctly, You were impersonating me the whole time? And Your Arm Fell off after tussling with Kirstie Alley and an Attack Dog?
      Good Story?

    • Pulitzer Prize ’11!

    • mydaughter'sname69  |   Posted on Apr 15th, 2010 +64

      You Can Make It Up: Steve Winwood’s Long Weekend

      The night was sultry. Ruggedly handsome stud muffin Steve Winwood (who looked like a cross between Nicholas Sparks and every male lead from every movie based on a Nicholas Sparks novel) was celebrating his long weekend by repeatedly riding the Monster Plantation ride, which originally opened in 1981 at the Six Flags Over Georgia theme park in Austell, Georgia (thanks wikipedia). Never mind the fact that his day job was portraying the animatronic wolf-possum nightmare chimera in the very same ride. But sometimes one just needs to take one’s costume off and go to one’s workplace on one’s day off without having to worry about people judging whether one is a terrifying enough monster.

      Steve Winwood was relaxing in his boat, fantasizing about all the ways in which he would ___ Godsauce’s ___, when he was distracted by a faint clicking sound. He looked around, trying to make out the source in all the crazy colored lights and animatronic monster script delivery. Suddenly, he called out, “Hey! what are you doing?” An irritated query that appeared to be directed towards another monster sitting in another boat, who, by the way, is me, typing this on a mechanical typewriter that somehow uploads every letter in real time to an e-website on the iNternet called Videogum. “Shit just got meta,” I type into this magical miracle typewriter. I once asked a scientist how it worked, but I could tell that muthafucka was lyin’. “You’d better not be writing a You Can Make It Up! That is not your commentator meme, so you’d better stop it!” Steve Winwood yelled angrily. “Don’t make me come over there!” With that, Steve Winwood jumped into the water, and used his Nicholas-Sparks-like arms to paddle over to my boat. He was a good swimmer. He approached my boat, which had been a sort of greyish beige but rapidly became Steve-Winwood-shadow-colored. “Give me that typewr

    • You Can Make It Up: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men #74

      14 May 2003
      Ann Arbor, Michigan
      The Gathering of Juggalos

      Q.

      Well, so that’s the problem, right? That pretty much gets to the root of it and has been the cause of all this that I’m going through now.

      Q.

      Yes, of course. Who would want to stick around after that. I mean, I understand and all. The reaction to it, but still. It has driven everyone away.

      Q.

      It just comes out. I can’t control it. No matter what I do, I just say it, right at the moment of climax. I can’t stop it. It just happens. I scream it at the top of my lungs and it has the same feeling of urgency and relief as the other, as though that was the thing that I was there to do.

      Q.

      I’ve tried. I’ve consulted medical professionals. This thing, this urge. It is rare, but not unheard of. The spontaneous uttering of something rude or obscene, uncontrolled. It has a name. Croprolaia. Except what I say isn’t rude or obscene or foul in any way. It is just so totally weird.

      Q.

      “Why can’t you let Steve Windwood be great!” I yell it, at the top of my lungs. Scream it. “WHY CAN’T YOU LET STEVE WINDWOOD BE GREAT!”

      Q.

      I know, but Steve Windwood isn’t my name.

      Q.

      That’s the thing. There isn’t a second time.

  9. Awesome stuff as usual. I’m only messing with perfection here when I type this, but I was hoping at some point Steven Seagal’s hands would try on moustaches as well. And obviously, Steven Seagal definitely would’ve pissed himself when he died (because of how he pisses himself when frightened).

  10. This story doesn’t have an ounce of verisimilitude. Steven Seagal wouldn’t go to Heaven.

  11. So is Steven Seagal playing John Locke in this episode? I don’t get it.

  12. Has there every been a “you can make it up” comment contest of sorts? I’m relatively new to these parts but it seems like there could be some pretty funny user generated ones.

  13. I was going to post this in Monsters’ Ball, but since there’s no MB this week:

    • In all fairness to this little girl, she was not mad at her brother. She just found out that she was going to be a contestant on Just Like Mom is all.

  14. seagal looks strangely like john corbett.

  15. Because I nearly met him last night, IRL:

    “James Cameron Gets Tits”

    It had been an arduous journey. “But I discovered the Titantic while writing Tintantic! This is nothing to me!” These words had helped to carry James Cameron’s legs untold miles. He had seen things on his journey that only he, Jim Cameron, could imagine. Spectacular flora grew in the forest that didn’t look anything like things you would find on any coral reef in Earth’s oceans. They were certainly the most alien and beautiful life forms possible and no human could ever conceive of such exquisite scenery except of course, Jim. As he marveled at his fortune of being born with such a large brain full of super human ideas, Jim paused for a brief moment to wipe the dew from his space scuba suit then continued on. He was nearly there, he could feel it. Minutes later, Jim crested a floating space tepui and saw it, only barely, through the mist. It was so awe inspiring that the human mind couldn’t behold it without breaking, except Jim’s. If Jesus flew down from the clouds tomorrow and told the world that the correct answer was actually Scientology, people would accept it with less upheaval than if they were to look upon what Jim now saw. It was the Tree of Souls.

    “It looks nothing like a willow tree on a black light poster, Charlene. Shut up, I invented time travel in 1983 while filming The Terminator.” Jim was incensed; he thought for sure Charlene would have died by now. How she had managed the 400 meter journey from the space helicopter was troubling. No other human should have been able to complete this journey. Jim fully expected she would have succumbed to shock after mere minutes and he would simply carry the 160lb woman the remainder of the journey much like he carried the entire entertainment industry on his back since 1981 when the entire population of Earth stopped to applaud the prodigal talent he displayed with Piranha II: The Spawning.

    Finally, they arrived at the edge of the Tree of Souls where a being that looked nothing like the hell spawn of a human, cat, and entirety of the World of Warcraft.

    “What’s up, Jim? How was the walk? I hope path’s new pavement was agreeable with you MTB sneakers.”

    “Kaltxì. Nga-ru lu fpom srak (Hello, how are you)?” Jim spat out with a smile on his face.

    “Um, what? What are you talking about dude?”

    “Oe-l nga-ti kame (I see you).” Jim knew this was a poignant greeting.

    “Jim, bud, why are you coughing at me then whispering weird shit after wards. I see you too dude. Is your scuba suit leaking?” The blue guy was getting irritated.

    Jim bowed and nearly vomited as he formed the words, “Tsun oe nga-hu nì-Na’vi piv ängkxo a fì-’u oe-ru prrte’ lu (It’s a pleasure to be able to chat with you in Na’vi).”

    “Okay, Jim, just shut the fuck up with the navy crap. I was born in Delaware, I studied medicine at John’s Hopkins, and I have better thing to do with my time.” The blue guy was seriously pissed off at this point and beginning to regret he had ever answered that Craigslist article. “Is this her? Let’s get this over with. Hmm, I guess that’s a stupid question. She looks just like you bro.”

    “Do I get my money now?” Charlene stopped thinking about cat outfits long enough to form a sentence.

    “Shut up!” Jim and the blue guy snapped at her in unison. Jim then turned to the blue guy with a smile.

    “Oe-l nga-ti kame!”

    “Just go lay in the moss, Jim. Christ!” Jim and Charlene places themselves in the soft mossy patch below the glowy willow tree and the blue guy started waving his hand about while mumbling. This was it, the moment Jim had been anticipating for so long. Soon, the blue guy would use his vaguely racist Native American/African-analogue powers on Jim and Charlene. Jim thought about how shiny all his new Academy Awards will look on his mantle made of narwhal horns while he listened to Charlene quietly struggle as the blue guy suffocated her. Soon Jim would inhabit Charlene’s body and nothing would be able to stop him. She looked almost like Jim in every way. Terrible hair cut befitting a lesbian spinster, uh… well that was the only feature that mattered really. There was one key difference however, breasts. Wonderful, saggy, middle-aged breasts. Once Jim has these nothing would ever stop him from winning Best Director or Best Motion Picture at the Oscars again. When Sigourney had told this to him, it was the first time in his life anyone but Jim had given Jim an idea so he knew it was true.

    Just as the transformation was nearly complete and Jim reached down to feel his breasts that hadn’t been touched by a non-feline since 1979, he awoke. It has all been a dream. Jim wasn’t on set; he was simply lying in his True Lies fighter jet bed. Jim began to quietly weep; he had been so close to realizing his dream. He reached over to his night stand and grabbed his novelty $1 million bill that he had paid $4.6 million for and dried his tears.

  16. Since Gabe appears to be gone and this is the last thread of the week, I would like to put something out there to see if any other monsters feel similarly to the way I do or possibly not at all. I have no idea if this is controversial at all or not. Such is my confusion by the rules and protocols of the internet.

    I think it would be cool if our profile pages kept a running track of ALL of our comments, and we could see the total number we’ve made over the past few months or years. I know that several other websites, The AVClub and NYMag for example, already do this, and I really like it. I can go over to the AVClub and get an instant link to all 62 of the comments I made over there (I quit commenting after about a month). I don’t know what kinds of things that technology will allow the ‘Gums to do, but if this could be implicated, that would be fantastic.

    I don’t know if this will inspire “But we’re not The AVClub, we’re Videogum” type objections, which is precisely why I was hesitant to post this with Gabe around. Maybe some of you agree with me? Yes?
    Also, think of me as the one on the right if this happened:

    • That’s a good idea, but I would also settle for just being able to see responses to our comments again.

      Also, I want to smooch your little head.

      • Yes, I forgot to include responses. I definitely want those back, too.

        Also, TWSS?

        • garbage_face, you are acting like videogum is all about you and your comments, when it is clearly not all about you, it is about the site’s author and the jokes he wants to make and the youtube links he wants to post. I find your narcissism unacceptable.

          I guess this is just garbage_face’s world and I won’t be commenting in it anymore.

          Love you, Monsters. I’ll be lurking and LOST chatting but garbage_face has made this space unbearable. Plus, my butler didnt remove the pea from my stack of mattresses and failed to read me the latest GOOP email newsletter on time so I am done with this place.
          Signed,
          Princess Meow MacDiva-stein

    • I’m a sucker for cute fluffy prancing puppies. Upvotes are yours.

  17. Um (which is how I’m starting all of my comments now) they say a week in politics is like a day on videogum, or something. I mean to say I missed out on the last day or two here but I get the impression there is some in-jokes I’m missing but IRREGARDLESS I found this TBS very funny.

    (See, I’m still “with it”)

  18. Scene: An empty warehouse. Except for some junk in the corners but it’s all shapeless and it doesn’t mean much. Fuck it. Fuck that junk. An empty warehouse.

    DS3M’s Ghost sits on a chair in the middle of the warehouse, lit by a conveniently situated window which highlights his better features and shadows the less flattering contours of his face. “Thank Christ for the Lighting Gods,” DS3M’s Ghost breathes, just below the level of hearing. Happily, I am here to broadcast to you what he said, which you couldn’t possibly hear if I weren’t here to broadcast it. Huzzah, internet.

    A flicker off to the side. The motion is instinct, almost impossible to see: hand to the belt to the gun squeezing a bullet into the air then back to the belt. You only saw it because I told you you saw it. If you’d been there, you wouldn’t have seen it. It was that fast.

    Steve Winwood staggers into the light, gasping, clutching his chest. “You’re so lost… it was groupthink! You don’t even know! Groupthink is killing you and killing me! Oh god!” Blood is pumping rhythmically between his fingers. He falls to his knees. “It was the rescuers!”

    Godsauce was in the shadows apparently, because now he steps out of them (the shadows). “What?”

    “Didn’t you read his case file?” DS3M’S Ghost has a frown on his usually passive and ghostly and je-ne-sais-quoi visage. “The Rescuers, goddammit! Miss Bianca! Bernard! Sainted christfucking sperm of christ!” He rises from his chair. The look of seriousness on his face should not be scoffed at, it’s that serious. He says, “Reality, man, we gots to grow up.”

    “AHA!” says Steve Winwood, a zombie newly risen from the dead and one of the few HAPPY zombies, one of the few who’ve found their true calling in zombiehood, “AHA!” he says, then does a little dance to fill the conversational vacuum.

    THE END

  19. 2 horses horses horses horses

  20. I’ve been lurking for a bit, but this UCMIU crucked me up ‘so hard’, I had to sign up, just to give gabe a big bultaco-style(bull-ta-co!) thumbs-up. You know, strike a pose, like steven segal, or mmmaddona.

    Didn’t get a chance to read the comments, working on it.

    Sorry about my dyslexic spelling, these macs only got one mouse click.

  21. Where is gabe anyway?

  22. If you read Videogum backwards it says: Gabe is dead.

  23. If you spell Elaine Barr backward it spells rraB enialE

  24. Hey….whats going on here…was there a warning?

    No updates Friday or Today?

    Is everything okay?

  25. 1.-Gabe needs to be louder, angrier, and have access to a time machine.
    2.-, whenever Gabe’s not on screen, all the monsters should be asking “Where’s Gabe”?
    3.-….

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