0:42 Lyrics: "Moby-Dick", by Herman Melville. Chapter one: "Loomings". Call me Ishmael. Some years ago, never mind how long precisely, having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet, and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off. Then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish, Cato throws himself upon his sword. I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles, coral reefs, commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves and cooled by breezes, with a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, go to Emily's house, where we totally smashed. We smashed a lot. Trust me bro, like, freaking bro. We totally smashed. And then we smashed some more. Bro, we absolutely totally smashed. And when Queequeg entered, he also smashed. We smashed, he smashed. We all did the Monster Smash. (sighs) Oh my god did that not make you laugh? Dammit, nothing makes you laugh! This Sucks. "Shayne, what seems to be the problem?" Nothing Michael Caine, I just, I'm trying to make a joke for Gus Johnson and once again I can't make him laugh. "You mean Gus Johnson? "From 'The Gus & Eddy Podcast'?" Yeah that one. "He's so funny. I love his jokes. Especially his one about when strangers take your photo but they're always blurry." Yeah I know, it's a great joke. It's really funny. "Hey, what seems to be the problem?" Nothing John Travolta. I'm trying a joke for Gus Johnson but nothing makes him laugh. "Oh well have do tried doing the one about barbershop 2?" Yeah I tried that one it didn't work. "Aw man I'm so sorry. Nothing seems to work." I don't, John, you gotta get out of here. "Yeah you don't seem so good John." Chapter two: "The Carpet-Bag."
Hey Emily! Can I come over to your place? and dude, we can Moby Dick by Herman Melville: CHAPTER 1: Loomings. Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster--tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
“Chapter two” is one of the best punchlines I have ever heard after all that.
Gus has a will of iron to not break at ANY point during that. I’d have lost it at some point while he was still reciting Moby Dick
same
Gus' shirt is wierdly apt now considering what we now know about him
i would have spat at the end out of respect
0:42
Lyrics:
"Moby-Dick", by Herman Melville. Chapter one: "Loomings". Call me Ishmael.
Some years ago, never mind how long precisely, having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet, and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off. Then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish, Cato throws himself upon his sword. I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles, coral reefs, commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves and cooled by breezes, with a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, go to Emily's house, where we totally smashed. We smashed a lot. Trust me bro, like, freaking bro. We totally smashed. And then we smashed some more. Bro, we absolutely totally smashed. And when Queequeg entered, he also smashed. We smashed, he smashed. We all did the Monster Smash.
(sighs) Oh my god did that not make you laugh? Dammit, nothing makes you laugh! This Sucks. "Shayne, what seems to be the problem?" Nothing Michael Caine, I just, I'm trying to make a joke for Gus Johnson and once again I can't make him laugh. "You mean Gus Johnson? "From 'The Gus & Eddy Podcast'?" Yeah that one. "He's so funny. I love his jokes. Especially his one about when strangers take your photo but they're always blurry." Yeah I know, it's a great joke. It's really funny. "Hey, what seems to be the problem?" Nothing John Travolta. I'm trying a joke for Gus Johnson but nothing makes him laugh. "Oh well have do tried doing the one about barbershop 2?" Yeah I tried that one it didn't work. "Aw man I'm so sorry. Nothing seems to work." I don't, John, you gotta get out of here. "Yeah you don't seem so good John."
Chapter two: "The Carpet-Bag."
You forgot the "God damnit"
Bro I just wrote that in a Minecraft book and quill
respect
We all know that the spit he did a show after was actualy for this bit.
chapter two
He deserved the laugh
POV: your names Emily
Hey Emily!
Can I come over to your place? and dude, we can
Moby Dick by Herman Melville:
CHAPTER 1: Loomings.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.
Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster--tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
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