Call me Ishmael

Druey, you were right. The first paragraph of Moby Dick is fabulous.

Call me Ishmael [Ok, 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 [is he being facetious or serious? hilarious!]. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth [great word picture]; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul [whatta metaphor!]; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet [oh Ishmael I hear ya]; and especially whenever my hypos [hypos = stimulus] 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 [do it Ishmael, stick it to the man!!!] - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball [good on ya, violence is not the answer]. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship [its a lot less drastic]. 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 [that's true, that's true].