Ham Handed Harpooners!

Sorry, my faithful little dinosaurs, but I'm in the hushed Hollywood hills now and using a Mac so I had to choose these cheeseball icons and I'm not really sure what they are so it's a crapshoot. They just come out with these file names so I picked a couple that sounded a little interesting but my expectations are not high since these little gizmos came with the computer. But let the mighty guitar and the blue dog drive me to greatness and keep my foot from falling off which is a tale yet to be told. Regardless, the hole episode is treptagorious, a word I just made up but means every bit of what it sounds, though I'm not looking for trouble on this occasion and I find no joy in pointing out that fact at this time.
What makes a man query what makes a man a man? It just irritates me but I go on be cause they do. They go on. Who can identify that quote first? It's tricky, just a fragment, like this crazy city they call Los Angeles and the Hollywood hills are highlighted like christmas trees, tapering up to the brightest stars.
And what doth a hollow body make? What maketh a body hollow? Which ghosts that enter the heart never find a way beyond? Shylock is a classy name for a scumbag but I say it stays in the picture, whatever the beasts at the Globe are howling over, return their two shillings if you must. Purpose eludes me at times and the debilitating injury puts it that much futhur away but damn these torpedoes, wherever they came from they can just go right back and tell 'em to tell their friends as a future warning to all civilizations, great and small, deep and wide, furrowed and plained, steeped and rotund, garbled and pointed, razed and featureless, and so forth. We will work with you. Hey, I've got a great headline if Michelle Wie ever wins the women's British Open: The Royal Wie!!! Patent pending on that one although I know fully well that it will anger certain readers that I made myself laugh with that last gag. It was a good laugh, too.
The hills are quiet and a Space interlude deadens the vacuous caverns of the mod house clinging to Saint Ives Drive, just a few feet out the front door. Alas, there are no ice cubes tinkling in my cocktail glass to echo down the canyon to the boiling humanity below but the stairs would make that a death sentence anyway and my survival at this point is certainly in question. Perhaps the river Styx didn't cover all of me when I was a baby. Curse you mother, you forgot the heel. You could've used tongs or something. Fuckin' irony. After all, tinkling ice cubes on summer nights are the mating call to the serial murderer so maybe I'm at least saved that disrespect. They wouldn't kill me, I look too much like one of them.