Return of the Cranatoes

Hello, nonexistent readers! (Yeah, Dwarf of the Dance, I’m not even counting YOU anymore!) Happy Thanksgiving! 
I ate heartily. Okay, no, I ate normally, but normally I eat scarcely. Something about people aside from my family, for whatever reason, made me lose most of my appetite. But this year it was not so! However, I did eat when I arrived home. I’m just not used to eating right after getting to my destination, thus my stomach was not adequately prepared to eat the multitudes. 
Cranatoes! They were my main dish. I actually ate two servings of them! Yes, they are what I look forward to most of all (desert aside). Mmm, and that pumpkin pie… At least, I think there was pumpkin pie hidden beneath the whip cream… I should have had more desert. But I was all sugared out. That’s what happens when your sister makes two kinds of delectable for breakfast, and right after that, your mother comes home from a race carrying a box of donuts. It’s not good, my friends! Well, actually, it was good, which is kind of my point. 
My mother is disgusted by cranatoes. She’s never tried it… She must be so deprived. It makes me sad. 
Is anyone experiencing bouts of insanity today? I woke up and could only walk like a drunk. A couple hours ago, I tripped, and then tripped while tripping, and then tripped while tripping while tripping. I couldn’t shuffle a deck of cards. My speech was all over the place. There were other things my tired brain will remember tomorrow. 
I tried a new tea today! And muffin. And donut. 
Did anyone else see the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade? Wasn’t it… abnormal? More bands, less floats, both awesome (Newsies) and odd (did you HEAR Daniel Radcliffe singing?!?) musical songs, and then there’s the 610 Stompers. Seriously. Even Al Roker was like, “Well, that was, haha, uh, oh, look, there’s…” 
I’m thinking about eating another donut now. Or something. My stomach’s in tears. Like I didn’t just feed it half an hour ago…
Oh, what a strange day it has been. 
I promise to write in Happy Rotter by December 6th (Sorry, Hugo!). 

Yeah. I’m done.

Joe

On Serious Offences

  Well, my very dear Virtually Nonexistent Virtual Blog Readers, it has come to my attention that one of you (I should say, all of you, since you seem to only consist of one person, that person being the Dancing Dwarf) is horribly offended by our new serial, Happy Rotter Strikes Again.  As I said in a comment posted under Chapter One, it is not at all our intention to demean the writings of J. K. Rowling.  Joe and I love J. K. Rowling, and we love the story of the Boy Who Lived.  That, beloved V.N.V.B.R.'s, is precisely why we embarked on our current spree of joyously uncontained mockery: we mock those whom we most love and admire.  If our expressions of affectionate esteem have in any way offended you, please chill out.  Stop being quite so serious.  Seriousness is bad for the complexion,  and it makes one's nose look dreadfully large.  There is nothing so unbecoming as seriousness.  Silliness, on the other hand, shrinks one's nose down to nothing, and it is excellent for the complexion.  Take me, for example.  I have a minuscule nose, and my complexion--well, never mind about that.  Nobody is ever allowed to see my complexion, anyway.
  Finally, my brethren, bear these things in mind when the next installment of Happy Rotter comes out.  Remember that we are not being serious, and remember that you should not be serious, either.  That way, we can all be happy, and frivolous, and make fun of whomever we wish without fear of offence.

~Hugo

Happy Rotter Strikes Again: Chapter Two

Happy leaned his head back against the ruined wall behind him, thinking wildly.  Dead people don't come back.  Not really.  I mean, when I stole that Resurgence Rock and used it, the people that came back were just ghosts; they didn't eat lemon drops or have tickly beards.  Suddenly, the wall behind him gave way and he found himself lying on the floor, staring at dusty fissures in the ceiling.  Muttering angrily and nursing a bruised elbow, Happy rolled over to glare at the defective wall, only to find that it was really a door. 

  "Happy!" a female voice screamed right over him. "What are you doing on the floor?"

  Happy, startled, tried to leap to his feet, but all that he managed was an awkward scramble foward into the wall next to his spot on the floor.  Grunting, he scrambled around on the floor, finally lurching upright.  A teenaged girl with wildly bushy brown hair and large dark eyes was staring at him, giggling.

  "Hermana!"  Happy cried happily.  He was so happy to see her that he could even overlook the fact that she was laughing at him, something which he normally did not allow, even from best friends.  "What are you doing at Pigpimples in June?"

  "The same thing you're doing," Hermana said, tossing her crazy hair.   "Helping with the rebuilding."

  Happy bristled at the assumption that he, the Chosen One, should participate in such menial tasks.  "Actually," he announced superciliously, "I'm here for a meeting with the new headmaster." 

  "Oh, do you know who it is?"  Hermana's voice was an excited squeal. 

  "No, I don't.  I came here to find out," Happy admitted reluctantly.  He hated to admit ignorance. 

  "Well, I'll see you later.  I have to get back to work now, but Mrs. Weasel has invited me to dinner tonight.  Are you going to be there?"  Hermana looked hopeful.

  "Yes, of course I am going to be there!  Can't you remember that I live there now?"

  "Oh, yeah, that's right!  Oh, Happy, I'm so glad that you finally managed to get rid of those awful muppets of yours!"

  "Yeah, well, you aren't the only one.  Look, I gotta be going.  See you tonight, okay?"

  "See you, Happy!"

  As Happy proceeded on his way to the headmaster's office, he wondered whom he would find there.  Would it be Professor Aphrodite McDonald, who was, after all, Deputy Headmistress?  Or, and here his heart skipped a beat, would it be Professor Dumbdoorknob himself?  He did, after all, seem to be back from the dead...

  Lost in thought, Happy walked right past the smashed gargoyle that marked the entrance to his destination.

  "Oy!  Ye!  Aren't ye supposed to be comin' in here?" a muffled voice with a thick Scottish accent hailed him.

  Whirling around with his hand straying to the underarm holster where he kept his wand, Happy abruptly realized that it was only the head of the gargoyle, speaking from the floor in the middle of the hallway.  Its voice was muffled because it could not open its jaws properly.

  "Uh, yeah," Happy mumbled, a blush heating his stubbly cheeks.  "I was, uh, thinking."

  "Yeah, sure, like ye teenagers ever think.  Step on up.  Headmaster's waitin'."

  Muttering a thank-you, Happy started slowly up the revolving staircase.  Once, it had moved smoothly in swift circles, but now it groaned and shuddered as it slowly, grindingly, ascended.  Happy eyed his conveyance uneasily; from the sounds it made, and the puffs of dust that rose into the air at regular intervals, the staircase was about to collapse. Don't those stupid people in charge of repairs ever do anything around her? he thought angrily. 

  Finally, the staircase brought him, with a jerk and a painful wheeze, to the door of the office.  Taking a deep breath, Happy reluctantly turned the doorknob and stepped into the devastated study.  Raising his eyes to the headmaster's desk, Happy suddenly seized his wand and leaped back into the doorway.

  "You!" he bellowed, "But--but--you're dead!"

  Behind Professor Dumbdoorknob's desk sat Severed Snake.

~Hugo the Horrible

Happy Rotter Strikes Again: Chapter One

Dear Readers,
We three hobos of Christmas Island are now writing…
A co-written series! 
Warning: If you haven’t read/watched (you better have read them first!!!) Harry Potter, you may not understand the following story, but feel free to read for bizarreness. Also, we’re just having fun. And it’s full of spoilers. So, if you want the mysteries to remain mysteries, and not to be exclaimed to your ears through confusing, possibly incorrect ways, we advise to read at those risks! 
Now, without further ado, we give you…

Happy Rotter Strikes Again

     Happy stared at the device in his hand, horrified. 
     “It’s called a cell phone,” Mr. Weasel said. “Or a mobile.”
     “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Happy muttered in his traditional British accent. “How do you know about muppet technology that I don’t even know of? That’s not possible!” He shoved the brick-sized phone at Mr. Weasel. 
     “You were the Chosen One, Happy,” Jenny sighed. “That doesn’t mean you’re God.” 
     “I’m going to take a walk,” Happy barked at the Weasel family gathered around their kitchen table. They stared at him, flabbergasted, as he stormed outside, furious at the world. 
     How dare they! he thought. I’m Happy Rotter! I deserve to know everything! I defeated  Mort Loverdold! Perhaps I should just destroy the thing. I destroyed all that ancient stuff; muppet junk should be easy. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Happy clutched his neck automatically, before remembering the star-shaped scar had been rendered useless. 
     Happy turned around. The kitchen glowed brightly through the dark summer night. He could discern figures through the molding curtains. From a distance, the house looked like a shoe. On more than one occasion, he had wondered about that and a certain nursery rhyme. Unfortunately, it was one only told to muppet children, and Happy’s best friend, Tom, had only given Happy befuddled looks. 
     By the time Happy returned to the house, he was much to tired to take action. He went to bed, plotting different ways to kill the cell phone and leave no evidence. 

*

     In the morning, Happy flew on his mop to the school, Pigpimple. It was especially refreshing to fly through a cloud. It was a shame the mop absorbed so much of the water, though. 
     Once he arrived at the castle, he strode to the headmaster’s office that lay in ruins from the final battle. In fact, the entire castle was in shambles. All of the wizards that had a bit of spare time were pitching in to magically fix the magically destroyed building and the surrounding grounds. The school board was practically demanding that by the end of the summer, Pigoimples be habitable. 
     “Ah, Happy, there you are,” a voice said. “What have you been doing this past year?” 
     Happy jumped up into the air, whirling around. 
     “Happy, do use a wand when alone,” the man said, striding from the shadows of a collapsed wall. 
     “Not possible,” Happy whispered, fainting. When he awoke, he felt something tickling his face. He swatted it and opened his eyes. A grey and white beard filled his vision. “Professor Dumbdoorknob?” Happy asked. “How?” 
      Professor Dumbdoorknob helped the seventeen-year-old to his feet. “Why, Happy, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”
     Happy glared. “You’re dead, sir.”
     “I suppose I am. I really don’t know how I got back to this living land. Although, the next land is quite alive. Do you like the color red?” 
     “Um…”
     “Dear me!” Dumbdoorknob exclaimed. “You never know when Tod Mirdle will strike! Really, where is your wand?” 
     “But professor!” Happy protested. “I defeated Mort Loverdold! He’s gone!”
     “What? Oh, Happy, I don’t think so! I may be old, but I still have most of my marbles! Oh, do I see lemon drops in that bowl? Goodness, there are so many! Pip pip, Happy! And remember to practice your occlumency!”
     Happy slid to the floor, his mind spinning. 

      Joe

Of Downs and Unders

G'day Mates!! It's Bebo here coming to ya live from Australia!!  I jus' thought i would check in on my old mates, Hugo and Joe. You probably wont be hearing much from my whiskered mouth over the next 7 months, but don't worry, I will be just fine down here with all of my new kangaroo friends!! Joe is jealous that I took my cardboard box with me, but it is a  good thing I did because last night it poured!!! So, here is me, whiskered, old hobo, cuddled up with my favorite koala bear in my old box with the rain pouring down, and then---THEN--CRAAAAACK!!! BOOOOOM!!! thunder and lightning!! This weather reminded me of the weather in my homeland. I tell you blokes, it was a good thing i decided to keep my five star beard intact because it was also cold. Then, the water began to fill up the ally and the water level kept on rising until me and the bear were curled up in an inch of water.
Well, the story didn't end so badly after all but I lost my precious cardboard box and i have been picking ally scum out of my beard all day!!

I guess I better go now, kangaroos are ready to hit the beach and I might be able to find some good food in the dumpsters near there.
Until next time, G'day mates!!!
¬Bebo

The Dwarf that Dances and Other Momentous Moments

  Ah, yes, Bebo has left us at last.  We miss him quite horribly, although I am sure that he does not miss us, given that he is off in the Land Down Under having lovely adventures with the indomitable Lenard.  Or Lenerd.  Or, as he himself prefers, Leonard.  Anyway, although Bebo probably never even thinks about us, we (or at least I) think about him often.  Just yesterday, as I was shivering in my box (the one located on the lawn of my parents), wishing for a wool coat, I thought, "Ah!  I shall go and see Bebo in his nice, warm, sturdy box, and drink week-old refried apple cider with him!"  But alas!  I remembered that, not only has Bebo Moved On To a Better Place, but he took his box with him.  I can't even steal it and live in a decent chunk of cardboard for a change.  Life is tough when one's friends move away...
  Ah!  I have news, though!  NEWS!  Yesterday there was a Dancing Dwarf sighting made by none other than your faithful correspondent, Hugo!  Well, it might perhaps be more accurate to say that there was a Hugo the Horrible sighting made by your absent friend the Dancing Dwarf, but these are merely frivolous details.  The substance of the issue is that Hugo and the Dwarf (Good grief!  It sounds like the title of a very bizarre fairy tale...) got together and actually had some communication.  It was lovely!  Hugo even got some exercise, for they walked a good deal as they had the above-mentioned communication.  Hugo almost never exercises.  He really should.  The downside to this particular exercise, however, was that Hugo was wearing high heels at the time, which was very stupid of him, especially since his parents specifically forbade him to cross-dress.  Nevertheless, high heels aside, we had a lovely time.  Or at least I did.  I think that the Dancing Dwarf did, too, but it can sometimes be hard to tell with that creature...
  Speaking of that creature, in some ways she really reminds me of my cat, which will of course offend her horribly when she reads this, because she hates cats.  If it is any comfort to you, O Dwarf, it would horribly offend my cat, too, but only because everything horribly offends my cat.  Last night, after feeding her generously with my own hands, and speaking to her flatteringly with all the (considerable) charm that I possess, she still bit me when I picked her up and gave her a kiss.  That little Fiend. All of this is absolutely not to say that the Dwarf is a Fiend, or that I would ever want to pick her up and give her a kiss.  Urgh.  (No offence, Dwarf).  I think that what I was aiming at when I started this nonsensical paragraph was that my Fiend is capricious, and the Dwarf is capricious.  Or something like that.  Or maybe I wanted to say that my cat is very pleasant to be around (despite the biting) and the Dwarf is also very pleasant to be around.  Yes!  That's it!  (Whew.  Nice save, Hugo.)
  Okay, so, now that I am stuck in the mud at the bottom of a very deep hole, dug entirely with my own hands, will someone please help me out?
  Today I took a Spanish test and turned in two chapters' worth of homework.  Unfortunately, since I was late, I did not turn the homework in in the manner requested by the teacher.  Then, as I was wasting her time turning in the homework the wrong way, I realized that I had not stapled it in the manner requested by the teacher.  She was understandably exasperated.  I was panicking, and the teacher was lecturing me as she shuffled with my messy, uncontained homework, when I was rescued by a classmate with a stapler.  Frantically grateful, I seized the stapler and stapled the homework.  However, I stapled it the wrong way! The teacher was more frustrated than ever as she struggled with the unweildy papers.  I wished for a massive earthquake to tear the floor of the classroom apart and drop me into a crack in the Earth's crust, but I had no such luck.  Finally, my poor, overworked teacher finished checking off that bloody homework, and I fled, trailing apologies and disorganization.  I confidently expect to fail the class; I have not been more mortified in a classroom since that One Time last winter in English 102.  Woe is me...
  You know, I think that the hole is deeper now, and the mud clammier and more abundant.  I think that I will stop writing and go hide under a rock,
   Your humiliated uncle,
    Hugo
 
P.S.  Am I the only one who appreciates the Screwtape Letters reference of my recent signatures?

Ode to Bebo

     Today, Bebo leaves the country, along with Lenard. Unless they have already left. I’m really none too sure.     
     Last Thursday, we had an accidental hobo reunion. It was all thanks to Bebo. Hugo now works with Bebo, well, until now, when Bebo swaps countries. Anyway, Bebo was given a present from work, but left it at work. Hugo drove it over while I visited Bebo, thus creating the reunion. Thank you, Bebo, for your forgetfulness. It comes in handy sometimes.
     While I hunched over in Bebo’s box, he suddenly remembered; “Oh, yeah! I got you this when I snuck into Mexico.”
     “How long ago was that?” I asked.
     “...Seven months...”
     Perhaps it isn’t so surprising he still has a shirt of mine from earlier this summer. I’m lucky he ever found my pants. I wonder where the secret room’s hidden...
     Guess what? Hugo got his present seven months ago. Yeah. YEAH.
     Yep. This is how our worlds work.
     Oh, Bebo. Seven months from now, your plane will descend. You will get home, but find that Hugo has somehow mangled your house beyond recognition. He will blame me, he will point the accusatory at me. Just know that  whatever he says, I was not the one who let the army of squirrels into your box.
     Good luck in that new land. God bless your extended vacation. May your paths be filled with many friendly hobos.
     And Lenard, please come back in one piece. Do not let Bebo talk you into, well, anything. Bebo’s a bad example filled with bad ideas.
     G’day mates!

Joe

Hugo Out Of Turn

  Okay.  I couldn't resist.  I simply had to post out of turn.  Call me Joe if you want, but, regardless of opprobrious epithets (Hah!  My all-time favorite phrase!), I simply must post.  So, with that out of the way...
  Hi!  It's official:  Joe and I are actually making face-to-face contact today, for the first time in about three months!  I am so excited!  At noon, I am going to pick him up from class, and we are going to... stand around and make awkward attempts at conversation, probably.  Or I will talk constantly about appallingly inane subjects, and Joe will say, "Mm-hmm.  Yeah.  Cool.  That's nice.  Really?"  Or perhaps it will be the other way 'round.  I'm not entirely certain.  At any rate, we are going to have a little mini-reunion!  (It may seem redundant to use both "little" and "mini," but for a mini-reunion one must have at least three hobos, so this will truly be an abnormally small mini-reunion, as it involves only two.)
  Other than that, I don't really know what to say.  I kind of posted on a whim.  Oh!  Here's something:  (is it just me, or am I having colon-mania today?)  I will be eighteen in two days!  I'll be able to vote!  And join the Communist Party of the United States of America!  And buy cigarettes!  Not that I want to (buy cigarettes)!  I know that this news of my true age is probably going to shock all of you virtually nonexistent virtual blog readers, as we three hobos of Orient have always tended to behave in a very mature and manly fashion, but we are, in truth, just a bunch ("just a couple" would probably be more appropriate now) of fresh-faced striplings, still wet behind the ears and all that.  Even Bebo's five-star beard is really just a determined stubble with carefully matted extensions.  Oh, dear, he will probably kill me for telling you that.  Well, maybe not.  It is very difficult to kill people long-distance...
  So, yes, I will be eighteen.  It is the high point of my life thus far.  Not that I can really do anything but vote, though--I can't afford to move my box out of my parents' backyard, and they would kill me if I got a tattoo or dyed my hair purple.  Ah, how woeful is my existence...
  Dear, dear, dear, it really was extremely irresponsable of me to waste this time in posting.  I have so much homework that I have not read a novel since September.  Alack!  Have you, VNVBRs (See above), ever noticed the propensity of college professors to gleefully assign homework as though their class were your only class?  I have piles of reading, mountains of workbooks, heaps of lab books, blizzards of quizzes, and two major tests next week, in addition to a very demanding term paper for which I must read  eight books by next Thursday.  College life, to take Hobbes a little out of context, is "nasty, brutish, and short."  And yet, and yet, for whatever reason, I love college.  It has become my hobby, my lover, my favorite cousin, and my most absorbing novel, all in one.  I can't think of anything that I would rather be doing.  Strange, isn't it?
  Well, I really must go.  Behave your virtually nonexistent virtual selves,
  Your affectionate uncle,
   Hugo

Of Gloom and Doom and Dumps and Grumps

  Joe, you are absolutely right.  This blog is a disgrace; it actually bears a distinct resemblance to my life: lonely, messy, and purposeless.  Aiai!!  Alack!!  Woe is me!!  (et cetera, soloist ad lib)  In addition, both are entirely without the Dancing Dwarf.  Oh, Dwarf!  Where art thou?  (or, I could say, if I wanted to be facetious, which we all know is never the case, "Oh, Dwarfeo, Dwarfeo, wherefore art thou Dwarfeo?  Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Hugolet."  This is, of course, entirely irrelevant to the question at hand, which started as "Where the heck are you, O Dancing Dwarf?" but these minor details are easily overlooked.)  At any rate, as I was saying, I am alone, and I do not even see the Dancing Dwarf.  I saw her once, two weeks ago, for the first time in months upon months, and I shocked her thoroughly, but that is all the contact which we have had since last [school] year. 
  What has gone wrong?  Last year we were a happy band of pretenders, or a pretentious band of happies; I forget which.  Anyway, last year we were at least some sort of band of something, and it made us glad and joyous.  This year, we are not even some sort of band of something that is made glad and joyous by its own existence--we are not any sort of band of anything, and the vaccuum in our now-disparate existences makes us glum and tragical (I seriously doubt that that is a word, but it looks so fitting).  I know that I, Hugo, for one, trail about like a grumpy hermit thrust forcibly into society.  I can't really speak for the other Desperadoes, because, obviously, since i never see them, I can never inquire into their state of mind. 
  All, however, is not lost.  I have finally made contact with Joe!  I must explain, by the way, that my state of being in the last months, that is, my existence off the face of the earth (having dropped off in June and not found my way back on), was not paranoia.  I am not paranoid.  I am actually extremely offended that Joe should even accuse me of such a thing.  Paranoia is one of my pet peeves, which Joe would remember if he would simply put a little effort into it, unless, of course, he knew all along and only sullied my anti-paranoid reputation for the sake of nettling me.  It can be difficult to know with Joe.  I am simply a lazy procrastinator who hates to be uncomfortable, and guilt (over seeing four months' worth of unchecked emails) is one of the most uncomfortable emotions in my repertoir, especially when it requires tears and apologies and explanations and all of those nasty, awkward things.  Urgh.  I hate scenes, unless they are specifically staged for the attraction of attention.  So, that is why I stayed off the face of the earth for so long.  And, in case anyone (Joe) is wondering, I continue to addiduously avoid my primary email address, and only use my school one.  One day, I might stop being a moral coward and actually "face the music," but that has yet to happen, and probably will not within the next month.
  Oh, crumbs!  The time!  I must go.  It has been wonderful.  We should do this again sometime,
  Your affectionate uncle,
   Hugo

Charlie and The Voice

     My gosh, this blog is a disgrace! In his defense, Bebo’s been busy. I can’t say much for Hugo though. Why? Because I don’t know.
     Hugo has been in hiding for unknown reasons. Whereabouts: unknown. I say he’s being paranoid. He says… nothing! I’ve tried emails. And texting. Okay, I didn’t try very hard. But I figured he’s probably not at home, so a cell phone would be my best bet. Perhaps he is failing at technology. Again. Regardless, he is not writing on this blog, which appears to be the only way I can communicate with him. Maybe. And I haven’t seen him since HoboCon. It’s getting ridiculous.
     Bebo has a plausible alibi. But he can tell you all about it. He’s… changing countries! In one week. Exactly. He may be folding up Lenard and lugging onto the plane. And then keeping him for the seven months. Can you imagine? Only Bebo and Lenard. Together. For seven months. We people have this weird thing that has been proven to happen maybe 90-95% of the time. When we’re one-on-one, we get weirder. Crazier. Insaner. Which isn’t a word, but still is true. So the Lenard-Bebo insanity would last seven entire months. Who wants to bet they won’t be allowed to board the plane to return?
     Bebo (and maybe Lenard. No one ever knows with him…) leaves this country, which, according to our profile is Christmas Island (that IS a country right?), but according to our blog may be elsewhere. It’s bad when you don’t know where you live…
     Whaaaaaaaat??? I just checked the blog. Apparently, even I’VE been bad at checking… Hugo wrote in it!
     Hugo: OMG, no! I never found that cute, bubblegum blue! My nails look, like, totally bad! But I have some awwwwwwemazing news! No offense, but, like, without y’all in my life, I’ve gotten healthy-ish. I’ve had, like, nooooooo anxiety in a month or whatever, and I finally caught a real, real icky cold thing, and I have yet to look like Walking Death! Only his cousin at the worst, which means my skin‘s GOT to be gooder. But I’m, like, totally gross now. Don’t look at me!
     In one week, October 22, Bebo and maybe Lenard, will be leaving, and away showing my proverbial support while visiting a college I may be at in one year. (Okay, I know proverbial barely fit and was terribly used, but I just REALLY wanted to use the word. Maybe then The Voice will stop screaming it in my head… Oh, and The Voice is the enemy, but friend of Charlie, both of whom live in my head. They bicker a lot. The Voice has embraced the voice of Bebo. Hmm. Charlie and The Voice [an awesome band name, by the way] must have been on a prolonged vacation. I haven’t heard from them in a while…)
     My mom asked me if I dance. I said no. She asked if I did while alone. I admitted that I tried the other week, but had to stop because I made myself feel awkward. She laughed an inappropriate amount.
     Well, after that anecdote, I bid you goodieu. I mead adbye. Wait…     Joe

The Return of Hugo in All His Glory

  Yes, ladies and gentlehobos, dwarves and dancers, nerds and female maroon autos, it is I.  Hugo.  I have come back to you after my three months' absence.  I, from whom you never expected to hear again, have set the echoing corridors of this cardboard blog ringing with my dulcet tones once more.  Do those dulcet tones fall sweetly upon your grateful ears?  Are you pleased at my reappearance?  Did you miss me dreadfully and soak your melancholy pillows each night with anguished tears at my prolonged absence? 
  Alas, I know that it is not so.  You never missed me.  Ah, well, such is the fate of scruffy old hobos who wear tattered crimson rags and sit on the side of the road spouting wisdom and prophecy and maudlin purple prose. 
  Okay, now that that is out of my system...
  Hi!  'Sup?  My summer was, like, totally great.  How was yours?  Joe?  Did you find any cute nail polish?  I so did.  It was, like, hot pink.  So pretty!  I wore it with that adorable outfit that I bought at Forever 21.  You know, the one that I got for, like, twenty bucks.  I  couldn't believe it!  It was, like, a steal!  I just had to have it!  Totally!  Well, I have to go and, like, do PoliSci reading and stuff.  OMG!  I LOVE PoliSci!  The teacher is, like, so funny.  It's just great.  Well, I've gotta go.  See ya!

~Hugo

Beyond an Epic Fail

     Remember how I said that we can’t function well when we hobos are apart? Well, at least with this blog, it’s true. Ah, what a tragic summer it has been. We three, mostly separated. Yesterday, we almost had a reunion! Bebo was there, as well as Lenard, Hugo, and some others. But, reader, it was I, Joe, who was missing from the party (and the Dancing Dwarf, but that creature doesn’t really count). Bebo spend a good amount of time trying to convince me to visit him and his horse. I failed in that epically. And he failed in forcing me out of the house. We are failures to each other.
     Have you noticed this horrible fact? I’m the only one who’s posted since school got out. They must have lives… Well, in Hugo’s case, fictional lives… But I’ve read plenty this summer! And I’ve written a lot. Among other things. And what does he do? Read. And facebook. Probably uses the heavy stuff, too, disfiguring his face…
     Hugo, this is a public announcement telling you to check your email! Of course, you never check this blog. You only know what’s being said through your email. It’s a never-ending loop with you, isn’t it?
     Oh, look. I uncovered another one of our failures.
     Guess what? School starts tomorrow. Blah. But hey, maybe Hugo’ll post again… Of course, Mr. Bebo is NOT coming back. Oh, what sadness! And Razzle! He’ll never be seen again, the poor automobile.
     My life is so drab. Yesterday, my highlight was putting on a pair of jeans. Oh, and right before I went to sleep I found out some awesome info about a college. But I have a stalker. Of the feline variety. Every stinkin’ place I go. Whoosh! And he’s there. Right now, he’s a couple inches away. I should really get a restraining order from this ally cat. He’s very persistent.
     Stalker cats, horsy reunions, and heavy fictional facebooking. It’s official. We fail at life.
     Joe

The Butter Thief, Chapter Three

“So?” Jenny asked. “Will you do it?”

“You know what you’re asking is insanely difficult,” the slightly obese, balding man told her in his heavy New Jersey accent.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “That’s why I came to you.”

“Look,” he advised, “I can’t help you, but I know someone who can. They call her the Butter Thief. A thief among thieves, she is. Almost a legend, ya know? I mean, getting’ to her might be hard, but she can handle this, easy.”

“I don’t usually work with women,” Jenny said. “I find them… deceitful.”

The man laughed at this. “Well, then you’re straight outta luck. She’s the only one I know of who could do this.”

“Maybe. How can I get in touch?”

“Oh, honey,” he guffawed. “I don’t know the women! Don’t know anyone who do. Although, if you’re desperate…” He observed her.

“Fine,” Jenny resigned. “It’s a big job. Lots of money at stake.”

“Hang on,” he told her. “I’ve got to get my computer to show you.” He walked into the back room of the dusty pawn shop. A minute later he returned, holding a laptop. “Lemme just… One minute, okay? Slow internet… And there you go.” He swiveled the laptop on the counter to face her. “It’s a news thing from yesterday,” he said.

A news anchor woman stared at Jenny from the video playing. “Two weeks ago, a man, Jeremy Hendricks, who went by the aliases of Liam Johnson and Ben Warrington, was arrested for stealing a large collection of coins six months ago that are valued at three million dollars. He has since been charged of other thefts, as well as being the accomplice in a murder. The most recent theft, which also involved the murder, happened a mere sixteen days ago. The investigation into that crime unearthed a massive slavery ring. He almost always had partners to assist him, and he has turned them all in. All but one, that is. The police have released a statement saying, “He calls her the Butter Thief. He will not name her out of fear for his life. We believe that this is a valid claim because he has been otherwise cooperative. This woman is a high-profile criminal. We have been investigating into the matter, and will continue to do so.” If you have any information about this woman, please call-”

Jenny stopped the video. She glanced at the grinning man and back at the computer. “And that’s the only person you know of?”

“The only one,” he replied.

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep searching.”

“No! Don’t you get it?” he asked. “This Jeremy guy, he might be able to tell you.”

“I’m afraid that even if he did, it wouldn’t help me. The Butter Thief,” she said, stifling a laugh, “is someone who I’ve already asked. Sure, she can do it, but she’s occupied for the moment. Thanks for your time, though.”

Jenny walked along the street, thinking about how odd it was that now the whole world knew her name, instead of only the exemplary thieves the had at one point collaborated with.

HoboCon 2011

     Yesterday was a grand day. Yesterday was… HoboCon 2011!!!
     We three hoboes were reunited. It was a touching moment, filled with excited blabbering, awkward hugs (from me, the only person who could ever rival Voldemort), multiple outbursts of violent fake-fencing, and bickering. Ah, you would have cried!
     Not only did Bebo and Hugo come over to my beautiful box, but so did Lenard! As well as two other, as yet unnamed individuals. I expect that you will know them quite soon. The only exception at this glorious festival was the Dancing Dwarf, who was doing something…. Maybe that thing?
     Might I say that Bebo and Hugo are terrible at croquet. I believe Bebo only succeeded in not losing to his Hugoian counterpart because of his having cheated. Twice (that I’m aware of). And this was the easy course. Dear goodness, if I had set up the usual extreme course I like to play with my family, I am firm in my belief that those two would still be out there, probably at the third… loopy-stuck-in-the-ground thing… My, aren’t I articulate?
     Oh, yes! Speaking of family, my sister was in attendance. She would probably prefer to go unnamed as she was a bit surprised at the shocking lack of decorum and direction in what we said. But, HA! Oh, just believe me when I say, she was thoroughly entertained. At one point I left her with Hugo in the kitchen to show Lenard and company a story I was writing about our adventures we’ve had. After roughly ten minutes, I jolted up in my bed, realizing I had left those two alone! Needless to say, we all rushed back to them to unexpectedly find that they were doing just fine without us. But before that, it was a chaotic, scary moment… 
     At one point Hugo played a beautiful piano piece he himself composed. He’s a hobo of all trades…
     Sadly, Bebo and company had to leave early due to animal things. Then, a couple hours later, after eating a plentiful dinner, Hugo too left. After a game of badminton, my sister left to play a rambunctious game called soccer, or futbol in other places. Yes, that sport. How I long to play… Soon after, I grabbed my magical camera, and began taking pictures of Lenard and company on the rope swing. How I wish I had grabbed it sooner… Did you know that a rope swing in motion, with someone on it is a prime target for photographing? It is. Even I looked rather debonair and dashing in a couple pictures, if I do say so myself. And Lenard? Far too photographic. He should be a model… A newspaper model! Yes, I will have to speak to him about that… Oh, and then those two left. It’s not like they’re still here, or anything… I hope… With that big, scary, unmarked van…
     Ah, the rope swing. Not only is it great for photos, but it also works well when one wants to get in an exercise. I’m still sore! Either that or…
     BEBO, YOU ARE DEAD IF YOU GAVE ME THAT PESKY FLUENZA!
     Hope you’re all not dying in this heat like I am (and no one else seems to be…).
     Awkward hugs and kickses,
   Joe
     P.S. I’ve been told to post ahead of those lazy bums. So I’ll get to that soon. Honestly, I don’t know how they even function without me…

The Butter Thief, Chapter Two

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

            “I’m not happy, Liam,” she said.
            “You’re funeral was poorly attended,” Liam said, facing the same direction as her, looking out at the sun setting on the edge of the Pacific ocean. 
            “I wasn’t expecting anything else.”
            “Charlotte,” Liam began, but the young woman cut him off.
            “Charlotte Wilson is dead,” she said without emotion. “Don’t forget that.”
            “Who are you, then?”
            “For now, I will be Jenny Hark. She’s only wanted in France and Armenia.”
            “False identities get confusing,” Liam groaned. 
            Jenny turned on him and said sharply, “Don’t you dare complain about false identities! I had to kill someone today because your plan was full of holes!”
            “And I’m sorry about that,” he said, “but you still got away! And what does it matter? It’s not like he’s your first.”
            “I’m not an assassin, Liam! I am a thief. I only ever use a gun if it’s in the plan, and only if I  approve it.”
            “You’re right,” he sighed.
            “Of course I am. And that, Liam, is why I am going to have to leave you.”
            “Char-Jenny!” Liam exclaimed. “I’m your partner! You can’t just leave me!”
            “Of course I can,” she said, bending down to grab two backpacks. “Here’s your half of the money.”

“So that’s it?” Liam asked. “We just go our separate ways?”

“Yes. I can’t risk being a part of your lopsided plans anymore, or your inane excuses,” Jenny told him. “Don’t ever let me see you again.” She tossed him one of the backpacks, then walked off.

*

Two weeks had passed since Jenny had departed ways with Liam. In the short span of time, Jenny had traveled across the country to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and had begun research on a new heist. Of course, she still had to find a partner to help as the job was a bit more complex, but that would not be a problem for her. She knew a guy who knew a guy who would be perfect for the job and who could really use the money she could offer him. If things went according to plan, she would be on a plane to Belize in another week.

*

Liam sighed to himself. He had always done things haphazardly. Even though his plans were not always terribly good ones, he had gotten away with every singe one, until that night, at least. Perhaps Jenny had been smart in leaving him, although at the time he believed that it had been because she had to kill a man, albeit a very corrupt one who was heavily involved with slavery. No, she had left him because the man’s murder was not in her plans, and if things could go askew like that, she had realized that she might one day get caught, just like he had.

“Please, Liam,” the policeman said calmly. “Any help you can give us about your past partner would greatly help your case.”

“Even if I felt like cooperating,” Liam laughed, “I’d be in danger. My... partner has a lot of power.”

The officer frowned. “I can’t promise anything, but it might be possible for you to enter Witness Protection.”

Liam smirked. The day he met Jenny, she had threatened to hunt him down if he ever talked to authorities about her hobbies. About a week later, when they were a bit closer, they were relating past stories. She had told him about a past villain she had faced who tried to testify against a past partner of hers. He was well protected by Witness Protection. On the car ride to the courthouse, he had mysteriously disappeared, only to turn up a couple months later, refusing to go onto the stand.

“I’d rather not,” Liam answered. “Not only do I know that she would find and slaughter me, but I have too much respect for her. Here’s what I can tell you: in a very small ring of the more elite thieves, she is known as the Butter Thief.”

Of Murdering Dead Bodies

  Some things truly boggle the mind.  There are, of course, different levels of bogglement; for instance, the brutal murder of an innocent gummy bear is a very innocuous and easily discerned bogglement:  after all, the gummy bear is stupendously delicious, and one cannot really prevent oneself from finding it irresistible to the palate. Other things, however, fall into (or rise onto?) the very highest levels of bogglement.  The foggiest, most boggling and bewildering event which has ever befallen me, your humble servant (or would I be an informant?), was unquestionably the circumstance which precipitated me into my present condition of lifelong imprisonment. 

  "It is she!"  the butler shrieked as I quietly entered the drawing room in which my mother's half brother's youngest son's household was gathered.  I was rather taken aback by his hysterical mein--the poor man had left off his usual quiet butling and was standing dramatically in the center of the room with his clothes askew, his hair straggling limply past his ears, his face blanched, and a smashed teapot clutched in his left hand--but I am well-known for my ability to remain polite under the most adverse of circumstances.

  "Yes, James," I agreed pleasantly.  "It is I."

  This reassuring and eminently genteel speech apparently had the opposite effect than I had intended it to, for no sooner had I uttered it than James collapsed onto the expensive burgundy rug with a loud thump and a strangled squawk, and lay there unmoving during all that followed.  I turned in utter bewilderment to the assembled family of--for the sake of convenience, let us call him--my cousin, who had been sitting like a waxwork display of a socio-economically fortunate English family dressed in mourning captured in a moment of horror and consternation.  Since the entire lot of them looked rather gormless with--whatever emotion they were gormless with--and not one had made a move to help the stricken man, I chose to ignore them, and bustled forward and knelt beside James to ascertain the cause of his infirmity.  My motion broke the spell of immobility that lay upon the socio-economically fortunate waxworks exhibit, and they stirred with life.

  "Do not touch him, you fiend of Satan!"  This odd and rather offensive remark was made by my cousin, Sir Diggory Wallace Crimswaggle IV, and, although none could ever say that he was an intelligent man, he certainly had excellent manners and a very kind and social (and not terribly religious) heart, and we had always been on the best of terms; therefore, I was exceeding astonished that he should make such an aggressively antagonizing remark, and, perhaps, even more astonished that it would be addressed to me.  At first I believed that he had been addressing another.

   Next moment, however, Sir Diggory's wife, the Honourable Lady Blanche-Maria Rivershall Crimswaggle, removed all doubt that my own cousin, whom I loved like a simpleminded younger brother, had just called me a fiend of Satan.  Although Milady was just as simple as her husband, she had rather more imagination, due to spending all of her waking hours not devoted to pleasant social engagements and the arrangement of her elaborate toilette in reading lurid Gothic novels.

  "Indeed, Miss Dorice Perywinsel!"  Her voice was a soprano scream, edged with hysteria and a hint of vindictiveness.  "Have the pits of Hades grown dull to you?  Must you now come and steal away all of our loved ones?"  So saying, she theatrically turned on her youngest child, a very small lad of ten summers, and clasped him to her capacious bosom.

  An inkling of the truth began to dawn on me. "Why, Blanche-Maria," I began.

  "Lady Crimswaggle to you!" she howled over the blonde head of the child she was affectionately suffocating.  He kept making little mews of distress and struggling futilely to free himself, but she was too occupied with glaring at me ferociously to notice these signs of discomfort.

  I rolled my eyes.  "Well, then, Lady Crimswaggle, I am afraid that you are labouring under a misapprehension.  Your dear late father-in-law had already--ah--passed on when I arrived here last night.  In fact, he had, if you will recall, been dead for two days.  Therefore, this accusation on your part, that I am robbing you of your loved ones, is entirely misplaced."

  Milady stared enraged daggers at me, her pleasant, round face contorted, her cosmetics streaked with passionate tears, her double chins quivering.  Pushing away her squirming, red-faced child (little William flopped over and lay gratefully gasping on the divan), she struggled to extricate herself and her skirts from her seat, and, succeeding, rose and took a step toward me.  I rose as well, to take full advantage of the difference in our heights (I am nearly six feet tall, and Milady is only five foot four), as well as to mitigate the awkwardness of holding a discussion while kneeling beside the supine form of an unconscious butler.  We stood beside the fallen body of poor James, toe-to-toe, two middle-aged women dressed in jetty garments, like provincial performers playing before an audience of statues.  Gormless, breathing statues.

  Then, Milady threw down the cause of all my present mind-boggling grief, the accusation which led to such unbelievably senseless suffering.

  "Oh, you can't fool me with that glib tongue of yours.  You think that you are so much better than we, with your education and your sophisticated literary tastes.  Well, you haven't fooled us.  We have seen through your lies.  We know that you killed Papa after he was dead."

 

~Hugo

Of secrets....

Nobody should know this. Not even you. Then why do I tell you? You know the reason. You know that demise will surely follow all confessions I let fill your ears, and it is because of this, you do not attempt to escape. Ah, my secrets. So many of them, all a different shade of black or grey. I can see them now as they dance out of my mouth, filling the room with a kaleidolscope of tormented colors. I would close my eyes if I thought you would not try to escape, and just revel in this freedom. I find that I can breathe. I CAN breathe. It has been so long, but now...Without the burden of choking down my secrets, I find that air is once again my friend. I hate to do this to you. Through your restraintment, I have found independance. But you know. The privaledged information that fled my lips has entered your ears, and that cannot be undone. If only I could let you fly like a bird freed from its cage, and not have to worry that you would betray my confidence, I would set you free. But it is too late to even think of such things. How dare you force me to contemplate letting you jepordize all I have worked for? You have tricked me! With your quiet stillness, it had seemed that even my very heart that stopped beating for a moment. But now it beats again, pumping my hatred through my veins once more. Where are my plans? Dancing in the rays of sunlight that stream through the crack in the wall. Call them back! Return to me, oh my dark anticipations. Come, let us join forces once more. The war can begin again!

With a loud battle cry, the man picked up the gummy bear and bit its head off. It did not scream, struggle. How easy that was, thought the man, now no one will ever know my secrets.....

I really hate to sign my name here
bebo

The Butter Thief

    “It all started with butter,” she told the man. “I was very young when this all began. I was but two years of age. I was the first grandchild on my father’s side. As such, I was treated like a porcelain doll. I was a rather smart child, you know. I could see that what baby wanted, baby got, one way or the other. I was manipulative, even in the age of innocence. I pushed the limits further than most would even dream of doing! Oh, I was living life to perfection. But before I perfected my methods, my life, I had to realize I had it in me to do such rash, conniving things.
    “Butter was my favorite thing as a little girl. It was so creamy and scrumptious. I would eat it plain if I could. I would lick it off of my toast, or scrape it off of my potatoes. One day I had a delightful idea. I would just sneak into the dining room, and snatch the whole cube of butter of the table! It took me a few tries, but in the end, I was successful. Five or so minutes later, from a hiding spot in the living room, I heard some confusion coming from the dining room. My parents were flabbergasted.

Where did the butter go? Mommy dearest asked.

As if I would know. You know that I’m lactose intolerant! Father exclaimed.

Then there was silence. I knew they had figured it out. So, like any intelligent child would do, I crawled out of my secret spot, sat down on a miniature chair, wiped some of the butter around my face, and put on a giant smile.

Oh, how adorable! Mother cooed.

She’s definitely your daughter, Dad laughed.

“I repeated the incident at different establishments. No one suspected that I was capable of planning such a thing! No, see, I was the good, absolutely adorable, little girl. That was the trick. I didn’t look like a mastermind. No one knew of my devious  ways. I was about seven before my parents realized what I had been doing. That I had manipulated them throughout childhood. After that, they became a lot more intelligent about my games. I was watched closely, yet they never knew that they were wrapped around my finger. My every whim was their delight. Sadly, everything must come to an end. When I left for college, an ex boyfriend of mine informed my parents of my ways. We have rarely talked to each other since. And now, Mr. Holloway, I must inform you that you too have an end. Goodbye, Mr. Holloway,” she said.

“No, wait!” he cried out. “Plea-”

She pulled the trigger. “The end.”

Joe

Attempt the Second

    Guess who lost the blog post that he attempted to post on Thursday but failed dismally in so doing?  Yep!  That's right!  Your accuity, O Readers of this frivolous blog, is truly a wondrous thing.  Yes, I, Hugo of Horrible character, temperament, and manners, am the guilty party.  And guess what else?  Wow!  Right again!  You are absolutely correct: you will never know what that lost blog post said, because I have forgotten most of it.  Oh, I know, I  know, you don't have to tell me that I am simply the most talented and  skillful hobo blogger alive.  I've known it for years.
    On Thursday (NOT to change the subject or anything), the very day of the fateful Lost Post, my kitten, the Fiend, experienced her very first birthday.  I would say "celebrated her very first birthday," but that might be a bit of a stretch...  At any rate, she is now one year old.  We are all astonished!  That my little Evil One should actually live that long, despite her personality, friends, psychological irregularities, and rather deranged tendencies, is wonderful!  Amazing!  Extraordinary!  She doesn't seem to think so, however, and I must admit that her behavior has not altered in the slightest (although she DID lick my ankles the other evening when I was about to get out of bed, and that was odd, but it was not any odder than her usual oddity, so I don't think that it counts). 
    The other day (don't you think that my transitions are stunning?  I think that I deserve a reward of some sort, and perhaps an honorary title such as "The Great Hobo-Father of Remarkably Smooth Transitions" or "He Who Makes the Post Flow Well" or some such thing), I realized why I love being a hobo so much: it is very like being a hobbit.  Since I am fairly certain that the Dancing Dwarf is the only one of my Readers who has Read The Lord of the Rings, this will be over most of y'all's heads.  Unless you have Read The Hobbit.  At any rate, I have wanted to be a hobbit for a very long time.  The idea of living in a hobbit-hole, going barefoot all the time, and being about three feet tall just makes me grin with delight.  Who doesn't want to be a hobbit?  Even hobos could have fun as hobbits.  After all, three feet is just the most handy height.  It is definitely better than the caterpillar's three inches in Alice in Wonderland... 
    Speaking of Alice in Wonderland, I recently re-read it, as well as its companion, Through the Looking Glass.  I began at the beginning, and went on until I came to the end, but then I did not stop, because I was too busy laughing over the passage in Through the Looking Glass where the White King says, "I did not say that there is nothing better [than eating hay when one is faint].  I said that there is nothing like it." Wonderful!  They are the sort of stories that just get funnier the more often you read them.  And if, like me, you find that to be tear-jerkingly hilarious (some of you will get that later), you really ought to read The Hunting of the Snark:  "And he softly and silently vanished away, For the Snark was a Boojum, you see."  Ah, me.
    Anyway.  What was I saying?  Oh, well, it doesn't matter.  I have a paper to write for Economics.
~Hugo

Of Obese Bananas

Bananas are curious things, don't you think? I mean, they're yellow, they get spots, and they are interestingly shaped. Kind of like what I expect a kidney would look like. But skinnier. The kidney of an anorexic person, maybe. Plus its yellow. Did I mention that? Anyway. Bananas are kind of awesome. In my class, I have to research obesity. Somehow that made me think of bananas. Somehow. I don't know how. They have seemingly no connection. But they are yellow. And sometimes fat people are yellow. If they fall into a vat of yellow paint. Hmmmm....Um, here: Bananas are food, and fat people like food. Obviosously. This is mean. I feel like I'm insulting fat people. BUT I"M NOT!! Because I really, truly am jelous of fat people. I mean, I shake and shiver ALL WINTER LONG in my little carboard box, wrapped in my facebook and clutching my pork jerky. And my fat friend just sits comfortably in his box, calmly snoring, oblivious of the racket made by my chattering teeth. I mean, how on earth does a hobo get FAT? We don't get much food. We are always moving. We have to carry our house around on our backs. It takes some serious talent to become a fat hobo. I have an idea. Maybe bananas are jelous of fat people, too! I mean think of it. Bananas are skinny, and yellow, and shaped like a kidney. What if they want to be bigger, and non-yellow and shaped like an apple or a pear or something?? Those poor bananas. They just want to be round. Can you blame them?? I can't. Maybe I will start a new kind of bananas. Obese bananas. They shall be roundish and non-kidney shaped. Oh yes. I think I shall do this. They will be like a yellow orange. But mushy. I can start a grocery store too. That only serves round bananas. and I will call it: Bebo's Obese Bananas. I can see it now. can you? no? try harder. Cuz this will be HUGE. that was not a pun. No, this is gonna be good. This is gooooing to be great. this is going to be.....BEBO"S OBESE BANANAS!!!! (Coming soon to a street corner near you)