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