The End of the World

  Happy Apocalypse Day, everybody!  Today, civilization as we know it ends, although the Mayan calendar was actually fairly ambiguous about that, so we have three main options:
1. The world ends today.
2. The world ends on Sunday.
3. The world does not deign to heed esoteric doomsday prophecies and instead goes on as usual.
I'm kind of leaning toward option three, but, just in case I'm wrong, I am going to an End of the World Party tonight.  Yes, you read that right: I, Hugo the Horrible, the grumpiest and most anti-social person in the history of the known universe, am going to a party.  Voluntarily.  If that isn't a strong indication that the apocalypse is at hand, I don't know what is...
    Other than the world's end, there really isn't much going on today here in North America.  It's been kind of a lazy, rainy day, much like most of the days that I've ever lived.  This is actually an immense relief, since it comes as a much-needed break at the end of Finals Week, four days of hell at the end of my school's seventeen week semester.  Until last night, I hadn't slept more than six hours at a stretch in at least a month.  And I still failed Art History.  Okay, granted, I hadn't been to class since mid-October, I wrote none of the papers and took exactly half of the exams, so it wasn't really a surprise, but still.  I'm not in the habit of failing classes.  I've only failed two in a row now.
    Classes aren't the only thing that I've taken to failing...  the suspenseful saga of Happy Rotter and Co. is now indefinitely suspended.  I have the very worst case of writer's block that I have ever had.  It is rivaled only by the writer's block I get every single time one of my teachers assigns an essay, which is completely crippling and lasts until two hours before said essay is due.  Hopefully, Joe will take up the fallen torch, re-light it, and carry on.
    Yeah.  I don't really have much to say.  I'm still suffering somewhat from residual sleep deprivation, and my mind is not firing on all cylinders in consequence,

Your groggy and bewildered uncle,

Hugo the Horrible

P.S.  Yes.  This post is pink.  I like pink.

Cranato(e)s III

Dearest Reader,

     I am pleased to inform you that Hugo the Horrible has accepted Joe’s mentality of “Cranatoes are Delicious.”

     Seriously, though. He’s turned to the Joe side. In honor of this glorious occasion, I am using this wondrous font. Awesome like Hugo’s decision, right?

     It’s such a delectable dish. If you are unsure what cranatoes are, see the last paragraph in the original cranatoes post: http://tmao3bd.blogspot.com/2010/11/cranatoes.html

     Oh, Hugo, you magnificent being, I applaud your meal. Truly, I do. Thank you for believing in me when my entire family, though happy I was home from college, were entirely skeptical of my choice of food. They’re missing out. They’ve no idea.

     Aside from cranatoes, lefse is amazing. It’s Norwegian and it’s made from potatoes and it’s terribly great.

     Yes, there’s a very… potato-y theme, I’m aware.

     Also, I’d like to add it may have taken me two years, but I’ve realized “cranatoes” should really be spelled as “cranatos.” Forgive this horrible oversight. At least now I know why this business hasn’t taken off, yet.

     Well, that’s all I have. I’m tired. I’ve been hungry, despite that amazing dinner. And I’m not feeling up to my usual Joe self. Perhaps it’s because my family has forced me into an actual bedroom in an actual house. My first night here, I woke up at 4:01am and thought I’d fallen asleep in some academic building in a storage room. So, I checked the time on my cell phone, freaked out thinking I’d been locked in and may not be able to get out in time for class (quite a unique excuse my professor would have probably told future classes for years). Well, I leapt from that bed (no, I didn’t think about it) and ran into the hallway. I was in the living room before I realized.

     Thanksgiving break… It’s going to stay interesting, I just know it. Also, tomorrow, I will hopefully see Bebo, Lenard, and two others of some relation to those two (who are of no relation to each other).  Yes, it shall definitely be interesting.

Joe

Someone Horrible Turned Old Today!

     Someone horrible is turning Old today. He’s all, “Look at me! I can a bike for miles! I love the sun! I shall worship it now! Let’s make today important because I am now Old and others must take precious time today to give me their happiest wish or demand I am happy, even though those are utterly outrageous things to do!”

     I, on the other hand, have a broken window (boxes are so much easier to fix. I’ve not needed to use my duct tape once, here!), and it’s snowing. Fancy that, snowing on Christmas Island… We like to create a realistic atmosphere, although we don’t have control of the snow. Now we’ll have plenty of Frostys and snowball fight barriers in place for the big day!

     I don’t like snow. I’m not cheery, jolly, or merry. I’m not even Mary. Although I’m Joe… I have my place. I’m just not thrilled about it. Hey, at least I’m not an elf. Psh, slavery is SO not my thing. Maybe this winter I’ll hide in my home and be shipped off as a toy to some good girl or boy… Then, you know, dart off before they find me. Maybe I’ll leave some pork jerky to get them started in a new life as a hobo… I might even leave the box if I’ve arranged to stay elsewhere.

     Oh. So, Hugo, this is for you.

I wish you a Joe birthday,

I wish you a Joe birthday,

I wish you a Joe birthday,

And force happiness on you!

Joe

News of the Aforementioned Rebel.

    It is I!  The rebel, signing in from North America, where I have been devoting my life to philosophical contemplation and the consumption of toasted bagels with cream cheese.  It would appear that the Bewhiskered Desperadoes have finally abandoned all pretext of continuing the Happy Rotter saga, and are now once again reduced to lugubrious maunderings about our boring lives, which are now being conducted in wildly divergent corners of the universe.
    For the sake of redundancy, I shall now remind everyone reading this that Joe is sick--I shall have to take his word for it, since I haven't seen him since last spring, and we only ever communicate via the technological version of Facebook, which, I must say, is not nearly so satisfying as the good ol' fashioned hardback edition; I feel rather homesick for Thumpity Thump Gets Dressed.  Anyway, I am taking Joe's word for this purported illness of his, just as I am taking Joe's word for Bebo's purported success, as, little though I talk to Joe, I talk to Bebo considerably less.  In fact, for all I know, Bebo has dropped off the face of the earth, which wouldn't be especially surprising, given all the time he's been spending in Australia...
    It is now time, readers, for me to have a serious talk with you.  All two of you.  Now that you are all grown up, and the Three Desperadoes have left you far behind and fled to distant regions, we need to have a Talk and clear up some lingering deceptions.
    First, I have to confess that I am (brace yourselves!) an Atheist.  Yes.  I am a soul-less, demon worshiping eater of babies.  We atheists are an ever growing horde of the Godless--not only are there atheists in foxholes, there are atheists in cardboard boxes.  We are everywhere!!!  And we shall TAKE OVER THE WORLD!!!
    Okay, now that that's out of the way, I have another, more humiliating confession to make.  I don't really have a beard.  Yes, you read that right.  My famous five-star beard, a serious rival to Bebo's own is--fake.  I paste it on with hypo-allergenic glue.  Sometimes, my cat chews on it.  When Joe said that I had dyed my beard red, what I had really done was buy a new one...  And stick it on...
    That was very painful and emotionally exhausting.  Let's talk about something else, shall we?
    So, as has been said at least three or four times already, we three hobos of Orient have gone our own ways.  Joe is preparing to marry his longtime girlfriend, who shall remain nameless just at present to protect her anonymity (I'm afraid the poor lass suffers somewhat from paranoia).  I am, as always, Forever Alone, ever since Bebo and I divorced violently and he moved to Australia.  I don't know what Bebo's relational status is; we never talk about it.  Who am I kidding?  We never talk at all!
    Here in North America, I have managed to get in to yet another community college, where I am taking classes in the hopes of, perhaps, one day becoming a hobologist (one who studies hobos).  Studies have shown that this is an especially lucrative field, with an average starting salary of six thousand a year for recent college graduates!  I would be able to upgrade to a two-box complex, and eat at least three times a week.  This would be an exponential improvement over my current job, which, though I shan't go into the details, involves a great deal of pizza.
    Until my vast potential as a brilliant hobologist is finally realized, I am content to live here, in this extraordinarily commodious garret, reading novels, going to school, relishing the beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful sunshine, and making pizza (I'm actually not even remotely content about that last thing, but, Hey!  It's a job, right?  Right?  Riiiiiiight...).  My delightful mother shall come and visit me next month, and we shall have a lovely time, even though I know that she is going to make me go to church.  *sigh*  One can't have everything, I suppose.
    And now, gentle readers, I have become aware of a growing tendency for this particular blog post to become boring and maudlin.  I shall therefore sign off now, before the situation deteriorates any farther...

Your affectionate uncle,

Hugo the Horrible

The Success, the Rebel, and the Sick One

Dearest our readers, Lenerd and the Dancing Dwarf,

     It’s been one of those weeks. Bebo is off gallivanting around Australia, filming, interacting with non-hobo people, and accumulating money while hoboing. He’s basically a success.

     Hugo’s being philosophical in the Americas. He adores the sun. He was also introduced to the technological version of facebooking. It’s become an obsession. He’s basically a rebel.

     Then there’s me, Joe. I stayed on Christmas Island, though I no longer live in my cardboard box. The college wouldn’t allow it. I’m too far to see home, my dear cat, or any of my old anyones or things. So close, yet so far… And I’m currently sick during homecoming weekend. What’s homecoming anyway? People aren’t explaining things well to this poor hobo. But I’m sick, in bed, dead to the world, and watching cheesy Hallmark movies (my roommate's TV, of course). I really need to find the TV’s guide… I should also mention that I have a job. And I’m PAID. Yeah, it happened. Basically, I’ve become a part of this world.

     I don’t know how I feel about this.

     Oh, look, I missed the, “Oh, look, something happened to cause distressing conflict!” part of the movie while writing this. Put it together in five seconds. This movie’s child’s play even for my sick, half-asleep mind…

     So, I’m not entirely sure, but I think we’re all not only in different countries, but different continents… Where is Christmas Island anyway? I should’ve paid more attention in geography class, but it’s too late now.

     Things have changed. This makes Hugo ecstatic. Yes, you’ll never see your carpooling hobos again, let’s rejoice! He’s weird. He dyed his five-star beard bright red.  

     Oh, and I’ve developed a new health issue, and two sensitivities are now extreme, all three probably being permanent problems. My doctor should have fun with me when I’m home. I’m her special project.

     I wish essays were this easy to write. Nfa;gjgkdgj bfkfdajk .mdfn.  Sorry. Coughing.

     Lots of cheese and caramel popcorn crunchies,

                Joe the Hobo

Happy Rotter Strikes Again: Chapter Three

  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.

 *

“I can assure you, Mr. Rotter, that I am well aware of that fact,” Snake snarkily snarled.

            “But-But, you’re here!” Happy was feeling quite faint again.

            Snake squinted at the boy. “That you for pointing out the obvious.”

            “Why?” was all Happy would get out before collapsing on a dusty, red, ornate chair. The uprising dust was not helpful for his spinning mind.

            Snake frowned. He really had no idea why he was alive again, although he was not even certain he was truly alive. He would not, however, ever admit such a thing to the obnoxious, dazed boy in front of him.

            Instead of answering, Snake conjured up some water for the twit.

            It was an oddly nice gesture. Happy was suspicious before remembering the dead man’s memories, and took the water without a word.

            “I trust, Rotter, that you will be discreet about what you know,” Snake slowly said.

            Happy had no doubt he was speaking of his memories, imagining Snake’s embarrassment and the revenge he would take were he to know most of the wizarding community already knew, as Happy had been given the displeasure of reading Snake’s eulogy. Happy sipped his water, nodding, hoping the dead man was not reading his mind. He suddenly regretted having not practiced guarding his mind, before, even though he had been given ample opportunity.

            “I have you here to discuss your education,” Snake said. “Most of your year have been offered immediate graduation from Pigpimples, and jobs. I was under the impression that you and your minions might be returning, though.”

            Happy was unsure how to answer. Education had never crossed his mind since he had defeated Mort Loverdold. Niether had a job, not that he had been offered one. Couldn’t he just be The Boy Who Survived, Died, Lived, and Won?

            Severed Snake interpreted the silence. “I see. Well, be back within the week with an answer, Mr. Rotter, and bring Miss Ginger and Mr. Weasel’s decision as well.”

            Happy left, not even acknowledging the man.

            “Oy! Boy Who Damaged Me!” the gargoyle shouted. “What were ye here for?”

            Happy turned. Now that he thought about it, this information could easily have been sent in a letter. “I’m not really sure.”

   Joe

The Buffalo of Comebacks

Oh, Hugo, Hugo, Hugo, Hugo. If I do recall, in March, a certain someone swore to write a new Happy Rotter chapter. And not just any certain someone, Hugo. It was YOU!

Pfft. Pffffffffffffffffft. Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft!

I really am bad at comebacks, aren’t I? Perhaps this is why someone told me I don’t have a mean bone in my body…

I have successfully converted Bebo into a Whovian, still unbeknownst to him. (A Whovian is one who watches and enjoys Doctor Who. One cannot merely watch Doctor Who; one becomes obsessed with it.) He’s seen more than one episode. He’s officially converted! No going back now, Bebo.

(I’m secretly plotting to convert his entire family, but that will take time… and some more plotting.)

Bebo’s family almost fed me buffalo without telling me. Well, how else am I supposed to count firsts unless I know?!? I also learned Monopoly this last weekend. I am so very far behind in life, I know.

I’m not certain what else to write about… How very much I will miss Hugo, one of my few friends… How very miserable the weather at my new, non-community-college college will make my skin (Although, unlike Hugo, I shall mostly stay indoors)… How very few places a hobo can apply for, and how little to none will even think of hiring a hobo… How maybe it must just be this hobo because the other two have jobs AND job interviews… How excited Hugo and I are to graduate this quarter... How Hugo and I carpooled a week ago and didn’t die, and how Bebo and I carpooled today and didn’t die, and why am I never the one driving?

Far too much to even consider talking about, don’t you think?

Joe the Jobless Hobo

The Return of the Three Bewhiskered Desperados

    Hah!  Ha ha ha ha!!  Ha ha!  Joe said that he would post, but he didn't, so I shall now undertake to post a post about how he said that he would post but then failed to post, leaving the area wide open for trolling hobos to post posts about posters who don't post.
    Yes, gentle readers, you have drawn the correct conclusion:  the Three Desperados are back, after a months-long absence during which we did absolutely nothing productive.  Well, Bebo did productive things, but he was abroad, so he hardly counts.  He does, however, softly count--under his breath, you know, while trying to fall asleep.  He counts kangaroos.  Australia has corrupted him.
    I can't really think of anything cheery to say, other than Joe has quite badly fumbled the ball (which is why I'm here) and Bebo is back from Australia (five-star beard and all).  Oh, wait, I can think of something cheery to say: I, Hugo the Horrible, am moving!  Far away!  To someplace where it rains fewer than three hundred days out of the three hundred and sixty-five!  And I am never coming back!  We shan't have the boomerang effect with Hugo as we did with Bebo; no, no, no seven-month absences for me.  Mine is permanent.  The other Desperados are almost as happy about it as I am... But they can never be fully as happy as I, because they are staying in this horrid, dreary, miserable damp place, whereas I shall be free, free, free...  In the sun...  Skin cancer, you have met your latest victim.  Take me!  I am willing!
    Okay, I shall move on now, because that wasn't weird at all...
    You know what, I think that I shall move on quite extensively, and end this thing before it gets out of hand.
    Ta for now!
     Your affectionate uncle,

~Hugo the Horrible


   

Deary, It's Dreary

     Here I am. Where are you? Oh, my horrible Hugo, my hoboese (hoboian?) Bebo, how I miss thee two.
     No snow. None. Unless you count slush in my college's town, and somehow, people never do.
     I'm hungry. Very hungry. This can be expected, as I seem to be fighting something that upsets my stomach greatly.
     My very excited mother just stood under n... Basically, she ran a marathon a day, three days in a row, over New Year's eve, New Year's day, and January 2nd. Three marathons. Three days. And people think I've lost some marbles...
     I should probably finish this thing up. Okay, so Hugo, I will write a short chapter soon. I PROMISE. I could be lying, but you'll never know, not if I never know. Mwaheheh!
     So, food... I'm staring at a picture of a muscled woman librarian with books flying about her, watching, literally over her shoulder, at a student. If that's not sinister, then I'm Nevada. Why Nevada, you ask? Because Nevada am I Nevada. See what I did there? No? That's okay. I'm sleep and food deprived and I read a 460-ish paged book over a day. Yesterday, if fact. Basically, we're all mad in the Joetopian Mountains. Hello!
     Joe, the Hungry Hobo