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