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
Thank you for not mentioning her name, Hugo. She really is quite paranoid. Sometimes I think she suffers from pantophobia. Not fear of pants, though, if that's what you're thinking. It's the fear of everything. Including pants, I suppose, in that case.
ReplyDeleteBut Hugo, nothing is definite. She rather upset about the whole facebook thing...
-Joe
Well, I don't see why you should be bothered about my mentioning it here. We literally have two readers.
ReplyDelete~Hugo