A Horrible Birthday Excuse: The Almost-Concussion

     This is really a horrible blog, eh? We only use it as a random outlet of spontaneous content. Like to wish some Hugo hobo a birthday. (See what I did there in the first sentence? Eh? Eeeeeh?)

     Someone’s birthday is rather soon, and I find not nearly enough people are aware of it. Honestly, I forgot, and would have continued to forget if it weren’t for the book of the face. And to be quite truthful, both Hugo and I forgot Bebo’s birthday… This shall not happen again!

     So guess what, world? On Tuesday, wish Hugo a horrible birthday!!! In case I forget. Because I could likely get a concussion. Actually, I feel one coming on… I might slip off this couch very soon… Hugo, before I slip and forget, happy day of age change!

Your affectionate, clumsy friend/daughter/ex-carpooler,

Joe

A Horrible Announcement

     Ahem. I have a horrible announcement, and it, surprisingly, has nothing to do with Hugo. The hobos on this blog are facing a possible breakup. Why, you may ask (assuming there is a “you” to ask)? Because Bebo believed hobos don’t dance. Joe (me) has an issue with that.
     Let me tell you what happened.      Bebo and I were conversing through writing of technological means that shall remain unnamed. We were bidding each other goodnight when the incident occurred. It should be noted that I, Joe, merely wanted to astonish him with yet another truth, which, added to the large amount of shocking revelations already disclosed somehow did not give him a heart attack. Here’s how it happened:

Bebo: Kay niiiiiight

 

Joe: Night!

And to leave you confused...

I'm seriously enjoying ballroom dance class..

Bebo: Eh?

Oh gosh
WHO are you?

Joe: I may very well be slee-typing... None would be the wiser. 'Twould explain all the typos, now, wouldn't it?

Bebo: Haha okay go to sleep

But...that's weird
WEIRD, YOU HEAR ME!! HOBOS DONT DANCE!! EXCEPT FOR SOMETIMES WHEN THEY DANCE A JIG BUT THATS NO WALTZ!!!

Joe: I'M FOX-TROTTING.

     We have yet to speak after this, sadly. I must admit, before I took up this class (for fear if I did not take some form of a physical activity class I might very well become frozen in my usual, hobo-student hunched position) I also believed hobos should not and could not dance. Except poorly or against their will. But, to everyone’s amazement (except for my scarily perceptive sister), it became my favorite class. My belief is now that hobos may only dance more classical styles, badly, and/or against their will. Modern anything is surely beyond comprehension, though.
     So what say you, readers? Should hobos be allowed to dance (and like it?) Or should they continue in their same fashion and maintain a great distance from any form of artistic movement?

     Joe

The War on Defunct

    Dude.
    This blog.
    This blog is defunct.
    Like, seriously defunct.  Like, the last post was three months ago defunct.  Defunct in the sense that all three Desperadoes are currently living in wildly different geographical locations and keeping insanely busy and never sparing the merest instant for the poor old blog.  To put it mildly, this word "defunct" that I've been throwing around doesn't even begin to cover the defunctness of The Merry Adventures of Three Bewhiskered Desperadoes.  There is literally nothing happening here.
    That is not to say that there is nothing happening anywhere else; in fact, that's exactly the reason why no one has visited this dusty corner of the Internet until I recently re-read the back issues and got all nostalgic and sh--er, stuff: WE'RE SOOOOOOOO BUSY!!!!  Well, at least I am.  I can't really speak for the other two.  Joe and I only communicate via the technological version of Facebook, and Bebo only occasionally texts me, usually with tips on ways I can get into shenanigans with chewing gum.  Oh, Bebo.  
    So, yeah, I am, as we say here in the part of North America where I'm living, hella busy.  Dearest readers of mine, if anyone ever tells you that you can go to college full time, get good grades, hold down a job, participate in extracurricular activities, maintain a social life, prevent your family from getting completely and utterly fed up with you, sleep more or less as much as you need to, and also relax sometimes, laugh in his or her lying face.  Seriously.  My life is insane.  I love it, though; it's honestly fun to be freaked out and frantically scrambling around all the time. 
    Right now, however, I am taking a moment at two in the morning to resurrect this dear old blog.  We've all come such a very long way from where we were back in Fall of 2010 when we were three homeschoolers commuting to college in a maroon car.  Joe and Bebo both have bright futures ahead of them, and they're working/studying to get there.  I, of course, am far too busy to think about frivolous nonessentials like my future.  It'll sort itself out.  Eventually.  I hope.  It doesn't really bear thinking about.
    In the interim, it's sunny!  Sunny, I tell you!  And warm!  I already have a tan!  It's only April, and I ALREADY HAVE A TAN!!!  MWAH-HAH-HAH!!!!  Over Spring Break, I went, reluctantly, back to the land of my nativity to visit Bebo and Joe.  It was horrible.  On the day I left, it snowed.  I mean, seriously, Christmas Island (that's where we're from, right?!), snow?  During Spring Break?  
    It was nice to see those two scruffy hobos, though.  We got together and talked and laughed and ate food and threw things at each other and played absurd word games and almost got devoured by Bebo's Great Dane (for some reason, Daphney isn't amused when I chase Bebo's sibling across the room with a ball point pen, shrieking with laughter and making incoherent threats) and it was, generally, almost like old times.  I felt seventeen again.  This was extremely unusual, since I normally feel closer to twelve.
    It was also nice to get back to my insane, sunshiny life, though.  Which reminds me, I should probably sign off and go to sleep.  I meant to spend the night catching up with an ethnography I'm reading for Anth, but, at the eleventh hour, it seemed like a scintillating idea to eat chocolate cookies and watch a revoltingly romantic movie instead (by the way, I was only watching it for, you know, science.  So that I can relate to the kinds of people who like those kinds of things.  I, personally, effing hate romance, and DON'T YOU FORGET IT!).  Then, I was like, well, I'm awake and feeling sentimental anyway, so why not waste more of my precious sleepy time writing?  Right?  
    So, here I am.  I need to get up in, oh, two, two-and-a-half hours, so that I can go to school and do homework and attend class and table for one of my three or four clubs and attend the Inter-Club Council meeting and then go to work at my sweeeeeeeeet new job. Of course, in order to do that, I should probably go down in the first place.  
    Good night, y'all,

Your affectionate uncle,

~Hugo the Horrible

P.S.  Yes.  This is very badly written.  Deal with it.

The Hobbit? Don't you mean The Hobo?

     “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

     Basically, J.R.R. Tolkien stole my lifestyle. Well, my predecessors. He thought, Look at those hobos who grow amazing beards! What if I stuck the beards on the feet, stick them in the ground, and change “hobo” to “hobbit...?” It’s brilliant! If you aren’t aware, the hobo community was not credited nor asked permission. Blipo Bugshim (Pronounced Bugs-him) was, in fact, a distant relative of Bebo, and much of his life stories were stolen and compiled. Let’s just say the Tonks side of his family was special… Even to this day, Bebo’s seen those nasty things called adventures, dragging Hugo and I along for the ride, and every now and then, a miracle will happen. But it’s not a precious, golden ring; it’s squirrels. They’re everywhere, you know, but they normally don’t like hobos, or even most humans. But Bebo… and sometimes his friends… Why, squirrels can charm their way into your jar of nuts, chirp instructions into your ear, and even play pranks on a certain father of mine. And sometimes, in the blip of a second (Blipo was not named so on accident, dear reader), they’ll knock you out and build a mansion in a cardboard box (it’s smaller on the outside). I’ve already begun documenting the stories. I’ll have to post those sometime…

     Of course, for Blipo Bugshim, his secret squirrels did a lot more than make something dimensionally transcendental.

     I must say, for such a great amount of uncredited, altered history bothering me, the book and movie are both quite captivating. Also, I’m rather eager for Blipo to face Smug the Komodo Dragon and the Romancer by Neck (let me tell you, that guy had a five times five-star beard). Except I’ve read The Hobbit, and it’s highly out of context, probably to avoid the aforementioned legal issues. It’s had the hobo community in an uproar for decades. Many a young hobo has been led to believe they will one day, if they are immensely lucky, face a dragon, of all the ridiculous things. It reinforces hobo stereotypes, which is quite dreadful. On the plus side, I doubt Benedict Cumberbatch could play the parts of the true villains, so at least I will happily see him evil. Oh, Moriarty, what have you done… because I will love it!

     Besides the three-hour anticipation and letdown of not seeing John and Sherlock face off to possible death, there were some other downers. Besides the falsifying of the great Blipo’s life, there were some other false things, most distracting among them the pseudo feet and noses. Sometimes, I just stared and asked myself, Is that their real nose, or is it fake? Maybe it’s all real except that little bump right there… And that guy right there… It could totally be real, but it’s not exactly flattering, is it?

     I thought of those noses a good fourth of the movie.

     The feet… The feet! I know I shouldn’t be so envious—I have my five-star beard, after all—but is it possible to have the feet of hobbitses? Not the nasty, prosthetic parts that distracted me every time I saw them, but the wonderful, warm, furry coating. It would suit hobos, especially in the winter.

     Speaking of winter fur, hobos have a tradition of taking the No Shave November thing further than all of them. Ahem.

     “No shave November, don't shave December, jungle January, furry February, mustache March, ape April, matted May, just shave it June.” -Unknown 

     I am basically a pro at manliness.

     What with this hobo tradition, the dwarvish beard styles are somewhat inspirational, and when I’ve time and the right sort of beard has grown in the right sort of way, I will try most styles.

     Well, I’ve nothing left to say. How odd. Time to hit the books here at college… They could use a good beating.

            Joe

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

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