Of Soup and Sniffers

Today I felt like I was drowining in a river of soup. I say soup because it seems to me that it should be extremly difficult to swim in soup, and you keep getting hit with chunks of things. Like meat. And corn. Sometimes carrots....
Just imagine that I, a pitiful, old hobo, am drowning in a river of homework, and it keeps sweeping over my head and I can't keep up. And then--BAM!! A test, a hard essay, and group project hits me like a chunk of salmon, and now, i'm not just drowning on the soup, i am suffering a consussion from the chunk. PLUS I am having issues with my beard. It keeps molting. Yes, like a chicken. Or the exoskeleton of a spider (thank you very much bio 160). So, don't tell Joe or Hugo, but i have been wearing beard extensions to keep up my five star image. Just imagine what it could do to my reputation if anyone found out that I, a prominant figure in the Hobo Community of Cardboard Boxes, have a patchy beard? It just wouldn't do.....
Today, I sat next to a sniffer. You know the kind. He just sorta sits there and then:
Sniff.
 Ignore it Bebo, just ignore it.
Sniff.
Roll of the eyes, grits teeth.
Sniff, sniff.
Fist clenches. Hobo ninja mode comes into effect and I am ready to slay the sniffer with one slice of my pudgy hobo hand.
Silence.
There. See, he is quiet now. You were just overreacting. You do that sometimes.
Sniff, sniff. Wipe.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

See? isn't that horrible? PLUS I was in the middle of a mid-midterm test and He sat RIGHT next to me! I could have puked. Or hurt him. Or given him ten bucks to flee to mexico and never come back. Wait. 20 bucks. He probably needs a passport.....

JoeWatch

   Here I am, on Write or Die, trying not to die. I hope this works, dear readers, and if it does NOT work, then I deeply apologize (what does than even MEAN?), and you can ignore my ramblings, for that is what I believe this will become.

     To start things off, let me brief you about my script. Ahem. (Shuffles, straighten, and holds papers.) Hello. Today, on JoeWatch, we have some interesting stories, comments, and other such things to cover. Bringing this to you live, I'm Joe of the three desperadoes, and THIS- (insert dramatic pause here) - is JoeWatch.

     Joe sat on his stump, his sad excuse for a bed, with his horrid rock pillows surrounding him, and said to himself on a late March day:

Joe, what will you do?

Script Frenzy starts soon.

You have no ideas.

You have no stuff.

You have no creative thoughts.

You have no much-

iness.

But I digress.

What will we write?

For you know I am you.

But I won't bite.

Oh, we shall surely lose!

Then it struck.

Life no longer sucked.

I knew what to write.

If only the time was right!

Because in Screnzy,

In order not to lose,

One must write in April,

Or suffer a guilty conscious...oo!

     That, dear readers, was what happened. But don't worry your little heads. I have been writing and writing and writing! (I really want to turn into a certain Seussian person right now... It's hard to come up with rhymes without any time to spare!) Now, though, I am rather behind in my script. I should have about 30 or more pages... I have 15. Alas! School has taken over my life! If only Bebo and Hugo could nod in agreement, but... Alas! (Again. I'm feeling rather dramatic and British with multiple personality disorder...) I have not seen my Hobo friends in almost a month! I miss them dearly. I hope they miss me...

     Now, time to move on to a different subject. My hobo friends. Because I am now driving myself, I have not seen them, and they tend to be too busy or lazy (LAZY!) to respond to my emails. Hugo, in particular, has somehow managed to scarcely get a word on language to me! Bebo and I have remedied our situation by joining SHE. It stands for the Secret Hobo Exchange. As Bebo said, you really shouldn't know about it. Really. Which is why all of this is COMPLETELY OFF THE RECORD. So keep quiet! Because I have never said that Bebo and I are spies for SHE. NEVER.

     And I have almost reached my word count! Do you want to know something? I love cats. And I think I'm allergic. They will be the death of me! (Possibly literally. Time will tell...)  And I would love to tell you guys to (if you feel like it), try out Write or Die. It's kinda awesome. But it's making me nervous since my computer is known to fail... Which is why it is imperative I transfer this to a document once I am done! Which I am. Done. Ha. Ha hee ha ha HAH! (http://writeordie.com/)

     Thank you for watching JoeWatch. This is Joe the Hobo, signing off!

Hmpf

  Bleagh.  Life.  Who on God's green earth really likes it?  I think that, if we were not possessed of a stupid and illogical fear of death, our little human species would have died out many millenia ago, because our sapient ancestors must, surely, have been aware of how much life sucks, and they would have wasted not a moment in ending it.  Therefore, those of us who are their posterity would never have suffered the intolerable burden of being forced to experience life, even for a short time.  It was awfully sadistic (not to mention self-destructive) of them not to commit suicide and protect us from being born...
Yes.  As my reader has undoubtedly noticed, I am extremely grumpy and tired.  I am off to the most boringest class upon the face of this quarter in approximately six minutes.  The teacher, I kid you not, puts up a Power Point of selected little bits from the indifferently executed textbook and then reads off of it.  Yes, dear friends, he commits the Cardinal Sin of Power Points!  He just sits there and reeeeeaaaaads!!!!!  Ah!!!  Monotonously!  Without expansion, enlivenment, or even necessary explanation!  Oh, he explains the things that I already understand, and expands on the things that are already so expanded that if they were human they would need, as one dude in the Bible did, an iron bedstead of astronomical proportions.  Gah!  Death By Slideshow!  If only it would kill me, then I wouldn't have to spend four-and-a-half hours per week enduring it...
I have to go.

~Hugo the HOOOOORRRRRRIIIIIIIBLE!

Of late nights and tired hobos....

Oh. Oh, oh. I am in a weird mood. PLUS i now enjoy staring at the two "Oh"s i just made and marveling at them. I don't know what about them makes them so attractive but it surely must be something. Well, dear readers, in case you were not aware, and i certainly hope you were not aware, Me and Joe are now spies. Yes, spies. for the SHE. Yes, that doesn't sound feminist at all... But it stands for something! It really does, and not something stupid like Federal Burou of Investigations. Pshhh. No Flair. No, oh readers, the SHE stands for something that evokes fear, mystery and something else into the hearts of all who hear it. Or read it. Or see it or feel it. Because, YES, it can be felt. It stands for the Secret Hobo Exchange. Do you like it?? I can't tell you what it is or that we are involved with it. But I already told you that. But as a true hobo, I am too lazy to hit the delete key. OR THE BACKSPACE BUTTON! i knew what you were thinking.....


Bebo the Hobo

BOOM!

To the Dancing Dwarf

Dancing on the wharf

I hope you do not morph

Before I say

To the Dancing Dwarf

Dancing on the wharf

Somethingthatrymeswithmorph

Oh, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

            (By the way, I wrote this ON your birthday. Truly.) Ahem.  I must compose myself now. Alrighty! Time to move on to other topics, like odd phone conversations! This is what I hear from my dad (He was talking to either my mother or sister. I’m not sure.):

                        “Oh... What? ... Is that legal? ... Okay... Taking the boat out? ...”

            Oh, odd conversations… Speaking of, Bebo, Hugo, and I made a library, and passersby as we walked around outside, somewhat uncomfortable today, I am sure. My awkward deed of the day has been accomplished!

            Wow! I should have finished this post! I wrote the previous words a few days ago… It is now finals week at college. I only had one final, but my horrid teachers chose to have the normal, plain old tests during that time. Excepting one class, which was finished last week.

            Oh, finals week, bow terrible you are! I told my dear mother (who was kind enough to drive me at the rude hour of 7:30am) that you could feel the dread and despair among the dead students.

            I am not inspired to write of, well, anything.  Therefore, I shall hereby include emails from Bebo and Hugo. I shall open with a response I got from Mr. Horrible:

            “Thanks, though, anyway, (I wonder how many commas I can put in one three-word phrase) for your offer of aid to a beleaguered damsel.  It was most gracious of you.  As you can tell, I am oober tired and not thinking very clearly, so if you are inclined to find this missive unintelligible, then we are merely in the same boat.  I shall refrain from reading it over again before sending it, lest I become dizzy and fall out of my chair, and get my face licked by a certain puppy who is lying nearby on the floor, upside-down and with one ear inside-out, which would be bad because aforementioned face is caked and plastered with that vile substance that men call makeup, and it would undoubtedly cause him to become dangerously ill if he licked it in great quantities, which he would do if the possessor of the much-bemakeuped face were to fall on the floor due to a spell of dizziness brought on by reading her own writing. 

You see?

Good job!  I apologize for the contents of this email; I don't even know what all I said...”

            What a poor, tired hobo… Now a few words from our eldest, Mr. Hobo!

            “Today I realized that I am subconsciously thinking about something without really thinking about it. Then, when I realized that I WAS actually thinking something, it disappeared. I now think that something evil is lurking in my head and using my brain for their own thinking purposes. I'm pretty scared.”

            “Today, I realized that I will miss you tomorrow because you dilute the Hugo-ness that fills my car. I also realized that if my friend cuts her bangs and my sister curls her hair to poodle-esque-ness, i will look straight at them, not recognize them and walk right by. This is a scary world we live in....k bye!”

            Now, good readers, I shall include a horrendous story. I was lying on my bed, probably procrastinating by watching something on my laptop, when there was a loud, explosion sound! At the same time, my bed shook. Of course, I jumped up and ran to the front of my house, where my family resided. I asked my sister what happened, and she simply told me, “Dad started the fire.” Of course, that was nothing new. Every now and then, we accumulate enough burnable material that would normally overflow our garbage can, and it gets burned outside, in the burn pit. So, I went outside to my mother, who was standing on the porch. I asked her. She told me the very same thing.

            It turned out that my father put some oil on the things in the pit, and then lit it, which caused the boom and shaking of the entire house. Oh, Father…

            Joe

On the Morn of a Certain Memorable Day

  Today is a momentous day, a beautific day, a day to go down in the annals of history as the most crucial day this week. 
  It is the Dancing Dwarf''s birthday.
  Happy Birthday, Dancing Dwarf!  All three of us illiterate, scruffy, 5-star-bearded hobos (although Bebo only has a four-star beard and the best Joe can do is some 5-million-year shadow) love you!  We wish you joy and overeating on this torrentially rainy and happy day!  We know that you do not care for the rain, so perhaps you would relish an indoor celebration rather than our original plan of stranding you on a rock in the middle of a scummy pond to commemorate the occasion of your seventeen years' anniversary of living, but no matter what you do, enjoy! 
  I, who remember the occasions of your thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth birthdays, have chosen to be the Three Desperados' official spokeshobo on this grand tenth day in March.  We pray that the coming year may bring you wisdom, and understanding, and a revival from all of your wicked ways, as well as, of course, much dancing and the reading of frivolous blogs written by grimy homeless people who have nothing better to do than go to college and write frivolous blogs.  As a person that I know likes to say (he has the most amazing accent), "May your tribe increase.  In a good way.  After you're married."  And, Dancing Dwarf, you know that if you get married before you are twenty-one I will personally hunt you down and throttle you, so may your tribe delay its increase for at least another eight years or so...
  Oh, what a fun thought!  My fellow hobos, in eight or ten or twelve years or so, there will begin to be a whole bunch of little Dancing Dwarves running around!  Dancing Dwarf, you must make us godfathers.  We will give your little Dancing Dwarf children lessons in hoboing and howling at the moon and running through the middle of college campuses screaming and stealing change out of vending machines.  It is an education that they simply cannot afford to miss!
  Well, my lovely friend, known most commonly as a Dwarf who Dances, happy birthday.  Have many more.  The Three Desperados do not much want to attend your funeral, so take care to outlive all of us. 
  Good luck being seventeen! 
  ~Hugo the Horrible

Of facial hair and the discussion of it....

Today, I realized that I have been subconciously counting the number of people with beards that I see on campus. Then, I rate them. A beard with a one star rating would be something only slightly more than a five o'clock shadow (or the 5 million year shadow, as Hugo like to refer to it as...). This beard is simply AWFUL. especially in Washington. I doubt that this beard would add any extra warmth to the face of its maker, and it looks pathetic.
     A two star beard would be a beard that it longer than that of the first. Perhaps a lopsided goatee is sprouting from the chin or perhaps the grower of said beard has allowed for it to grow to the size of two inches!
     The growers of three star beards should crawl under a rock. Seriosly. They look ridiculous.  The beard has not been allowed to reach maximun growth, ( or even half of maximmun growth for that matter...) and it just looks sloppy. Most of the time it is trimmed. Ick. I detest the faces of the owners of three star beards.


     The next beard: The wanna-be beard. This beard is a knock off of the five star except of several major components. Most of the time, growers of these beards keep the hair combed and free of food particles that may happen to land upon it. Owners of the four star beards enjoy stroking their knockoff facial hair thoughfully whilst trying to evoke a mature appearance. They fail. Fail. FAIL!! THEY FAIL AT MATURENESS. THEY FAIL AT STROKING. AND MOST OF ALLL, THEY FAIL AT BEARD GROWING!!! BAH Humbug.
(After twenty minutes of ranting and screaming at everyone in the compiuter lab about the subject of facial hair, Bebo was kicked off of his digital device and forced to seek free internet elsewhere...)


I am back. And just in time to describe to you the illusive, amazing, awesome, handy, useful, benefitial, warmth bringing, FIVE STAR BEARD. Yes, ladies and gents, this here is the real deal. ok, the five star beard would be a perfectly shaggy beard with a misheveled appearance. The length would be no less than 8 inchess, and it would contain knots and tangles. These knots and tangles come in handy for holding the food that inevitably falls into said beard whilst its grower is partaking in food. This beard keeps one warm in the winter, but it is not long enough to catch on fire when its owner is huddling around a warm of fire in the street late at night. This beard provides safe storage for food, warmth in the chilly nights, and fire-safe effectiveness. Clearly, this beard is the most beneficial of all and should be the envy of everyone who owns a beard of a lesser star.
NOw, this hobo must ajourn to eat some of the hobo soup that fell into his five star beard last night. Yeah thats right, it even holds soup......
Bebo