Of Murdering Dead Bodies

  Some things truly boggle the mind.  There are, of course, different levels of bogglement; for instance, the brutal murder of an innocent gummy bear is a very innocuous and easily discerned bogglement:  after all, the gummy bear is stupendously delicious, and one cannot really prevent oneself from finding it irresistible to the palate. Other things, however, fall into (or rise onto?) the very highest levels of bogglement.  The foggiest, most boggling and bewildering event which has ever befallen me, your humble servant (or would I be an informant?), was unquestionably the circumstance which precipitated me into my present condition of lifelong imprisonment. 

  "It is she!"  the butler shrieked as I quietly entered the drawing room in which my mother's half brother's youngest son's household was gathered.  I was rather taken aback by his hysterical mein--the poor man had left off his usual quiet butling and was standing dramatically in the center of the room with his clothes askew, his hair straggling limply past his ears, his face blanched, and a smashed teapot clutched in his left hand--but I am well-known for my ability to remain polite under the most adverse of circumstances.

  "Yes, James," I agreed pleasantly.  "It is I."

  This reassuring and eminently genteel speech apparently had the opposite effect than I had intended it to, for no sooner had I uttered it than James collapsed onto the expensive burgundy rug with a loud thump and a strangled squawk, and lay there unmoving during all that followed.  I turned in utter bewilderment to the assembled family of--for the sake of convenience, let us call him--my cousin, who had been sitting like a waxwork display of a socio-economically fortunate English family dressed in mourning captured in a moment of horror and consternation.  Since the entire lot of them looked rather gormless with--whatever emotion they were gormless with--and not one had made a move to help the stricken man, I chose to ignore them, and bustled forward and knelt beside James to ascertain the cause of his infirmity.  My motion broke the spell of immobility that lay upon the socio-economically fortunate waxworks exhibit, and they stirred with life.

  "Do not touch him, you fiend of Satan!"  This odd and rather offensive remark was made by my cousin, Sir Diggory Wallace Crimswaggle IV, and, although none could ever say that he was an intelligent man, he certainly had excellent manners and a very kind and social (and not terribly religious) heart, and we had always been on the best of terms; therefore, I was exceeding astonished that he should make such an aggressively antagonizing remark, and, perhaps, even more astonished that it would be addressed to me.  At first I believed that he had been addressing another.

   Next moment, however, Sir Diggory's wife, the Honourable Lady Blanche-Maria Rivershall Crimswaggle, removed all doubt that my own cousin, whom I loved like a simpleminded younger brother, had just called me a fiend of Satan.  Although Milady was just as simple as her husband, she had rather more imagination, due to spending all of her waking hours not devoted to pleasant social engagements and the arrangement of her elaborate toilette in reading lurid Gothic novels.

  "Indeed, Miss Dorice Perywinsel!"  Her voice was a soprano scream, edged with hysteria and a hint of vindictiveness.  "Have the pits of Hades grown dull to you?  Must you now come and steal away all of our loved ones?"  So saying, she theatrically turned on her youngest child, a very small lad of ten summers, and clasped him to her capacious bosom.

  An inkling of the truth began to dawn on me. "Why, Blanche-Maria," I began.

  "Lady Crimswaggle to you!" she howled over the blonde head of the child she was affectionately suffocating.  He kept making little mews of distress and struggling futilely to free himself, but she was too occupied with glaring at me ferociously to notice these signs of discomfort.

  I rolled my eyes.  "Well, then, Lady Crimswaggle, I am afraid that you are labouring under a misapprehension.  Your dear late father-in-law had already--ah--passed on when I arrived here last night.  In fact, he had, if you will recall, been dead for two days.  Therefore, this accusation on your part, that I am robbing you of your loved ones, is entirely misplaced."

  Milady stared enraged daggers at me, her pleasant, round face contorted, her cosmetics streaked with passionate tears, her double chins quivering.  Pushing away her squirming, red-faced child (little William flopped over and lay gratefully gasping on the divan), she struggled to extricate herself and her skirts from her seat, and, succeeding, rose and took a step toward me.  I rose as well, to take full advantage of the difference in our heights (I am nearly six feet tall, and Milady is only five foot four), as well as to mitigate the awkwardness of holding a discussion while kneeling beside the supine form of an unconscious butler.  We stood beside the fallen body of poor James, toe-to-toe, two middle-aged women dressed in jetty garments, like provincial performers playing before an audience of statues.  Gormless, breathing statues.

  Then, Milady threw down the cause of all my present mind-boggling grief, the accusation which led to such unbelievably senseless suffering.

  "Oh, you can't fool me with that glib tongue of yours.  You think that you are so much better than we, with your education and your sophisticated literary tastes.  Well, you haven't fooled us.  We have seen through your lies.  We know that you killed Papa after he was dead."

 

~Hugo

Of secrets....

Nobody should know this. Not even you. Then why do I tell you? You know the reason. You know that demise will surely follow all confessions I let fill your ears, and it is because of this, you do not attempt to escape. Ah, my secrets. So many of them, all a different shade of black or grey. I can see them now as they dance out of my mouth, filling the room with a kaleidolscope of tormented colors. I would close my eyes if I thought you would not try to escape, and just revel in this freedom. I find that I can breathe. I CAN breathe. It has been so long, but now...Without the burden of choking down my secrets, I find that air is once again my friend. I hate to do this to you. Through your restraintment, I have found independance. But you know. The privaledged information that fled my lips has entered your ears, and that cannot be undone. If only I could let you fly like a bird freed from its cage, and not have to worry that you would betray my confidence, I would set you free. But it is too late to even think of such things. How dare you force me to contemplate letting you jepordize all I have worked for? You have tricked me! With your quiet stillness, it had seemed that even my very heart that stopped beating for a moment. But now it beats again, pumping my hatred through my veins once more. Where are my plans? Dancing in the rays of sunlight that stream through the crack in the wall. Call them back! Return to me, oh my dark anticipations. Come, let us join forces once more. The war can begin again!

With a loud battle cry, the man picked up the gummy bear and bit its head off. It did not scream, struggle. How easy that was, thought the man, now no one will ever know my secrets.....

I really hate to sign my name here
bebo

The Butter Thief

    “It all started with butter,” she told the man. “I was very young when this all began. I was but two years of age. I was the first grandchild on my father’s side. As such, I was treated like a porcelain doll. I was a rather smart child, you know. I could see that what baby wanted, baby got, one way or the other. I was manipulative, even in the age of innocence. I pushed the limits further than most would even dream of doing! Oh, I was living life to perfection. But before I perfected my methods, my life, I had to realize I had it in me to do such rash, conniving things.
    “Butter was my favorite thing as a little girl. It was so creamy and scrumptious. I would eat it plain if I could. I would lick it off of my toast, or scrape it off of my potatoes. One day I had a delightful idea. I would just sneak into the dining room, and snatch the whole cube of butter of the table! It took me a few tries, but in the end, I was successful. Five or so minutes later, from a hiding spot in the living room, I heard some confusion coming from the dining room. My parents were flabbergasted.

Where did the butter go? Mommy dearest asked.

As if I would know. You know that I’m lactose intolerant! Father exclaimed.

Then there was silence. I knew they had figured it out. So, like any intelligent child would do, I crawled out of my secret spot, sat down on a miniature chair, wiped some of the butter around my face, and put on a giant smile.

Oh, how adorable! Mother cooed.

She’s definitely your daughter, Dad laughed.

“I repeated the incident at different establishments. No one suspected that I was capable of planning such a thing! No, see, I was the good, absolutely adorable, little girl. That was the trick. I didn’t look like a mastermind. No one knew of my devious  ways. I was about seven before my parents realized what I had been doing. That I had manipulated them throughout childhood. After that, they became a lot more intelligent about my games. I was watched closely, yet they never knew that they were wrapped around my finger. My every whim was their delight. Sadly, everything must come to an end. When I left for college, an ex boyfriend of mine informed my parents of my ways. We have rarely talked to each other since. And now, Mr. Holloway, I must inform you that you too have an end. Goodbye, Mr. Holloway,” she said.

“No, wait!” he cried out. “Plea-”

She pulled the trigger. “The end.”

Joe

Attempt the Second

    Guess who lost the blog post that he attempted to post on Thursday but failed dismally in so doing?  Yep!  That's right!  Your accuity, O Readers of this frivolous blog, is truly a wondrous thing.  Yes, I, Hugo of Horrible character, temperament, and manners, am the guilty party.  And guess what else?  Wow!  Right again!  You are absolutely correct: you will never know what that lost blog post said, because I have forgotten most of it.  Oh, I know, I  know, you don't have to tell me that I am simply the most talented and  skillful hobo blogger alive.  I've known it for years.
    On Thursday (NOT to change the subject or anything), the very day of the fateful Lost Post, my kitten, the Fiend, experienced her very first birthday.  I would say "celebrated her very first birthday," but that might be a bit of a stretch...  At any rate, she is now one year old.  We are all astonished!  That my little Evil One should actually live that long, despite her personality, friends, psychological irregularities, and rather deranged tendencies, is wonderful!  Amazing!  Extraordinary!  She doesn't seem to think so, however, and I must admit that her behavior has not altered in the slightest (although she DID lick my ankles the other evening when I was about to get out of bed, and that was odd, but it was not any odder than her usual oddity, so I don't think that it counts). 
    The other day (don't you think that my transitions are stunning?  I think that I deserve a reward of some sort, and perhaps an honorary title such as "The Great Hobo-Father of Remarkably Smooth Transitions" or "He Who Makes the Post Flow Well" or some such thing), I realized why I love being a hobo so much: it is very like being a hobbit.  Since I am fairly certain that the Dancing Dwarf is the only one of my Readers who has Read The Lord of the Rings, this will be over most of y'all's heads.  Unless you have Read The Hobbit.  At any rate, I have wanted to be a hobbit for a very long time.  The idea of living in a hobbit-hole, going barefoot all the time, and being about three feet tall just makes me grin with delight.  Who doesn't want to be a hobbit?  Even hobos could have fun as hobbits.  After all, three feet is just the most handy height.  It is definitely better than the caterpillar's three inches in Alice in Wonderland... 
    Speaking of Alice in Wonderland, I recently re-read it, as well as its companion, Through the Looking Glass.  I began at the beginning, and went on until I came to the end, but then I did not stop, because I was too busy laughing over the passage in Through the Looking Glass where the White King says, "I did not say that there is nothing better [than eating hay when one is faint].  I said that there is nothing like it." Wonderful!  They are the sort of stories that just get funnier the more often you read them.  And if, like me, you find that to be tear-jerkingly hilarious (some of you will get that later), you really ought to read The Hunting of the Snark:  "And he softly and silently vanished away, For the Snark was a Boojum, you see."  Ah, me.
    Anyway.  What was I saying?  Oh, well, it doesn't matter.  I have a paper to write for Economics.
~Hugo

Of Obese Bananas

Bananas are curious things, don't you think? I mean, they're yellow, they get spots, and they are interestingly shaped. Kind of like what I expect a kidney would look like. But skinnier. The kidney of an anorexic person, maybe. Plus its yellow. Did I mention that? Anyway. Bananas are kind of awesome. In my class, I have to research obesity. Somehow that made me think of bananas. Somehow. I don't know how. They have seemingly no connection. But they are yellow. And sometimes fat people are yellow. If they fall into a vat of yellow paint. Hmmmm....Um, here: Bananas are food, and fat people like food. Obviosously. This is mean. I feel like I'm insulting fat people. BUT I"M NOT!! Because I really, truly am jelous of fat people. I mean, I shake and shiver ALL WINTER LONG in my little carboard box, wrapped in my facebook and clutching my pork jerky. And my fat friend just sits comfortably in his box, calmly snoring, oblivious of the racket made by my chattering teeth. I mean, how on earth does a hobo get FAT? We don't get much food. We are always moving. We have to carry our house around on our backs. It takes some serious talent to become a fat hobo. I have an idea. Maybe bananas are jelous of fat people, too! I mean think of it. Bananas are skinny, and yellow, and shaped like a kidney. What if they want to be bigger, and non-yellow and shaped like an apple or a pear or something?? Those poor bananas. They just want to be round. Can you blame them?? I can't. Maybe I will start a new kind of bananas. Obese bananas. They shall be roundish and non-kidney shaped. Oh yes. I think I shall do this. They will be like a yellow orange. But mushy. I can start a grocery store too. That only serves round bananas. and I will call it: Bebo's Obese Bananas. I can see it now. can you? no? try harder. Cuz this will be HUGE. that was not a pun. No, this is gonna be good. This is gooooing to be great. this is going to be.....BEBO"S OBESE BANANAS!!!! (Coming soon to a street corner near you)

Duck!

    It is I! Joe! If it is of any consequence to you, Bebo has taken to answering the phone in an Australian accent. It appears to amuse him, although I just get confused. I keep thinking he is another family member, or I called the wrong house entirely! Well, there you have it.     If you’re not aware, I have rarely seen either of my hobo friends this quarter. It is quite different from seeing them almost every day. Before college, I was homeschooled. I saw my friends twice a week at most, usually. It was certainly nice to see them all the time. They rubbed off on me, perhaps too much in some (many) cases. Well, the point is that we had a hobo reunion on Saturday. Admittedly, we were taking a class, but that is of no matter. We were back together again! Nothing could stop us! I feel I was going somewhere with this... Like I had a story to tell or something...
    I must admit, I am addicted... to CRAISINS! I’ve always been a chocoholic and a cheesoholic. Now, I am something new. This new addiction baffles me. Not that you probably care, but I have always hated dried fruits.
    This is definitely the most important, interesting thing you will read from me. I am now the proud owner of... a...
DUCK.
    Yes, you read that right. My father was outside, doing manly things with his car, when he heard chirping. While it was raining. It had no family nearby. So, my family took it in. We nursed it back to health, and now it is temporarily in our residence, taking over my and my sister’s bathroom. How nice of it, don’t you think? It has grown in the past six days immensely. And now, my family is considering keeping Ducky. (We don’t know whether it is male or female, and won’t for a bit.) Might even get him a friend. Oh, Ducky...
    P.S. It has been a bit since I last wrote the above. Ducky is almost surely a girl. Apparently, females talk a LOT. Doesn’t that remind you of another creature? ;)

Joe

I AM the Sniffer!!!

  Yes, gentle readers, you read the title correctly (I would be very disappointed in you if you didn't; reading is, after all, what you do, and what you are known for, and what you have been named after, and so it would be quite pathetic if you could not do it correctly).  I am the Sniffer!  Have no fear, Bebo, I will go to Mexico and never come back; I do, however, ask that you pay me thirty dollars and put me through accelerated Spanish classes for the illiterate first (it simply would not do for me to turn up, in all of my sniffing, diseased, achy and feverish majesty in the Land of the Mexi-fries and not know how to pronounce vital words like burrito or enchilada).  And, yes, Bebo, since I know that you were wondering, I only became ill (making my poor, innocent hobo-mother ill in the process) and turned Sniffish in order to annoy you.  It was my sole intention.  Don't you feel loved?!?
  On a more serious note, I, Hugo, also known as various variations of Horrible (including, but not limited to, Horrific, Horrendous, Horrid, and Horrifying), am officially the stupidest person in my Logic class.  Yes, ladies and gentlehobos, it is the day that we were all eagerly anticipating!  It is only the smilingest of good fortunes that has allowed it to happen so soon.  I rather suspect that that particular brand of positive influence was assisted mightily by sleep deprivation, fever, stuffy nose, compulsive sneezing, aches and pains and a nagging headache, but it would be uncharitable and graceless to refrain from giving it the lion's share of the credit.  That particular brand of good fortune must have known that making a complete and perfectly irremediable fool of myself in my favorite class was the one thing that would bump this day up from mere perfection to the level of the sublime. 
  Wow.  What a digression!  Usually it is Joe who complains about his health (and then I complain about Joe, and Bebo complains about both of us, and I retaliate by complaining about Bebo, and it is just the perfect triangle of cardboard-box-dwellers' love). 
  In Economics the other day (Wednesday, to be precise.  Unless it was Friday.  Or was it Monday???), I was present at the birth of a salubrious new term:  Hoboism.  Yes!  So, now, I can say to Bebo when he annoys me, "Gee, Bebo, you're such a hoboist!"  And when my mother accuses me of living in a pigsty, I can excuse myself: "But, Mama, what do you expect from a hoboist?!"  Or, when I do not complete my homework, fail a test, or behave like an utter buffoon in front of a whole lecture hall full of half-awake college students at eight o' clock in the morning, I have a blanket explanation that works every time:  "Sorry, I was too busy practicing hoboism to study/sleep!!!"
  Ah, how convenient it is to be a hoboist and live in a cardboard box!
  ~Hugo