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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Running from the wild hobo, he knew he should never have skipped school; knew it the same way that he knew that kicking his boot out over the ice was a bad idea, and knew it just like he’d find out later when he finally made it home that he should take his time when it came to thinking up believable lies - too late.
Listen here, bub, I’m all for hobos and the hobo way of life, so call me a hobophobe just one more time, you and I will have to step outside… once the train stops, of course.
I have quite a bit of office work to catch up on today, or I’d for sure be down by the tracks, watching the hobo parade.
Steve Shemmeningster sold his smile for a pint of beer and was immediately renamed Lumphead Steve by the Upright Fivers, a small band of 3rd St. hobos who all claimed to have ascended, but as hobo luck would have it, only to sink back to earth a day or two later.
Patrick rolled over, smelled sour sweat on silk sheets and realized he’d sold his soul to the devil and his hobo days were over.
Searching for a new place to live, Henry felt as tired and stretched as the elastic on a pair of month-old hobo underwear.
It took a little adjusting, but now my son and I estimate the volume of every room based on the number of hobos we think could squeeze in; our new living room, for example, is approximately 42 Hobos with furniture, 166 Hobos without.
This morning, before the sun turned the corner, a bird perched itself on my tent, a few inches from my face and hearkened unto the others, “WAKE UP YOU SONS-A-BITCHES!!!! IT’S WORM-THIRTY IN THE MORNING!!!! LAST ONE OUT’S A ROTTEN EGG!!!!”
If you tell me the city I live in is boring, I might tell you about this afternoon’s crime spree, where a woman robbed a bank armed only with a Post It note while just across town, a naked hobo paraded through the aisles of a local grocery store.
“It’s a common mistake,” the duck assured me, “but sure as I’m standing here talking to you, all ducks are hobos by human definition, just without the bindle stick or any romantic notion that riding in cold, empty boxcars is fun.”
“It’s a common mistake,” the hobo assured me, “but sure as I’m standing here talking to you, there’s no way in hell all those ducks would make it south every winter if it weren’t for us hobos helping load them into the boxcars.”
“It’s a common mistake,” I assured myself, “to think that I have better things to do than think about hobos and ducks all day, but sure as I’m sitting here writing this, I know I don’t.”
Many of the hobos present claimed to have attained a sense of enlightenment, or at the very least, a kind of heightened awareness which, among many things, allowed them to bathe with an even greater infrequency than before, so naturally I took small, shallow breathes that day, hoping to save my nose the discomfort of this hygienic nirvana.
I’m contemplating a late life career move, something along the lines of drunk hobo, which should be profitable once people discover how well I can keep solicitors away from their front door if they hire me to sit there.
There are no problems that can’t be solved with hobo logic.
In an entirely possible alternate reality, Mary and Louis Leakey sat around their campfire eating beans, discussing how Hobo habilis’ disproportionately long arms would have given him an obvious advantage when it came to hopping a moving boxcar.
Some online hobo courses were either built by Keith or, at the very least, for Keith. [link removed]
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