Wordsmoker

Look at this fucking hobo. I mean – come on. Fucking hobo. He’s lucky I’m calling him a fucking hobo and not a bum, cos that’s the image he’s giving off with this look. See – I can’t call him “Bum Joe” because Joe isn’t technically a bum. A “bum” in American parlance is someone without a job, or a place to stay, or any family to care for him. “Bums” are tramps, not gypsies, nor are they thieves. I can’t actually call Joe here a “bum” because Joe has an actual job. Quite a good job, if I’m being honest. He sits in an office like fucking Pigpen, writing stuff for quite a prestigious magazine for quite a prestigious organisation in Pittsburgh, USA. You’ve probably heard of it. I won’t mention where he actually works because I don’t want the shame of this prestigious organisation to grow any further. How they must fucking weep when they see him walking through the door. They probably throw loose change at him until they recognise that he actually works there. Fucking hobo. Anyway. I think we can all agree at what you see in this image is a fucking, dirty hobo who hasn’t seen a barber or a safety razor since Clinton got his dick sucked. But you want to hear the kicker? What will really astound you? Somehow. Some-fucking-how this fucking hobo managed to hook up with a good woman. One of the best, I hear. Not only “hook up”, but – Dear Reader – she married him. I know. Right? No – before you ask – she hasn’t lost her mind. She isn’t blind. She still has the sense of touch. And no, she isn’t a hobo herself. She’s a beautiful, smart woman with a job and a kind heart with a great sense of humour. Are you scratching your head in wonder right now? Just like Hobo Joe does when the flies get too much around his unkempt fucking hobo beard? Well prepare to not only scratch your head in wonder, but to tear out your fucking non-hobo hair with your bare, clean hands.

Hobo Joe and this Good Woman are going to have a baby.

I know.

I’m giving you a minute to put the tufts of hair you just pulled out of your own head in fucking AMAZEMENT on your desk.

Okay? Let’s continue.

I actually know Hobo Joe. I think he’s a good man. And I’m glad he’s somehow fucking managed (using Dark Hobo Arts or something) to snare a good woman. I don’t worry about their happiness together.

It’s the kid I worry about.

See. I don’t want Hobo Joe’s Good Woman to give birth to a little Hobo Baby. Obviously Hobo Joe’s DNA are mixed in there somewhere (picture his double helix strands as having little straggly, unkempt beards, because I do). I honestly don’t want some little Hobo kid wandering around Pittsburgh looking like something that was raised by wolves. Unkempt, shaggy wolves at that. Can you imagine Little Hobo Baby Joe trying to play with other kids? Yep. I just shuddered too. Little Hobo Baby Joe will look like something semi-human that hisses at fire. Or howls for milk at mealtimes.

Fucking hell, I’m scaring myself.

Imagine that kid from The Munsters, only dragged through multiple hedges backwards and you’ve got the picture. Hobo Joe and his Good Woman will be lucky that little Hobo Baby Joe won’t get dragged away by Pittsburgh’s Child Protective Services almost immediately after the birth. Little Hobo Baby Joe must be on some kind of watchlist there already, I’m betting.

I don’t even want to think how itchy the whole birthing process could be for this Good Woman. Urgh. That little baby beard. That shock of unkempt baby hobo hair, scratching through the birth canal. Fuck the “Wonder Of Childbirth” people – this could be like “The Omen”. It won’t be the Child Of Satan that gets delivered this time, but something much more frightening. Something like “The Howling”.

A little, mewling hairy hobo baby. Coming into this world, looking at his mother’s beautific face beaming with pride while something that looks like a sofa that’s been left out in the rain for three years (Hobo Joe) looks down with something akin to hobo-pride and love. Can you picture this too? I’m guessing the delivery staff will start throwing loose change at this newborn hobo baby almost automatically. After which I truly hope is a successful and not too itchy/painful delivery they’ll congregate in whatever room doctors congregate in and say shit like “FUCK ME DID YOU SEE THAT HOBO BABY ON 12TH?” “FUCKING THING CAME OUT LOOKING LIKE A ONE-DAY-OLD HOBO” “I HAD TO THROW LOOSE CHANGE, I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF” “GOD HELP THAT MOTHER, AND I HOPE THE ITCHING SUBSIDES SOON” “I SWEAR THAT FUCKING THING HOWLED AT THE MOON CONSTANTLY UNTIL IT WAS GIVEN A TIT TO SHUT IT UP” “AM I RIGHT? DID IT HAVE LITTLE CLAWS TOO?”

That sort of thing. It will be said. By professionals.

Poor little hobo baby.

Hobo Joe and his Good Woman’s baby will be lucky not to appear on the cover of National Geographic. With big bold type next to his little hobo baby face.

So. Obvious worry aside, I’ve decided to do something. Because I’m in Scotland and don’t have any money, or indeed a tranquillising gun to take down Hobo Joe so we get him to a barbers unconscious, my best form of attack seems to be shame itself. I’m going to shame Hobo Joe into getting his fucking hobo beard shaved right off. No fucking hair left on his hobo chin. I want his hair cut, short back and sides, with no unruly mess left on top, fuck you, Hobo Joe. I know how you roll. And I want him to keep it up. No slacking, you hobo fuck. Regular haircuts and shaves. How do I do this from 3000 miles away? How do I shame him into action.

BY THE POWER OF SHOPPING.

That’s right. THE POWER OF SHOPPING. I’ve launched a huge range of Hobo Joe merchandise on Cafepress. This huge range of merchandise on Cafepress uses the exact same image as you see above. An image of Hobo Joe. With the words “Hobo Joe” beneath his fucking hobo face. The fucking hobo. And the best thing? If you buy some Hobo Joe merch, all the profits go to charity. MY FUCKING CHARITY. Because I’m taking time out from MY FUCKING GOOD DEEDS here to write this hobo-intervention post. Why shouldn’t my Very Good Cause benefit both a fucking hobo and the disadvantaged?

I won’t be happy until Hobo Joe looks like something from the Aryan Nations. Like, a poster boy for them.

Yes. Tomorrow belongs to Hobo Joe’s barber.

Yep. Buy as much Hobo Joe merch as you can. Send it to him and his Good Woman. Shame that fucking hobo into cleaning up his manface. Jesus Fucking Christ look at him. Fucking hobo.

So. Buy some merch. Send it to him, the fucking hobo, shame his hoboface into doing something about his hoboness and maybe, hopefully the little hobo baby about to come into this world won’t scream with fear at his visage. Technically – the more merch you buy, the better chance this kid has at succeeding in life. Buy everything in the store. Send it to his home. And yes, he actually has a home. Even though I think he sleeps outside next to a dumpster. Fucking hobo.

In summary – buy some merch (all of it). Send it to him. Stop what is literally and figuratively child abuse (subsection – personal appearance).

Do it for that poor little hobo baby. May he or she live to see the world through not unkempt, wild hair. But through a nice side parting. Or pigtails.

Thank you.