Hoboes Play Oboes

You know, if I was a hobo, I’d be a cool hobo. I wouldn’t just be Hobo Joe, I’d be Hobo Joe Millionaire. I’d find someplace to put some bling bling. I’d shine up some bottle caps or make a necklace out of Coke can tabs; you know, just something to make sure all the other hoboes know I mean business. Plus I’d make sure all the dirt on my old, beaten-up top-hat would be scraped off everyday with my fingerless gloves. And every once in a while, I’d take my red handkerchief, which normally resides hanging on a stick over my shoulder, and wear it under the top-hat just in case I need to look a little more “gangsta.” Also, I’d take that stick, and fashion a point in the end. It would serve nicely as both a can-picker-upper and a defensive tool in case I ever was to be in a hobo riot. Just because I’m a hobo doesn’t mean I can’t go Bruce Lee on somebody. For shelter I’d use the car cover I stole off some black Thunderbird at some campus over Thanksgiving and put it over the top of my pimped out shopping cart. It’d have gold rims and fuzzy dice hanging from the baby seat. And finally, I’d have to play some sort of instrument so all the lady-hoboes would find me “sexy” and “down to earth.” I think I’d play the oboe, not only because it’s compact, but also because I could be the “Oboe Playin’ Hobo.” Then, after a while, some TV station would hear of me, and I’d be on TV. However, once I got rich and famous from my oboe playing escapades, I wouldn’t forget my roots. I’d do one of those specials where the old white journalist takes me back to my “mean streets” to show everyone at home how far I’d come. I’d point to a dumpster or something and tell everyone how I had to stab a rival hobo with my handkerchief stick over a box of Spongebob Squarepants Macaroni and Cheese, and then tell a heartwarming anecdote about how after I had stabbed him, I gave him some Mac and Cheese anyway to show that I had respect for the other hoboes. But anyway, that’s if I was a hobo.