Welcome To Paradise, chapter 1
In New York City around October of 2004, a guy just got fired from factory that makes those "Bush Cheney '04" signs because he made about 75 signs that said "Flush Dickhead Cheney down the drain :)". He was still proud of what he had done the week before, though. Since all of the people that worked there lived "on campus" at the factory, he got kicked out of his shitty apartment as well.
When he tried to move in with other people around the neighborhood, they kicked him out, which really pissed him off. He (and we all would) assumed that they wouldn't let him live with them because they lived inside plastic boxes that they painted with nail polish that they stole from the beauty salon. Talk about paradise, those houses looked like a two year old put one of those together. Oh my God, they were fucking awful. The average "house" that these hoboes lived in were about six feet tall. It's a damn good thing that a hobo has more than one box to put together, a stolen butter knife, stolen nail polish, and stolen masking tape.
He hitched a ride to the woods a couple of days later to collect wood. The woods were pretty dark, like a Harry Potter movie or something, but no unicorns to drink blood from. About ten minutes later, some hunter shot at him from behind or something.
"What the fuck is that?", said the guy. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit!"
"Oh, sorry," another voice said. "Ma bad. I dawn't see ya thare." The guy who said that looked like he was stoned or something, because he looked like shit. Or maybe he wanted to look like Michael Jackson with a completely different hairstyle and shittier clothes. But later, the hobo (well, he is now) realized that the redneck had malt liquor or something.
"Jesus Christ!" said the hobo again. "Watch where the fuck you're shooting, asshole! Maybe you should aim for Bush or something like that! Shit, dude."
"What ya be sayin' about ma/sis/wife?"
Wow, this guy's a psychopath, thought the hobo. He ran off to another part of the woods to collect wood where a redneck wouldn't find him. Nothing exciting happens in the woods other than the fact that he collects tree branches and other shit.
When he got back, he "set up camp" and didn't bother with twenty bottles of nail polish or the box meant to carry spray paint. Now, he was officially a hobo. We'll call him Hobo Joe.
When he tried to move in with other people around the neighborhood, they kicked him out, which really pissed him off. He (and we all would) assumed that they wouldn't let him live with them because they lived inside plastic boxes that they painted with nail polish that they stole from the beauty salon. Talk about paradise, those houses looked like a two year old put one of those together. Oh my God, they were fucking awful. The average "house" that these hoboes lived in were about six feet tall. It's a damn good thing that a hobo has more than one box to put together, a stolen butter knife, stolen nail polish, and stolen masking tape.
He hitched a ride to the woods a couple of days later to collect wood. The woods were pretty dark, like a Harry Potter movie or something, but no unicorns to drink blood from. About ten minutes later, some hunter shot at him from behind or something.
"What the fuck is that?", said the guy. "Oh, shit! Oh, shit!"
"Oh, sorry," another voice said. "Ma bad. I dawn't see ya thare." The guy who said that looked like he was stoned or something, because he looked like shit. Or maybe he wanted to look like Michael Jackson with a completely different hairstyle and shittier clothes. But later, the hobo (well, he is now) realized that the redneck had malt liquor or something.
"Jesus Christ!" said the hobo again. "Watch where the fuck you're shooting, asshole! Maybe you should aim for Bush or something like that! Shit, dude."
"What ya be sayin' about ma/sis/wife?"
Wow, this guy's a psychopath, thought the hobo. He ran off to another part of the woods to collect wood where a redneck wouldn't find him. Nothing exciting happens in the woods other than the fact that he collects tree branches and other shit.
When he got back, he "set up camp" and didn't bother with twenty bottles of nail polish or the box meant to carry spray paint. Now, he was officially a hobo. We'll call him Hobo Joe.
