M is for 'Murdering A Hobo'

When I was a small boy, I only put one item on my Christmas list. It was the one gift I knew would keep me entertained for months.

A hobo.

Don't get me wrong, reader. I know hobos aren't meant for entertainment. I know they're dangerous and smell like poopies, and are therefore not an appropriate playmate for a young boy. But I didn't want a hobo as a friend. I wanted a hobo so I could beat the living hell out of him.

Last week, things turned sour at The Newspaper^TM - which employs me. My time at work became so uncomfortable that I considered leaving. To plan for the future in case I have to leave, I started looking for alternatives to my newspaper job. My friend Tony was kind enough to tell me about a job with the railroad company, and another friend I showed the job description to pointed out one key part:

Conductors inspect train cars or other equipment before leaving the yard

Do you know what "inspect train cars" means, reader? That's right, it means roughing up hobos. I think I've found my dream job. Imagine the greatest thing in the world (murdering a hobo), and then imagine doing it while wearing a conductor's hat. And overalls. And a pocket watch to look at disapprovingly before yelling, "This train be hobo-free! All aboooooooard!"

Also, if my favorite stereotypes about conductors are true - and I'd like to think they are - then I would be allowed to grow a curly mustache. Perhaps even required to do so. Awesome.

Then, when I came home from work and the wife complained about hobo blood on my clothing, I could be like, "Damn it, woman! Those goddamn hobos ain't gonna bleed on their own!" Then I would shout at her and demand to know whether she would like to kill the hobos at the train yard tomorrow, and she'd be like, "I'm sorry honey! Don't make me kill the hobos!" And I'd be like, "You're lucky I enjoy beating the cattylumpus out of hobos, woman. Damn lucky!"

If I were the man who harasses hobos for the railroad company, I imagine it wouldn't be frowned upon if I were drunk on the job. It's a union perk, much like a 401k plan and dental insurance. Just imagine, reader! It's 8 am, and you're drunk as a skunk and stabbing a hobo in the heart with a switchblade! Then you slip a noose around the dead hobo's neck and string him up in a tree where the other hobos will see. Beware, hobos! Try to sleep in my train yard, and you'll end up like Stinky Bob, swinging in a tree with your pants around your ankles so everyone can see your junk.

If I get bored, I could save up a month's worth of dead hobos and fill an entire passenger train car with them. I could pose the corpses in humorous hobo-like activities that would normally be forbidden on the train, like playing cards or fighting over a sandwich that is covered in urine. The railroad company may not find it amusing, but what are they gonna do? Fire me? I'd be in the union, baby!

Even if the union requests that I stop murdering hobos, I could still beat the bejeezus out of them, and that's good enough for me. As Dean Martin used to sing, "Nothing could be finer than a hobo with a shiner in the morrrrrrrrrrning."