HoboStories

A chronicle of hobo stories, drunk adventures, and hilarious travel


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In the Beginning: Born & Raised to Fuck the Man

We were born to scream, “fuck the man!” Call it teenage angst, call it rebellion, call it whatever you want. We were three young bucks on the cusp of turning twenty, and we had no idea how we were going to make our mark on this world. All we knew was that we were going to, and we weren’t doing it anyone else’s way.

Hobos trained by high-school?

As much as high school sucked, it did one thing pretty well. It lent us a false sense of security. After graduating, we were left to our own devices.

  • School doesn’t teach you how to love, or how to have fun.
  • It doesn’t teach us how to enjoy being a cog in the corporate machine that it inevitably dumps you in.
  • It just teaches you how to neatly click in with all the other cogs, how to keep yourself lubed up so you can keep bein’ cranked by the Man so his Machine can cough out more quarters.
  • (Quarters that you have to pick up, polish, and send right back to him. To pay for the opportunity to clean his quarters.)
fuck the man

We hadn’t quite screamed “fuck the man,” yet. Moreso mumbled it at our families.

So yeah, I guess rebellion would have been a good word. Fuck the man.

Anyhoo, in short, we realized that we didn’t need to pay for a roof in summer. C’est la vie, we can sleep outside. Who needs clean laundry? The dirt brings us closer to the planet… blah blah, all that jazz. We don’t need an address, the world’s our home…

I still hang onto that thought, though. Home’s where you hang your hat, right? Well, I can hang my hat anywhere I damn well please – on a streetlamp, under a bridge, on that birch tree in your backyard where I slept last night (sorry.) Such topics were the gist of our conversations as we prepared ourselves for the journey ahead.

Preparing Launch… 3, 2, 1, Fuck the Man!

We readied to lift ourselves from the chains of materialism and rendezvous with the roots of mother Earth. In less colourful language, we emptied our bank accounts, quit our jobs, and left our houses. (See? The metaphor sounds way cooler.)

Quitting our jobs was the easiest. We just stopped showing up. I told my boss some thugs took an interest in me and my family, so I was leaving the province. It wasn’t a complete lie. Fernweh and Scrib weren’t quite thugs. At least, not all the time. Anyway, she didn’t ask any questions and handed me my last paycheck.

We rewrote our senses of responsibility and crossed out each note and date in our societal calendars. Once we’d gathered our last paychecks, we experienced the pinnacle of financial… stupidity? I don’t quite know what to call it. It wasn’t quite stupidity, but it was something. Maybe it was a sudden philanthropic need to support local businesses.

Whatever it was, we blew $2,500 between the four of us on drugs, alcohol, and debauchery. The leases on our rooms weren’t over for 18 days, and we planned to milk those 18 days for everything they had.

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