In a previous post I refereed to the existence of a Werehobo, a creature so fascinating I have devoted a portion of my time that would have otherwise gone to buying Harry Potter fan art on EBay, to tracking this intriguing creature. Although Wikipedia has seperate entries for Werewolves and Hobos, it has nothing for the elusive Werehobo (those misinformed, sexless bastards at Wikipedia will stop at nothing to exclude the wonderful Werehobo!).
So where does the WereHobo fit into the greater lexicon of urban myths and or legends? Is it like the Bigfoot, possibly real according to some hippie-loving, tree-fucking nut-jobs in the northwest, or more like the Fiji Mermaid, begun in the collective imagination as a beautiful siren of the deep, but soon revealed as the corpse of a monkey sewn to the corpse of a chipmunk sewn to the corpse of FDR. Maybe not so beautiful, but intriguing nonetheless.
Once thought to be merely the figment of the rambling imagination of Sloppy One-Eyed Joe, a Hobo from the Baltimore area who was once named King of the Hoboes by Hobos and Boxcar Monthlymagazine, Werehobos have actually been seen by several people, some of whom hear voices other than the ones in their heads. The documentation of these sightings is mixed at best, however. Most is written on toilet paper or, in one case, on the back flap of the hardback edition of Rich Little’s scathing autobiography, “I Am Me But Not Me: A Life In Hollywood Without Myself”.
I have seen photographic evidence of the WereHobo, although, frankly, it’s hard to tell the difference between an actual Hobo and a WereHobo. The WereHobo begins as a normal, employable member of society. Then, at the sight of the full moon, they transform into a full-fledged Hobo, running amok, shaking their fists and collecting tin cans, all of which is slightly dissapointing, I must confess, as I was expecting to see a cross between a hobo and werewolf. You know more like Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp character but with lots of hair and a prepensaty for going out on moonlit nights and biting people on the ass, then asking for directions to the nearest “Hooverville”.
So, yes it’s true, while I have never seen a Werehobo in person, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. It’s like the tree falling in the forest: does it make a sound? Or just because Bill O’Riley is usually sans a giant seething ass-face in public, doesn’t mean that at night, in the lonely confines of his fortified underground bunker that he peels away his fake face to reveal an ass-face whereupon he proceeds to lick his gaping maw/rectum over and over again, telling himself in the mirror to “Shut-up, shut-up, shut-up!”, while a Barry Goldwater speech from 1964 loops endlessly on his bunker’s wide-screen.
So it would seem that I am at a standstill in regards to “outing” an actual Werehobo. But I tell you this: I will not let the Werehobo slip into the not-so-loving embrace of footnoted hell! If something as asinine as the Chupacabra can be recognized by half-witted Cryptozoology community at large, then why not the Werehobo? While not at sexy as the Yeti, the Werehobo still has an allure; a somewhat stinky, conniving, thieving allure, but an allure non-the-less. Like Phyllis Diller, but with pants made from a potato sack and sans that wonderful, bourbon-soaked voice.
Stay-tuned for Part Two of this investigative feature, “Werehobo: Fact, Fiction or Potential Canasta Partner”, wherein I board a cruise ship for chain-smoking retirees, “The Floating Bypass”, in hopes of tracking a Werehobo that allegedlystowed away on the ship. Could this same Werehobo be behind the mysterious pool of urination always found on the shuffle board area just after the ship’s famous Morning Jog In Velvet Track Suits Around the Aloha Deck? Could he be the one stealing all of the cocktail shrimp from the all-you-can-eat buffet? Find out! Soon! Seriously!