Ahhhh my head, yes I know, it`s quite disturbing, but there`s no harm in letting it bounce around every now and then. And now for my story... I was born and raised in a nunery in Scotland. The scottish vocal ensemble of catholic school girls were all I had to keep me company as a child. Everyday the nuns forced me to clean the occupied showers and locker rooms of these singing school girls, this cruel punishment was more than I could stand, but I managed to pull through. I left the nunery when I had come of age, and toured the countryside of scotland with my catholic school girl ensemble. After a while I started dressing as one of them, because many members of the audience said I looked out of place with all the clothes I had on. One day while traveling, we met a man who was raucously ranting that he was William Wallace, the great savior of Scotland. He charged us down waving his "great sword" through the air. The truth was this man was a loony old hobo with a dead (and stiff) possum that he was using as his sword. He was after our food of course, I mean, what else is there that a hobo could want? We beat him with pinecones and various graphing calculators, but he put up a good fight. After several milliseconds of fierce combat the brave warrior went down. After witnessing such glory and wonder, I gave up my dull and meager position of leading a troupe of catholic school girls around to various inns, and took up the hobo profession. From that day I have begged, scrounged, and layed around in almost every country in the world. As people kick and curse me on the street, I really feel like I`m worth something, and everyday I have a sense of accomplishment, for I know...that I am in fact a Hobo!
