If we really are on the brink of another great depression I figure we have to be prepared for the inevitable: Hobos.
Oh sure, you think it's all romantic open rails and harmonicas by the campfire, but let me assure you from absolutely no personal experience, that we're in for it.
I don't know about you, but I am simply unwilling to learn hobo signs. I have enough going on in my world. If I'm about to cancel my New Yorker subscription because I don't have the time to read it, I certainly don't have the time to devote to those crazy pictograms that describe a generous home or a dishonest man.
Point of order, can we go back to calling them hobos?
Further investigation of my life reveals that I have no wood piles that need replenishing, no horses that need shoeing, and certainly no barns that need painting. I do have a very sad oven vent that is hanging by one side only since the screw fell out last week. I hardly think that I need a hobo to do that odd job. I may just leave the vent alone; it gives the kitchen a jaunty edge.
Frankly, I'm not even sure if there are romantic open rails anymore. The state of rail transport in this country is downright deplorable: if I wanted to take the train to Florida I'd need to change trains in Chicago. That makes me even more distrustful of hobos and their ability to travel on a whim--playing fast and loose with destinations like they have all the time in the world. Know what I'd like? A trip to Costco via Acapulco.
This whole thing has me more than a little upset.
Please, help me out, what are you doing to prepare for the return of the hobo?