Hobo Harry’s Dumpster Divinations – April 17, 2025
“Truth don’t always come from books, kid. Sometimes it rises up outta a half-burnt corn dog.”
Woke up tangled in a net of wet newspapers again. Night wind must’ve dragged ‘em in. Felt like bein’ wrapped in the Sunday edition of despair. Ain’t the first time, won’t be the last.
Before I could get my bearings, the air turned cold—real cold. The kind that creeps into your bones like guilt after stealin’ a sandwich from a nun. I sat up just in time to see ‘em shimmerin’ in the shadows—the Spectral Vampire Hobos of Boxcar Ridge.
Them slick, slurpin’ souls with coat buttons made of forgotten sins. They float just off the ground and smell like expired sardines and bad decisions. One tried to suck the essence right outta my bindle! I ain’t lettin’ no ectoplasmic bloodsucker drain the soul stew I’ve been curatin’ since 1987!
I pulled out the Sacred Bean Can of Warding, swirled it clockwise thrice, and chanted the Old Words:
“No stake, no garlic, just a mighty can—
Back, ye fiends, by rusty hand!”
Boom. Flash of light. Smelled like burnt ravioli. They vanished into the fog like unpaid parking tickets.
After the battle, I sat by my trash fire. Stoked it with an old IKEA manual and a cursed sock I found near the Arby’s. That’s when I did my Trash Fire Meditation. Stared into the flames, watched the world melt into visions.
The flames whispered truths today.
Told me Geminis would find old love letters in forgotten fanny packs.
Leos were warned of pigeons plotting rebellion.
Pisces? Y’all need to stop crying into diner soup. It’s messin’ with the broth ratio.
Did some Can Scryin’ after that. Beans don’t lie. They showed me a man with one shoe and a dream. Could be a message, could be gas.
Anyway, I spent the afternoon patchin’ my coat with chewed gum and hope. Gave a tarot reading to a rat named Carl. He pulled the Tower and just nodded. Brave lil’ guy.
Dinner was a feast: half a pretzel, three Tic Tacs, and what I think was a fried pickle. Life’s good, if you squint right.
Now the sun’s goin’ down. I hear the wind hummin’ in hobo tongue. Gonna crawl under my tarpaulin of destiny and dream deep dreams of canned miracles.
Until tomorrow, keep your fire warm and your beans blessed.
— Hobo Harry, Mystic of the Tracks 🔥🥫✨
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