My Life as a Belching Baboon with Bad Breath

by Bill Myers

  Well...maybe not so secret. It’s hard to be secret when you’re the proud owner of:

  ——17,524 different types of swimming pools (stacked end on end, which makes for some tricky swimming).

  ——10,332 supercool cars (even trickier ’cause he’s only got a one-car garage).

  ——And let’s not forget all those football stadiums.

  Nobody’s sure what made Material Man so materialistic....

  Some think it was because when he was a baby his mother left him in front of the Buy-All-the-Junk-We’re-Selling channel for seventy-two hours nonstop.

  Others blame his father for replacing his entire set of Uno cards with MasterCharge cards.

  Then there’s the ever-popular theory that his brain was miswired so that he thought all news reports were commercials and all commercials were news reports. (Poor guy, he could never figure out why folks would want to buy earthquakes, hurricanes, or traffic jams. But at the same time, he obeyed all the commercials that screamed: “You gotta have this!” “You gotta buy these!” “You’ll never be happy without that!”)

  Whatever his reason, the materialistic maniac has piled up more stuff than Mom buys when she goes to a Saturday morning garage sale. (Well, almost.) And now, our heroically handsome hero searches the hideous hideout for him.

  Suddenly, the entire left coast

  K-REEEAK...

  tilts down several more feet. Our hero cries:

  “Material Man!

  Stop destroying our land!

  Your greedy plan

  Has gotten out of ha——”

  “No need to shout,” Material Man says, chuckling from behind him. “Unless it’s in excitement over all this cool stuff I’ve collected for you.”

  Our hero spins around and gasps. All around Material Man, on every side, are stacks and stacks of

  Ta-da-DAAAA...

  books.

  But not just any books. No, dear reader, these are stacks and stacks of every Dr. Seuss book ever written!

  Our hero can barely find his voice. “They’re...they’re...beautiful.”

  Material Man smiles a sinister smile. “Yes, they are, you impossibly impoverished poet. And they all can be yours. All yours.”

  Rhyming Dude takes a step toward them, whispering in disbelief:

  “All mine?

  They’re so incredibly fine.

  Please, please, tell me

  This isn’t some line!”

  Unable to endure such beauty, our hero slowly sinks to his knees, trembling in awe. As he does, the earth gives another

  K-REEEAK...

  But Rhyming Dude barely hears.

  He’s too hypnotized by what he sees.

  “That’s right.” The criminally uncool character cackles his characteristically creepy chuckle.

  TRANSLATION: The bad guy laughed.

  “All you have to do is leave me alone. All you have to do is let me keep collecting my stuff.”

  Still, despite Rhyming Dude’s growing greed for the books, there is some flicker of heroism hiding in his humanity.

  TRANSLATION: He hasn’t gone completely crackers.

  Somehow he is able to answer in a voice faint and very far away:

  “What of the land

  In your plan that’s so ungrand?

  What of the children, mothers,

  and fathers

  Who soon will be tilting into

  the waters?”

  Material Man shudders at the terrible poetry. But pulling himself together, he manages to speak a sneakingly sinister sentence. “That’s not your concern, Rhyming Dude.”

  “It’s not?

  Tell me, I must have forgot....”

  “You’ll have all these wonderful books. That’s all that counts. Who cares about a few million drowning people?”

  Slowly, Rhyming Dude begins to nod.

  “Of course,

  What was I thinking?

  So what if the West Coast

  Does all of that sinking.”

  “That’s right.” Material Man motions to the stacks of books. “Stop fighting me. Let me have my way, and every one of these books will be yours...all yours.”

  Unable to turn his eyes away, our hero takes a step toward the books. And then another.

  As if protesting, the West Coast

  K-REEEAKs...

  again, even louder.

  But Rhyming Dude does not notice as he reaches toward the brilliantly beautiful books.

  Unable to contain himself, the dastardly dangerous dude lets out a mighty “Moo-hoo-hoo-ha-ha-ha” (the chuckle legally required by all dastardly dangerous dudes just before they have their dastardly dude ways).

  Oh, no. What will happen next? Will the West Coast sink into the ocean never again to be seen? What will happen to Disneyland, Universal Studios, and Knott’s Berry Farm? And is there more to the West Coast than just California? Who knows? Who cares? (Though I bet those people in Washington and Oregon might have some thoughts on the matter.)

  But, even more importantly, does this mean there will no longer be any more Cat in the Hat books for children to read? Even more importantlier (don’t try that word at home, kids), does that mean they’ll have to read more My Life As... books instead?

  (Hmm, I guess every dastardly dark cloud has a silver lining....)

  These and other horrifically horrific thoughts haunted my head when I felt Tomba shaking me awake.

  I tried to sound intelligent, but no matter what language you speak, “Huh, uh, duh, um . . .” always comes out like, well, like, “Huh, uh, duh, um . . .”

  Unfortunately, that was about the most intelligent thing I would be saying (or doing) for a very long while. . . .

  Chapter 9

  How to Stop a

  Rhino From Charging

  Once Tomba got me awake, he motioned for me to hurry.

  “But—” I pointed back to his village. “What about your parents, your friends?”

  He shook his head and pointed in the direction of the city.

  “Forget it,” I said. We have to see if we can help.” I turned and started back the way we had come—which was a pretty good idea, except for my first

  “AUGH!”

  stumble, stumble, FALL

  step.

  I couldn’t believe the pain. It felt like a hundred people were jabbing a hundred needles into my feet. I looked down and saw the reason. The bottoms of them were covered in more bloody cuts and scrapes than my brother Burt’s (or was it Brock’s?) face the first time he tried shaving with Dad’s safety razor.

  Tomba dropped down beside me to take a look. He shook his head, frowning.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We have to check on your village.”

  I rose to my feet and took another step. At least that’s what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, my feet were more in the mood for an encore

  “AUGH!”

  stumble, stumble, FALL

  performance.

  Without a word, Tomba pulled off his own goofy-looking, tire-tread sandals.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He said nothing as he reached for one of my feet and slipped a sandal on it. It was a little on the tight side, but it mostly fit.

  “No way!” I argued. “What are you going to wear?”

  The little guy gave a grin and slapped the bottom of his foot. It looked almost as tough as the tire tread. But I still wasn’t about to take his only shoes.

  “No way!” I repeated.

  He shook his head and slipped off the second sandal.

  “Tomba!?”

  He tried putting it on my foot.

  I didn’t let him. “You can’t just give me your shoes. They’re the only pair you’ve got.”

  But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He just kept grinning bigger and nodding harder, like he wanted to do it. Not only wanted, but like he was actually happy about it!

  “Tomba!”

  Somehow he grabbed my foot, a
nd though I put up a fight, he managed to slip it on.

  “Tomba!!”

  Then, without a word, he tugged me to my feet.

  “All right, all right,” I agreed. “I’ll wear them. But just until we get to your village and I can find my own shoes.”

  With that, I turned and started hobbling back toward his village. My feet still hurt, and to be honest, I was doing a lot more limping than walking, but at least I was getting my way. Or so I thought.

  I’d only taken three or four steps when I looked over my shoulder and saw Tomba had not moved.

  “Come on,” I said, motioning. “We gotta see what happened.”

  But he shook his head again and pointed the opposite direction toward the city.

  “Right,” I said, nodding, “but after we check on your village.”

  The little guy shook his head. Then he pretended to hold a make-believe rifle and shouted, “Boom, boom! Boom, boom!”

  “You think the soldiers are still there?”

  He nodded yes.

  “Then we have to help,” I argued. “We have to go back and—”

  Again, he shook his head and pointed toward the city.

  I shook my own head.

  “Boom, boom!” he shouted.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “We gotta help!”

  Having made up my mind, I turned and headed back for the village. There was just one problem . . . I wasn’t sure which direction it was. I thought I knew, but after a half-dozen more steps, I wasn’t so sure. I mean, I knew it was near the river, but . . . exactly where was the river? We had run so far last night, I couldn’t even hear it.

  I turned back to Tomba. The little fellow had folded his arms and refused to move.

  Well, two could play that game. I folded my own arms and refused to move.

  I’m not sure how long we waited. It could have been a minute; it could have been five. All I know is that there were suddenly a lot more flies buzzing around than I remembered from the day before. And they all had their little fly brains focused on sticking their little fly teeth (do flies have teeth?) into my little human skin.

  But it made no difference to me. I didn’t care if I was a walking blood bank for every insect in Africa, nothing would make me move.

  Well . . . almost nothing.

  It started as a little rustle in the bushes off to our left.

  No problem; there were lots of rustlings out here. It came with all the little critters.

  Next there were the snortings and grunts . . . big snortings and grunts.

  (So much for little critters.)

  I swallowed nervously and glanced at Tomba.

  He swallowed nervously and looked at the bushes.

  Next came the snapping of twigs . . . big twigs (as in logs and trees).

  I tried swallowing again, but I had run out of stuff to swallow. I looked at Tomba. So had he.

  Still neither of us would give up our ground.

  Until the ground started shaking! The reason was simple: Granted, I’m no geologist or anything, but have you ever noticed how the ground starts shaking whenever a two-and-a-half-ton rhinoceros comes stampeding out of the brush at you?

  No? Well, then I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

  Or Tomba’s.

  Because we both looked at the charging rhino, then at each other, and in a flash we both had the same, identical thought.

  RUN!

  And run, we did.

  It’s amazing how fast a person can run when they think they’ve become the bull’s-eye for a rhinoceros dartboard. Forget jet engines, forget rockets . . . just put someone in front of a good old-fashioned charging rhino and watch them take off.

  To be honest, I don’t remember how fast or long we ran. All I remember was a never-ending blur of African bush and the sound of my

  “. . . hhhhh . . .”

  screaming. It would have been my more popular

  “AUGHHHHHH!”

  but when you’re running faster than the speed of sound.

  “. . . hhhhh . . .”

  is all you can hear.

  In no time flat (or about five hours and twenty-three minutes, if you want to be more exact), we crested a hill and looked down upon a huge city below us.

  “Wow!” I panted.

  Nod, Tomba nodded.

  And with that bit of in-depth conversation, we started down the hill into the

  “AUG . . .”

  (Sorry, that was the rest of my scream catching up with us.)

  noisy and bustling city.

  It was a lot like every other big city I’d been to. Same towering buildings, same crowded traffic, same occasional donkey pulling an occasional wooden cart. Well, all right, that part was different, but everything else was pretty much the

  HONK! HONK! HONK!

  same.

  “Get out of the street, you stupid kids!”

  See what I mean?

  Tomba was the first to spot a policeman standing on a corner. We headed for him.

  “Excuse me!” I shouted over the traffic noise. “Excuse me!” He turned to us and I asked, “Can you help me?”

  He scowled at Tomba, who stood beside me with his bare feet, wearing his worn gym shorts and ragged T-shirt. “Is this kid bothering you?” he asked me.

  “No, sir,” I said in surprise. “He’s my friend.”

  The man deepened his frown at Tomba. He seemed pretty unconvinced.

  “I’m kinda lost,” I said.

  “Are you British?”

  “No, sir. I’m from America.”

  “America, huh.” He thought a moment, then answered. “The American Embassy is several blocks up this street. If you’re lost, I’m sure your parents have contacted them.”

  He spotted a passing taxi and blew his whistle. The driver slowed to a stop. The two of them jabbered in a language I didn’t understand. Then, after shoving some money into the driver’s hand, the policeman opened the taxi door for me and I climbed inside. Tomba started to follow, but the policeman held him back.

  “You sure you want him to come with you?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Like I said, we’re friends.”

  Reluctantly, he let little Tomba climb inside. He said one last word to the driver, and we were off.

  A few minutes later, we came to a stop in front of the American Embassy. I opened the door, got my foot caught on the floor mat, and immediately

  “OAFF!”

  fell onto the pavement. (Hey, just ’cause we were in civilization didn’t mean my coordination had to improve.)

  Tomba helped me to my feet, and we shut the taxi door. Before we could thank the driver, he took off in a thick cloud of

  “Cough, gag, cough,

  choke, gag, choke!”

  smoke.

  When the air finally cleared (not to mention our lungs), we looked up and saw a giant iron gate across the street and a sign that read:

  AMERICAN EMBASSY

  We threaded our way through the traffic, enjoying more of the usual number of cars honking and nearly hitting us, until we arrived at the gate.

  Two American soldiers stood on each side. I approached one who was just a couple of years older than Brock (or was it Burt?—I guess since they’re twins it doesn’t matter).

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “What is it, kid?”

  “I’ve lost my parents. The policeman down the street said I should come here.”

  He looked me over carefully. “You got a passport?”

  I searched my pockets but couldn’t find anything. “No, sir. I think I lost it.”

  “Lost it?” He looked even more suspicious. “How?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the baboons got it.”

  “Baboons?”

  “Yeah, or the hyenas. Or maybe it was that warthog, or the baby elephant and his mother, or the hiccupping hippo, or the charging—”

  He held out his hand. “Whoa, there . . . you were attacked by all those animals
?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had a rough go of it.”

  “Not really. Not if you’ve read any of my other books.”

  He paused again to look me over. Finally, he called to his partner. “O’Riley?”

  The other soldier approached. “Sir?”

  “Take this kid inside. See if his parents have been looking for him.”

  “Yes, sir.” The second soldier motioned for me to follow.

  Suddenly, I remembered Tomba. “Wait a minute. What about him?” I asked.

  “What about him?” the first soldier said.

  “He can come with me, right?”

  The soldier shook his head.

  “But he’s my friend.”

  The soldier looked sternly at Tomba. Like the policeman down the street, he seemed pretty suspicious of how Tomba appeared in his worn clothes and bare feet. Finally, he answered. “If this little guy’s your friend . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “. . . then I’d be more careful who you choose as your friends.”