My Life as a Bigfoot Breath Mint

by Bill Myers

  “You don’t say,” he says. “You don’t say....You don’t say.”

  Finally he hangs up and Floss Man asks, “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Before our hero can groan over that tired, old joke, the president suddenly puts his hands up to his eyes. “OWWW!”

  “Mr. President, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?!”

  “My eyes!”

  “What about them? Let me see!”

  But the president will not remove his hands. He continues to rub his eyes. Then Floss Man notices that the man’s chubby round face is turning into a chubby square face. Not only that, but the rings on his chubby fingers are also turning into rectangles. And the round buttons on his jacket are becoming squares.

  “Mr. President, what’s going on?”

  At last the president removes his hands, and our hero gasps a ghastly gasp.

  “Mr. President, your eyeballs...”

  “Yes...”

  “They’ve become...(insert suspenseful music here)...eyecubes!”

  “It’s just as I feared!” the president cries. “Take a look!”

  Quickly our hero scans the room. Everything round is growing corners. Three-ring notebooks are becoming three-hexagon notebooks. Doorknobs have become doorcubes. In fact, the entire Oval Office has now become, you guessed it...the Square Office.

  “Great Scott, Mr. President! What’s going on?”

  “If our intelligence reports are accurate, it’s the horrendous Harry the Hairball. Somehow he’s giving corners to everything round.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Everything is turning square, Floss Man. oh no, look at my words. He’s even changing the os, I mean the os. I mean——”

  “I know, Mr. President, he’s changing your os. But not mine. Look at my words. I can say all the os I want. O, o, o, o, o ——”

  “That’s because you’re a string, Floss Man, you’re a straight line. Hairball can’t touch you because there’s nothing round about you to touch!”

  Then, just when this story couldn’t get any weirder, or the print any stranger, a picture flickers up on the TV screen.

  “Greetings blockheads.”

  They spin around (make that spin asquare) and see Harry the Hairball speaking. But instead of being round like any sensible hairball, he has more corners on him than a Rubik’s Cube.

  “In case you’re wondering,” he says, “I’ve released a toxic gas into the atmosphere. It is circling the globe, er, make that the cube——har, har, a little supervillain comedy there. Even as we speak, it is attacking every round object. Soon everything round will have corners. Soon there will no longer be anything round!”

  Once again he laughs a sinister laugh, which ends in a fit of coughing and hacking. (What did you expect from a Hairball, er Haircube?)

  “Mr. President,” our hero shouts, “what are you going to do?”

  “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t move.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not just my eyes, Floss Man. It’s everything about me. The balls of my feet are now squares. The ball joints in my hips are cubes.”

  “But you can call your armies, launch your missiles!”

  “Guns can’t shot square bullets. Missiles with corners can’t fly. We’re totally helpless, Floss Man. There’s only one person who can save us.”

  “You don’t mean...” Suddenly there’s a blast of superhero music (not to be confused with that earlier suspenseful music, though they’re probably written by the same guy).

  “That’s right, Floss Man, it’s all up to you. You’re our only hope.”

  Before you have time to wonder how a piece of floss can move about (hey, this is a fantasy, remember?), our hero hops over to the nearest medicine cabinet. He throws it open, jumps inside, and slips on his $19.95 cape and color-coordinated goggles. Then, after asking the mouthwash to swing by and give the president a little rinse (those onions are still working overtime), our hero emerges. He hops up to the windowsill, then leaps into the wind, only to discover——

  “Hey, Wally!” It’s Brock, shouting from downstairs. “Everybody’s ready to go. Are you coming or what?”

  I looked up from ol’ Betsy and reached over to shut her down. I wasn’t sure how Floss Man was going to save the day, but I wasn’t about to miss how Uncle Max was.

  “All right,” the assistant director shouted through his megaphone. “Stand by please.”

  On the pier, we held our breath and leaned over the rail to get a better look at the water. Well, everyone but Dad. Water makes Dad nervous— real nervous. I don’t want to say he’s afraid of drowning, but he’s the only person I know who takes a bath with a life preserver.

  As you may remember from My Life As Alien Monster Bait, I’m an old pro at making movies (or at least destroying them). But this one was different. Way different.

  First of all, I wasn’t involved. This greatly increased its chances for success.

  Second of all, that was my uncle in the water behind the ski boat.

  And third, the world famous Arnold Swizzlenoggin was standing right beside me! Well, he had been standing beside me . . . until Uncle Max introduced us. I got so excited I spilled hot chocolate all over his pants. Then I tried to mop it up with my mustard-covered napkin, which was kind of useless. Then I bumped into Dad’s arm and caused him to spill hot coffee all over Mr. Swizzlenoggin.

  Nothing unusual for me. But for the rest of the evening, Mr. Swizzlenoggin kept my brothers, sister, and both of my parents between us.

  Who could blame him? Even superheroes try not to risk their lives too many times a day.

  But now the guy was shouting down to my Uncle Max. “Let’s go, Max. . . . Make me look good, Max. Make me look good!”

  Uncle Max grinned and gave him the thumbs up.

  We all waved back.

  Dad shifted uneasily. I wondered if he was a little jealous about his brother getting all of the attention.

  “Quiet, please,” the director shouted.

  We all settled down.

  “And action, Max!”

  The ski boat roared forward, pulling Uncle Max behind. In a second he was up on the water, skiing barefoot.

  Meanwhile the pyrotechnic guys on the pier lit a fake tackle shop on fire.

  WHOOSHHH . . .

  A stunt woman, dressed like the leading lady, stood on top of the burning roof shouting, “Help me, Lance! Help me!”

  I looked back to the boat. It was going full throttle and heading directly toward the pier.

  “Help me, Lance! Help me!”

  “Come on, Max,” Swizzlenoggin shouted, “make me look good.”

  There was a miniature jump hidden behind a fake houseboat. Uncle Max swung wide and aimed for it.

  “Help me, Lance! Oh, help me!”

  “Make me look good, Max.”

  Uncle Max hit the ramp.

  The crowd oooed as he shot up, sailing high into the air.

  They aahhed as he let go of the towline and flew high over the pier toward the burning building.

  And they gaaasped as he reached out, grabbed the stunt woman off the flaming roof, and continued over the pier, crashing into the water on the other side.

  But the two of them barely hit the water before the burning tackle shack toppled over. It fell directly on them . . . along with a few hundred gallons of burning gasoline whose flames quickly spread out over the water.

  Everyone waited breathlessly for Uncle Max and the woman to surface through the burning pieces of building and the flaming water. But they didn’t show.

  Five seconds passed.

  Then ten.

  People started to get nervous. Some began to mumble.

  But not Dad. Unable to contain himself, good ol’ Dad raced past the camera and right to the edge of the pier. “Somebody help him!”

  “We’re still rolling,” the director screamed, “Get out of my picture! Get out of my picture!”

&n
bsp; But Dad was doing his own brand of yelling. “That’s my brother!” he cried. “Somebody’s got to save him!”

  Poor Dad. He just kept dancing along the edge of the pier, scared to death of the water and scared to death that his brother was dying. I knew he wanted to jump in. But I also knew he understood that his drowning wouldn’t be a whole lot of help.

  “Get out of my picture!” the director yelled. “Get out of my picture!”

  “But that’s my—”

  Suddenly someone shouted. “There he is!”

  We all turned to look.

  Fifteen yards behind us, completely away from the flames, Uncle Max and the stunt woman had surfaced.

  Everyone clapped and cheered.

  Well, everyone but Dad.

  . . . and the director.

  “All right, folks,” the director sighed. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to do that again. This time without any help from the family.”

  A few people groaned. Some chuckled.

  I threw a look at Dad. His face burned redder than the flames on the water below. What an embarrassment.

  For him . . .

  And for me.

  Chapter 3

  Fantasmo World

  The next morning was full of cool. A cool view of the ocean, a cool breakfast, and of course, my incredibly cool Uncle Max.

  But first I had to get past my uncool dad. As usual, he was up at the crack of dawn working. This time he was in his room going over all my great aunt’s papers and stuff.

  “Hey, Wally,” he said as he saw me trying to sneak past.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, trying not to look caught. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be around him. I was just afraid he might bring up last night’s disaster. When something that embarrassing happens, I’ve learned that it’s better just to forget it and move on. And I should know. As the king of mishaps, I’m speaking from personal experience.

  But Dad had something else on his mind. “When I’m done here,” he said, “I was thinking maybe I could take everyone to where your Uncle Max and I grew up.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to sound excited (though I rated the adventure right up there with emptying the cat box). Fortunately a perfect excuse came to mind. “But weren’t we going to watch Uncle Max’s show at Fantasmo World and go on some of the rides and stuff?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Dad said. “Well, then maybe we could do it tomorrow.”

  “Sounds great,” I lied as I turned and headed down the hall as fast as I could. If I’d hung around, he’d probably have come up with an even niftier idea, like going to the dentist to have our teeth drilled.

  I found Uncle Max and my brothers down in the weight room. It figured. Dad was in his room pushing a pencil, and Uncle Max was in the weight room with Burt and Brock pumping iron. How could Max and Dad be so different? One lived a life of nonstop excitement, the other a life that would cure insomnia.

  “Want to join us?” Uncle Max asked.

  “You bet,” I exclaimed.

  I’ll tell you, it was quite a workout. First I had to get my shirt over my head. Then I had to struggle getting my arms out of the sleeves. Then finally I was able to pull off the ol’ shirt. Whew, talk about working up a sweat.

  But Uncle Max thought I should “push the envelope” and actually work out with weights, too.

  “How ’bout some bench presses?” he asked.

  “Bench presses?”

  “Sure, it’ll help build up that chest and those upper arms.”

  I nodded and eagerly sat down on the bench. I couldn’t wait to get back home and show off my brand-new muscles . . . well, at least one or two . . . well, all right, maybe a tiny fraction of a very small one.

  “Do you do this a lot?” I asked.

  “Couple of hours a day,” he said. “Then of course there’s the running, swimming, and the time in the tanning booth.”

  “Every day?”

  “Oh yeah. Hey, check these out.”

  He gave a flex and about a hundred muscles popped out on his arm.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Now, slide under the barbell and get ready to lift it off the stand.”

  I lay down on my back and scooted under the barbell.

  “I’m surprised your dad doesn’t do this type of stuff,” Uncle Max said. He pulled some weights off the barbell to make it lighter for me. “No offense, but he’s beginning to get a bit of a gut on him.”

  “Yeah,” I said, reaching up to the bar. “Of course he’s way too busy going to work, helping at church, and running us wherever we have to go.”

  Uncle Max shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like much of a life.”

  “You got that right,” I said, feeling just a little bit like a traitor. After all, we were talking about my dad.

  “I mean what does the guy do for fun?”

  “Fun,” I said as I tried push the barbell off the stand. “Dad doesn’t have fun. Dad’s a . . . well, he’s a dad. The high point of his week is a snooze on the couch.”

  Uncle Max shook his head again. “Sure isn’t my idea of a life.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. I pushed even harder. “You’re sure not going to catch me living like that when I grow up and—”

  But before I could finish my Benedict Arnold imitation, the barbell fell off the stand and

  “AUGHHH!!!”

  CLUNK!

  The “AUGHHH!!!” was me screaming.

  The CLUNK was the barbell smashing down on my chest.

  “Get it off!” I cried. “It’s crushing me!”

  “Push it up, Wally. Push.”

  “It’s too heavy!”

  “Push!”

  “Take off more weight. You’ve got too much—”

  “Wally.”

  “You’ve got too much weight—”

  “WALLACE!”

  His tone brought me to a stop. I looked up and saw that he was pointing to the ends of the barbell. There wasn’t a single weight on either end. The bar was completely empty.

  “Maybe we better start off with something a little less challenging,” he suggested.

  “Yeah,” I croaked, “that might be better.” I wasn’t sure if I was feeling like an idiot because of my outstanding display of dork-oidness . . . or because I was putting down my dad.

  Maybe it was a little of both.

  Unfortunately, a little would soon turn into a lot. . . .

  Fantasmo World was incredible. It had all sorts of rides and shows and stuff. And plenty of cartoon types wandered around, like Crystal Bright and the Seven Dweebs—Stinky, Cranky, Dorky, Dippy, Jerko, Drooly, and Nerdly. Then, of course, there were Rabid Rabbit, Maniac Mouse, Slobester and Twit Bird, and all the rest of the Saturday morning TV gang.

  And the employees—everywhere you looked there was some employee smiling at you.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Burt asked.

  “Got me,” Brock answered.

  “It’s like their faces are permanently frozen,” Burt said.

  “If you ask me, they’re all a few fries short of a Happy Meal,” Brock chuckled.

  “Hee, hee, hee, that’s a good one, Brock.”

  “Check this out,” Brock said as he approached an overhappy employee. “Excuse me? Miss?”

  She turned to him, all grins.

  “I’m sorry to break the news to you,” Brock said, “but your grandmother just got run over by a Mac truck.”

  “Well, thank you for sharing,” the employee said, grinning so big I thought she’d sprain her lips. “And be sure to have a fan-fan-fantastic day here at Fantasmo World, allrighteee?”

  We all looked at each other then broke out laughing.

  Of course, all the bigwigs at the park knew Uncle Max, which meant free rides, free shows, even free food . . . which managed to perk up Dad’s smiler a bit.

  Unfortunately he wasn’t smiling at the Schmuzo Killer Whale show. That’s when the host (another good friend of Uncle Max’s) just happened to select
Dad from the audience to stand beside the tank.

  Everyone, including Dad, gasped as Schmuzo leaped high into the air.

  Everyone but Dad laughed when Schmuzo belly flopped into the tank and splashed about a billion gallons of water on him.

  It’s not that Dad can’t take a joke, it’s just hard to laugh when you’re busy coughing, choking, and drowning. He did manage to throw a look at Uncle Max. It really wasn’t much of a smile—more like one of those pathetic you-know-I’m-afraid-of-water-so-why-are-you-trying-to-kill-me kind of looks.

  Of course, Uncle Max was having too good a time to notice. But I did. And, though I pretended to laugh with the other 1,200 audience members, I was growing more and more embarrassed about having Dad as . . . well, about having him as my dad.

  Later, when the show was over, Uncle Max wanted to take us underground.

  “Underground?” Mom asked.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Not many people know it, but there’s an entire network of tunnels running beneath the park. It’s like a complete city under there.”

  “Won’t we miss your show?” Dad asked.

  “Nah, it’s not until this afternoon. We have plenty of time to grab something to eat and check out the tunnels. Then, when I’m suiting up for the show, you guys can take in a few rides.”

  We all agreed. I put down a lunch of two chocolate-covered bananas, a family-sized box of caramel corn, and a I-think-I’m-going-to-hurl-if-I-have-to-eat-this-fifth-corn-dog corn dog (hey, the eats were free, remember?). Then I grabbed a giant econo-sized cherry/orange/root beer Slusho-Ice, and we followed Uncle Max across the park.

  There were all sorts of cool rides from different movies: Riders of the Last Bark (where archaeologists discover a giant dog and ride on it), Star Wreck, Honey I Shrunk Your Underwear, Beauty and the Fleas, and of course, The Examinator (where a school teacher goes crazy during test week).

  “Wow,” I said, looking all around and still slurping my Slusho-Ice. “You get to work here every day?”

  “That’s right.” Uncle Max beamed.

  “I bet you wish you could work in a place like this, huh Daddy,” little Carrie said.

  Dad kind of squirmed and shrugged. “Oh I don’t know, my office isn’t so bad.”