Funny Boy Versus the Bubble-Brained Barbers from the Big Bang

by Dan Gutman

  “What did I do?” I asked innocently.

  “Get out!”

  She looked really mad, so I hustled out of my seat. Salvatore leaned over and whispered to me, “If Werner takes out a knife and fork, make a run for it.”

  Principal Werner’s office is at the corner of the first floor of the school. As I walked down the hall, I chuckled to myself. Salvatore actually thought I was going to fall for that story about Werner torturing kids and eating them! What kind of a fool did he think I was?

  When I walked in, Principal Werner was staring through binoculars out the big window facing the playground. Some kids were at recess, so I guess he was keeping an eye on things to make sure nobody misbehaved. He was wearing a hat.

  I looked around the office. There were lighthouses all over the place. He had posters of lighthouses on the wall. There were lighthouse paperweights on his desk. Even his coat rack was a lighthouse with hooks.

  Maybe he was the captain of a ship before he became a principal, I thought. The door closed behind me with a click.

  “Ahoy there,” Principal Werner said. When he turned around, I could see that his hat was the kind ship captains wear.

  “Uh, hello,” I replied, backing toward the door.

  “Sit down,” Principal Werner urged me. He held out a bowl of nuts. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

  “No th-thanks.”

  “Son,” he said, tossing nuts in the air and catching them in his mouth. “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Wonderland about you. I understand that you are troubled. Let me be your beacon to help you steer around the choppy waters and rocky shores of life.”

  “You mean sort of like a lighthouse?” I asked.

  “No, what does a lighthouse have to do with you? Mrs. Wonderland tells me you are disrupting the class with your silly jokes. Clearly, this is an attention-­getting device.”

  “I don’t want any attention,” I replied. “I just want to stop the aliens who are going to attack Earth!”

  “Um-hmm,” he said, making a note on a piece of paper. “Aliens, eh? Young man, I’ve been a principal for many years, and I’ve heard it all before. I understand kids your age need to challenge authority. It’s part of growing up.”

  “I don’t need to challenge authority.”

  “Then why wear a cape to school?” he asked. “Why the fake nose and glasses?”

  “If I didn’t wear the fake glasses, what would hold the fake nose on my face?”

  “Um-hmm,” Principal Werner said. “Look, why don’t you get a tattoo or a nose ring like other kids? Don’t you see how silly you look? It’s normal to rebel against the world at your age. But you need to rebel in a more acceptable manner.”

  “I don’t want to rebel against the world,” I protested. “I’ve got to save the world!”

  “Mr. Werner,” a voice said over the intercom on the principal’s desk. “Can you come to the office for a minute?”

  “Excuse me,” Principal Werner said. “I’ll be right back.”

  1 took a deep breath. Principal Werner didn’t seem like he was going to torture me or anything. But I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was going to get some silverware.

  I had to get out of there. If Principal Werner went crazy and killed me, I wouldn’t be able to save the world from the alien barbers. I was going to have to take drastic measures.

  There was a telephone on the principal’s desk. I picked it up and dialed 911.

  “I’ve got to speak with the President of the United States right away!” I shouted as soon as somebody at the other end picked up. “It’s a matter of life and death!”

  “Calm down,” a lady said. “Where are you right now?”

  “I’m in the principal’s office!” I shouted. “He’s about to torture and kill and eat me. I’ve got to get out of here so I can stop those nutty barbers on TV! They’re going to take over! I’ve got to stop them!”

  At that moment, Principal Werner walked back through the door. He was holding a knife and fork.

  “Who said you could use my telephone?” he asked.

  “I-I’ve got to go to Washington,” I said, backing around the other side of the desk. “This is a national emergency.”

  “The emergency is right here,” Principal Werner said. He was reaching toward the microwave oven near the window.

  I thought fast. This nut was going to kill me, microwave me, and eat me. I couldn’t get to the door to escape. There was only one way out. I would have to tell a joke and hope he would laugh enough to let me go. It was my only hope.

  “Principal Werner, may I ask you a question?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know why bagpipers walk when they play?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “They’re trying to get away from the noise.”

  Principal Werner stared at me over his glasses. He didn’t crack a smile.

  “Young man, I want to see your father.”

  “I’ve got a photo in my wallet,” I said, reaching for my pocket and pulling out a picture of Bob Foster. Principal Werner peered at it.

  “This is your father?” he asked. It’s true that Bob and I don’t look alike.

  “He’s my foster father. My real father is still on the planet Crouton.”

  “On Crouton, eh? Your home planet?”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “It’s about the size of Uranus.”

  “That’s it!” he exploded. “I’ll have none of that talk! You bring your father in here first thing tomorrow morning or you’re in big trouble!”

  I made a dive for the door and ran out of there as fast as I could.

  CHAPTER 6

  OKAY, WELL, MAYBE ­PRINCIPAL WERNER IS JUST A LITTLE ODD

  When I told Bob Foster he had to come to school with me to talk with Principal Werner, he wasn’t happy. It was hard for Bob Foster to get time off from work at the underwear factory. They would be cutting leg holes all week, he told me, and it was a very delicate procedure. But Bob Foster was my foster father, so he agreed to come.

  “Did you misbehave?” he asked as we drove to school.

  “No, Dad!” I insisted.

  When we got to Principal Werner’s office, he wasn’t there yet. Bob Foster and I looked at the lighthouse pictures, paperweights, and other lighthouse stuff all over the place.

  “The principal sure does love lighthouses,” Bob Foster said.

  “He was kicked out of the Navy,” I said. “I heard that he tortures kids, kills them, and eats them.”

  Bob Foster chuckled. “We used to say that about the principal when I was a boy, too.”

  Principal Werner walked in, shook hands with Bob Foster, and told us to sit down.

  “Mr. Foster,” Principal Werner said. “Before we begin, I just want you to know that I’m not here to punish Funny Boy. My job is to be the beacon that will guide him past the rocky beaches and windy gusts of life.”

  “Kind of like a lighthouse, huh?” Bob Foster commented.

  “No!” Principal Werner said, a little louder than was necessary. “Nothing like a lighthouse! Why does everyone always say that?”

  Bob Foster and I glanced at each other and shrugged.

  “Mr. Foster,” the principal continued. “I asked you to come in here today because Funny Boy doesn’t seem interested in learning. He just wants to crack jokes. His endless supply of wisecracks, riddles, and rude remarks is disrupting his class.”

  “We’re working on that,” Bob Foster said.

  “Even worse,” the principal went on, “he seems to believe that aliens are attacking and it is his job to save the world. Tell me, is there some problem at home that I should know about?”

  “No,” Bob Foster said. “He’s a good boy. He’s just a little ... different.”

  “Um-hmm,” Principal Werner replied, writing something on a piece of paper. “I’m going to recommend that Funny Boy be evaluated by our school’s Child Study Team. Maybe they can help him with this problem.”

 
; “I appreciate that,” Bob Foster said politely.

  “Well, thank you for coming in,” Principal Werner said. “I’m about to have a bite to eat. Would you like to join me?”

  “No!” I said quickly. I pushed Bob Foster out the door and hustled back to my classroom.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE BO, BARRY, AND BURLY SHOW

  That night I was trying to do my homework, but Punch kept pestering me. Ever since she discovered she could speak, she wanted to know everything and was constantly asking strange questions.

  “If you don’t milk a cow,” Punch asked, “would it explode in a giant milk bomb?”

  “I guess so,” I replied, wishing she would leave me alone.

  “But what did cows do before there were people to milk them?” Punch asked.

  “Maybe they milked each other.”

  “Cows can’t milk other cows,” Punch insisted.

  “Maybe horses milked them.”

  “How did they get the fat out of nonfat milk?” Punch asked. “How did people wake up before there were alarm clocks? Why do bees buzz and hummingbirds hum? What’s the difference between French bread and Italian bread?”

  “Shut up!” I finally said.

  “Will you two keep it down!” Bob Foster yelled from the next room. “My favorite show is about to come on!”

  I went in to see what he was watching. On the TV there was a bald lady in a bikini saying, “Welcome to The Bo, Barry, and Burly Show. Heeeeeeere’s ... Barry!”

  There was a studio audience, and they all clapped their hands. The three bald barbers came out, only now they were wearing bad toupees.

  “Greetings, brainless Earthlings,” Barry Barber said. Bo and Burly Barber stood on either side of Barry Barber with their muscular arms crossed. “I hope you are enjoying your evening, because it will be one of the last you will have before Earth is destroyed.”

  The studio audience thought that was really funny, and they broke out into good-natured laughter. So did Bob Foster.

  “Him serious!” Bo Barber grunted.

  That only made the studio audience laugh harder.

  “Me bust heads, okay, boss?” asked Burly Barber.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Barry Barber replied. “Perhaps a little convincing will make these brainless Earthlings see we mean business. This morning we successfully removed the hair of everyone on the island of Taiwan. Let’s go to the videotape....”

  A video appeared, showing a bunch of bald people standing in a parking lot.

  “That barber pointed his hair gun at me,” a guy moaned, “and the next thing I knew I was bald and he was wearing my hair. It was horrible!”

  The studio audience cracked up. Bob Foster had to hold his sides, he was laughing so hard.

  “I used to have long, beautiful hair,” a lady said. “But these barbers took my hair and flushed it down my toilet. Now my whole sewer line is backed up and I haven’t been able to shower.” Bob Foster couldn’t control himself. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.

  “We want our hair back!” the people in the background chanted. “We want our hair back!” Bo, Barry, and Burly Barber were on the screen again, with evil smiles on their faces.

  “Heed this warning!” Barry Barber said. “We are making our way around the globe, taking your hair as we go. Soon we will get to America. Make it easy on yourselves. Surrender now. Give us your hair, or we will have to take it by force. It won’t be long before the entire Earth is bald, bald, bald! Hahahahaha!”

  “Hahahaha!” chortled Bob Foster. “I love this show. Those barbers crack me up.”

  “You’ve got to do something!” Punch whispered to me. “This is serious!”

  If your teacher tells you to put this book away right now, don’t stop reading. It’s more important for you to finish this book than it is for you to learn.

  CHAPTER 8

  HOW TO DRIVE THE SCHOOL PSYCHOLOGIST INSANE

  Mrs. Wonderland was explaining decimals to us the next morning when there was a knock at the classroom door. It was a tall lady, pretty, wearing a sweater. She whispered something to Mrs. Wonderland. Mrs. Wonderland pointed to me and told me to go with the lady.

  “My name is Dr. Breznitski,” the lady said in a soft voice as we walked down the hall. “I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

  Dr. Breznitski took me to an office that said CHILD STUDY TEAM over the door. Wind chimes tinkled as we went inside. The walls were painted in soothing pastel colors. There were stuffed animals all over the room. Obviously, this was where they took kids who might possibly be insane.

  Dr. Breznitski’s diploma was on the wall over her desk. It said she graduated from the University of Pennsylvania just two years ago.

  “I’m not here to yell at you,” Dr. Breznitski said calmly as she sat down and put on her glasses. “I’m a psychologist. I’m here to run a few tests and to help you. You can confide in me. Is anything troubling you?”

  “I have an incurable disease,” I lied.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dr. Breznitski said sympathetically. “I didn’t see that in your file. No wonder you’ve been acting peculiar.”

  “My hamster ran away,” I continued. “Nobody loves me. My family is broke. My house was destroyed in a hurricane. I have a mosquito bite that I can’t reach. I’m sunburned. There’s a hole in my sock. ...”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” she said. “You’re just yanking my chain, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  “I see. Why do you feel this need to be silly all the time?”

  “It’s not a need,” I explained. “Something about

  Earth’s atmosphere gave me a superior sense of humor. Even if I try, I can’t stop making jokes.”

  “I see. And that yellow cape,” she continued. “Why do you wear it?”

  “Because my other yellow cape is in the wash.”

  “I see,” Dr. Breznitski said, taking notes. “I’d like you to look at this picture and tell me what you see.”

  She handed me a card with a black-and-white drawing on it. I looked at it carefully.

  “It’s an Eskimo girl ice fishing outside her igloo,” I reported.

  Dr. Breznitski had a puzzled look on her face. She leaned over to check the drawing.

  “There’s no Eskimo girl,” she said. “There’s no igloo. It’s a picture of a boy throwing a rock. Why did you say you saw an Eskimo girl ice fishing outside her igloo?”

  “The Eskimo girl is behind the boy throwing the rock,” I explained.

  “How do you know there’s an Eskimo girl behind the boy throwing the rock?”

  “I didn’t know,” I said. “You just told me.”

  “I see,” Dr. Breznitski said, a little flustered. “But let’s focus on the boy throwing the rock. What’s he throwing the rock at? His father, perhaps?”

  “No, a polar bear,” I said.

  “What polar bear?!” Dr. Breznitski asked, raising her voice a little.

  “The polar bear behind the Eskimo girl,” I explained.

  “Forget about the picture,” Dr. Breznitski said, snatching the card away from me and fumbling for something in her desk drawer. “I’d like you to play with these wooden blocks. I’ll watch. Be creative. Just do whatever you want with them.”

  I took one of the wooden blocks, put it in my mouth, and ate it.

  “What are you, crazy?!” Dr. Breznitski screamed. “Why did you do that?”

  “I’m having a snack,” I said, munching the block.

  “Do you have any idea how much those blocks cost?”

  “You told me to do whatever I want with them,” I said.

  “I didn’t think you were going to eat them!”

  “If you didn’t want me to eat them, you shouldn’t have told me to do whatever I wanted with them.”

  Dr. Breznitski pulled out a handkerchief and mopped her forehead with it.

  “I’m sorry,” she told me, getting up and walking to th
e door. “They never prepared me for a situation like this in graduate school.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Hey, those blocks are good. Can I have another one?”

  She rushed out of the office and came back in, this time with Bob Foster. He said hi and took the seat next to mine.

  “Mr. Foster,” the doctor explained, “I’ve done some tests with Funny Boy and come to the conclusion that he suffers from a very rare psychological disorder.”

  Bob Foster leaned forward in his seat, a concerned look on his face.

  “What is it, doctor?”

  “Funnyitis,” Dr. Breznitski explained. “The complete inability to take anything seriously.”

  “Will you have to amputate my head?” I asked.

  “See what I mean?” Dr. Breznitski said.

  “Is there a cure, doctor?” asked Bob Foster.

  “Sadly, no,” Dr. Breznitski explained. “But we may be able to keep it under control.”

  “How?” Bob Foster asked. “With medication?”

  “No,” Dr. Breznitski explained. “The only effective treatment for funnyitis is bombarding the child with very serious and unexciting stimuli. Doing this, we hope to neutralize the part of his brain that responds to humor.”

  “So what should I do for him, Doctor?”

  “Have him watch golf tournaments on television,” Dr. Breznitski suggested. “Also, try the Food Network. Expose him to foreign films. Newbery Award–winning books. Things like that. Whatever you do, make sure you keep him away from anything that is amusing or entertaining in any way.”

  “What about when he grows up?” Bob Foster asked the doctor. “Will he be able to lead a normal life?”

  “It’s hard to say,” the doctor replied. “Some sufferers of funnyitis become stand-up comics. More likely he will become one of those annoying adults who makes a dumb joke no matter what you say to them. It’s a sad, pathetic life, but at least he isn’t likely to hurt anyone.”

  Dr. Breznitski got up from her chair, which I guess was her signal that we should leave. Bob Foster and I got up, too.