My Life as a Supersized Superhero with Slobber

by Bill Myers

  (over)

  It made no sense. I’d just read the other side. But with nothing else better to do, I flipped the paper over to read an entirely different message:

  I have given you several opportunities

  to make the world a better place,

  and you keep getting it wrong.

  Getting it wrong?! I’d done everything I could! What more did He want?

  Again, I started to crumple the note, and again I noticed another set of words in the lower right-hand corner.

  (over again, please)

  This was getting ridiculous. I flipped the paper and read:

  You’re looking in the wrong place.

  (over—

  last time,

  I promise)

  I shook my head in frustration. I had tried. I had done everything He had told me to do! I flipped the paper to read:

  Not quite.

  I woke up the next morning, and fortunately found an extra set of directions to my superhero suit (they were in the waistband, in case you ever buy one), and studied every word. I still had time. I was going to do what God had asked, and I was going to do it today!

  Without showering (superhero suits have a tendency to rust), I reached to the keypad on my chest, punched in the code for my BALLISTIC ROCKET BOOTS (#357 if you’re interested) and

  K-Whooshed

  off to make the world a better place.

  I wasn’t sure what I would find, but like Bartholomew had said, I figured God would show me something. Actually, it might have been a few too many somethings. . . .

  First, there was the ever-popular and alwaysexpected

  RUNAWAY SCHOOL BUS.

  The way it roared down the mountain road at a thousand miles an hour, completely out of control, while

  K-scraping and K-bambing

  into the guardrail told me there might be a problem. I was even more certain when my ULTRAFREQUENCY HEADSET (#359) heard the driver shouting:

  “HELP ME! HELP ME! THERE MIGHT BE A PROBLEM!”

  Spiraling past a bird that looked so concerned I figured it had read some of my adventures, I dropped down in front of the school bus just seconds before it arrived.

  Pressing #401 (you’re writing these down for future reference, right?), my EXTENDO CLEATS extended from my boots and into the ground.

  These, of course, would prevent me from sliding as I stuck out my titanium arms and stopped the bus from . . .

  K-SMASH!

  K-SNAP!

  (Okay, maybe I didn’t exactly stop it. And okay, maybe EXTENDO CLEATS snap off a lot easier than you’d expect.) But the good news was, the bus only dragged me two or three hundred yards before it flung me aside and I

  roll-roll-rolled

  into a giant maple . . . or elm . . . or sycamore. (It’s hard distinguishing vegetation when you’re smashing major body parts.)

  Fortunately, I didn’t die (though I could sure have used an aspirin or two). Instead, my SPRING-LOADED LEGS (#403) shot me back to my feet just as my EXTENDO ARMS (#331) shot backward and grabbed the bus’s back bumper. They hung on until they brought the bus to a

  SKIIIIIIIIIIDDing

  stop.

  The bus door opened, and a hundred hysterical kids ran out screaming, “Yippee! We’re going to miss first period!”

  Of course, the bus driver wanted to thank me (and probably get the phone number for ordering his own superhero suit with the new-and-improved EXTENDO CLEATS), but I had other matters to tend to.

  Up above us, my SUPER-KEEN-O-VISION GOGGLES (#423) saw a jet airliner. A bolt of lightning had sheered off one of its wings, and it was dropping from the sky faster than my grades when I gave up studying for Lent.

  So, firing up my boots and turning on my ANTI-LIGHTNING GENERATOR (#104—good for removing unsightly static cling, in both the air and your underwear), I managed to grab the airliner from below and gently brought it down to the ground.

  After a free in-flight snack and a complimentary movie headset, I smelled something burning. Punching up my SUPER-SNOOPER SMOKE SMELLER (sorry, this is a special-order item that is not listed on standard superhero suit keypads), I smelled a burning building.

  I took off and flew downtown to join the fire department in trying to save a few more hundred lives. At first it was the usual

  K-whooshing

  up and pulling people out the windows of burning rooms, then

  K-whooshing

  down with them clinging to me while sobbing, “Oh, thank you, Wonder Wimp, thank you” (as I pleaded with them to back off on the tears because of the rust factor).

  Things were going pretty good until the fire department suddenly ran out of water. (I’m not sure of the details—something about the mayor forgetting to pay the water bill.)

  In desperation, the firemen turned to me. “Wonder Wimp, what can we do?”

  Of course, I was my usual clueless self, until I pulled out the instruction booklet and gave it a quick review. And there, right in the appendix (which until then I’d thought was a part of the human body), I found the answer.

  “Quick,” I shouted, “everybody, gather around!” I punched in #825, #834, and #913.

  Instantly, a giant hose nozzle shot out of my left arm. Instantlier (don’t try that word in English class), the other end of the hose shot out of my right arm with a giant funnel attached to it.

  “What is it?!” everyone shouted.

  “It’s the SUPERECONO SALIVA MULTIPLIA!”

  “The what?”

  “No time to explain. Just come to the funnel here and spit into it. Spit into it as much as you can, and the SALIVA MULTIPLIA will do the rest.”

  “But Multiplia is not even a word!” they complained.

  “I know,” I said. “It was invented by some rap artist. But you’re going to have to trust me on this.”

  Reluctantly, they agreed and began to

  spit, spit, spit, spit

  then

  spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit,

  spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit,

  spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit,

  spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit, spit

  some more.

  Soon, the SALIVA MULTIPLIA kicked in and began replicating the structure of their saliva’s DNA, not to mention multiplying the subatomic particles within the H2O compound, creating, as you’ve already figured out . . . more saliva. (If you haven’t already figured it out, then you’re not taking enough college biology courses.)

  Within seconds, thousands of gallons shot out the nozzle of my left arm. Soon the entire building was soaked and the fire was out. And—other than a few folks complaining about having to take showers, or threatening to send me their dry-cleaning bills (firemen’s spit isn’t as attractive as you might think)—most of them seemed grateful.

  But talk about exhausting. I was bushed. It had been a long day, and I was more beat than a giant piñata on Cinco de Mayo.

  I arrived at my house and staggered up the stairs. I had done everything I could. I had tried everything. And if I hadn’t succeeded in what God wanted by now, I never would. So, after a long hot shower (rust or no rust, those folks were right about the spit), I crawled into bed hoping for another dream and praying that I’d finally gotten it right.

  Fortunately, we don’t always get what we pray for. . . .

  Chapter 10

  Wrapping Up

  I woke up the next morning without having a single dream. Talk about disappointing. I didn’t hear from God; I didn’t hear from Bartholomew; I didn’t hear from anyone.

  Well, except for somebody downstairs trying to wear out our

  ding-dong . . .

  ding-dong, ding-dong

  doorbell.

  It was Saturday. That always meant Dad had grabbed his clubs and was beating up golf balls, Mom had grabbed her coupons and was saving us into the poorhouse, and my brothers and little sister would be sleeping until sometime
next week.

  Ding-dong . . .

  ding-dong, ding-dong.

  “All right already!” I rolled out of bed and

  K-reaked

  and

  K-squeaked

  my rusting superhero suit down the stairs.

  Even before I reached the door, I promised myself that I’d have Junior cut me out of the tin can today. Enough was enough.

  I was done. Finished.

  I had tried over and over again, but no matter how hard I tried, no matter what superhero powers I used, I had somehow failed. No matter what I did, no matter how I succeeded in saving the day, I just couldn’t find what God wanted me to do. Whatever He had in mind, I wasn’t strong enough, or smart enough, or superhero enough to pull it off.

  Ding-dong . . .

  ding-dong, ding-dong.

  Finally, I arrived at the door and opened it.

  “Hi, Sir, sniff-sniff, McDoogle.” It was little Willy Runeenoze. “I thought we should get an early start, I mean, with so much fun stuff to, cough-cough, cover.”

  “Fun stuff?”

  “Remember, you said, hack-hack, when you were done saving the world you’d, AH-CHOO! help me with diagramming sentences and all my other homework?”

  “Oh, that fun stuff.”

  “Are you finished yet?” he asked. “Saving the world, I mean?”

  “Oh, I’m finished all right,” I said. “In more ways than you know.”

  With that bit of cheery news, I opened the door wider and let him in . . . along with his shopping cart full of books.

  “Are all these . . . yours?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he wheezed. “I’ve got a little catching up to do.”

  So, with a heavy sigh, I directed him toward the kitchen table. Of course, it was a little embarrassing, going from World Class Superhero to World Class Superloser. But now that I was done trying to save the world, I needed to find another title.

  And so we began. . . .

  To be honest, Willy wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake. To be even more honest, I wasn’t sure he’d even been invited to the party. But I could see the little sneezing-wheezing machine trying, and that was good enough for me.

  To pass the time (and use my computer screen as a shield against flying germs), I pulled out Ol’ Betsy. Whenever Willy came across tough problems that involved new and mysterious tools for him to use (like dictionaries or multiplication tables), I’d turn him loose to explore them while I worked on my superhero story—hoping my fantasy version would turn out better than my real life. . . .

  When we last left Normal Dude and Fast Forward Fiend, they were beginning the obligatory fight scene that always happens at the end of these stories. Of course, it would involve plenty more

  fisssowitzzzzes

  and more of Normal Dude’s faking him out by talking siht ekil drawkcab.

  “What?” Fast Forward Fiend demands.

  “.siht ekil drawkcaB”

  “Oh, yeah, well take this!”

  fisssowitzzzz...

  But Dude is unphased and counters with

  “H

  o

  w

  ’b

  o

  u

  t

  t

  h

  i

  s?” he asks vertically.

  “Vertically!?” the bad boy cries.

  “How can anyone talk vertically?!”

  fisssowitzzzz...

  “O

  r

  t

  h

  i

  s?” our hero asks diagonally.

  “Please!” Fast Forward Fiend cries. “This is insanity. We can’t go on like this!”

  n

  h t?” our hero asks randomly.

  “W o

  y

  “Because we’re running out of pages in this book, that’s why!” Fast Forward Fiend shouts.

  Finally, with the logic and sympathy that all superheroes have, Normal Dude clears his throat and begins to talk normally: “Would you please holster that remote of yours so we can talk?”

  “But how can I beat you without my gizmo?”

  “We’ll just have to settle our differences normally by discussing them.”

  “But it’s been so long....I’m not sure I can remember what normal is,” Fast Forward Fiend says.

  “Exactly,” Normal Dude agrees. “Don’t you see what’s happening? By refusing to live in the now, you’re missing everything normal.”

  “But I’m getting to tomorrow.”

  “Without living today. Don’t you get it? Right now, this moment, can be just as fun or even better...if you take the time to live it.”

  Fast Forward Fiend scowls, scratching his head.

  Normal Dude continues. “Instead of always racing ahead to the next moment, try enjoying this one. And then, when it’s done, you can go to the next moment naturally.”

  “But that’s so...so——”

  “Normal?” Normal Dude asks.

  “Exactly.”

  “But isn’t that how God usually does things?”

  “You mean normally?” Fast Forward Fiend asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” Fast Forward Fiend hmms. “Maybe we can sit down over some hot chocolate somewhere and talk about this.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Great. Let me fisssowitzzzz us so we’re already there and——”

  “No, that’s okay,” Normal Dude says. “I’d rather take my time and enjoy the moments getting there.”

  “What a novel concept,” Fast Forward Fiend says. “I suppose I can give that a try.”

  And so, as the music begins and the credits roll, the two head off into the sunset to find some hot chocolate while discussing how God wants us to go through time totally and completely——

  “Normal?” Fast Forward Fiend asks.

  Our hero nods. “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “I read ahead to the next paragraph.”

  Normal Dude smiles. “But it’s true. How much happier we all would be if we would live each moment for what it is...enjoying every second at the speed God wants us to live it...totally and completely...

  (music swells to BIG finish)

  normal.”

  I stared at the screen. It was obviously one of my cheesier endings (but the best I could do with rusting fingers). Suddenly, to my surprise, more writing appeared:

  That’s so true, Wally.

  My eyes widened. Then I realized that I must have dozed off and was dreaming—which explained why even more words appeared on the screen:

  Your work catching those bank robbers

  was great (and I enjoyed the giggles).

  I blinked and read more.

  And I really liked your telling people

  about world hunger (even though the

  underwear stuff was weird).

  I fidgeted and kept reading.

  All those other things were thoughtful, too, but . . .

  I frowned, knowing He’d say they weren’t what He wanted.

  That’s right.

  I don’t need you in silly superhero suits

  with silly superhero gizmos. I just need you to be

  your normal, everyday self . . . kind of like

  this story you’ve been writing.

  But how can I help You by being normal? I thought.

  Normal is how I created you, and

  normal is how I expect you to help.

  I don’t . . . understand. You said You’d show me how to make the world a better place, but You never showed me a thing.

  That’s because you weren’t paying attention.

  Look around at what you can do normally, Wally.

  But . . .

  Before I could think up any more arguments, I jerked awake. I looked down at Ol’ Betsy’s screen. There was no fancy lettering on it. Nothing at all. Just my superhero story with the cheesy ending.

  I checked the room around me.


  More of nothing. It was just like it was before I had nodded off. Just some seminormal kid struggling to do some seminormal homework.

  Wait a minute! That was it!

  Not it . . . but him! Willy Runeenoze! God hadn’t wanted me doing fancy things, running off and having superhero adventures! He wanted me to help Willy! That’s how I was supposed to help make the world a better place! By helping Willy right here and now . . . just like my story.

  I couldn’t believe it. God did show me. Over and over again. But I was so busy looking for the glory stuff that I kept ignoring the . . . normal stuff.

  “How’s this look?” Willy asked, holding up his math problem.

  I glanced at his paper. To be honest, it looked pretty terrible. But that was okay, because I had all day to help him get it right. Granted, it wasn’t much. I mean, I wouldn’t be making the newspaper headlines or the TV shows. I wouldn’t even be saving people from burning buildings (let alone paying for their dry cleaning) . . . at least for now.

  Still, I would be making the world a better place.

  Willy looked at me and sniffed. “Sir Mc, ahchoo! Doogle?”

  I smiled and reached for the paper. “Just call me Wally,” I said. “That sounds a lot more . . . normal. Now, let’s see what we can do to fix this.”

  And so, together, we worked through the day . . . Willy-the-natural-born-sneezer and me, Wally-the-natural-born-loser. Then again, maybe I wasn’t such a loser after all, not when I was doing stufflike this. Don’t get me wrong. I figured there would be plenty of time for adventures (and misadventures) in the future. But for now I was perfectly content to be doing what was in front of me here and now. Perfectly content to be helping out where I could—in ways that were perfectly and naturally . . . normal.

  The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle

  You’ll want to

  read them all.

  #1—My Life As a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce

  (ISBN-13: 978-1-4003-0571-1; ISBN-10: 0-8499-3402-8)

  #2—My Life As Alien Monster Bait

  (ISBN-13: 978-0-8499-3402-5; ISBN-10: 0-8499-3403-6)

  #3—My Life As a Broken Bungee Cord

  (ISBN-13: 978-0-8499-3404-9; ISBN-10: 0-8499-3404-4)