by Bill Myers
Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers
Series
SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF
. . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT
The Case of the . . .
Giggling Geeks •Chewable Worms
• Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •
Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle
My Life As . . .
a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait
• a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food •
Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target
• a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut •
Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler
• Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint •
a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver
• a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion •
a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)
• a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie •
Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion
• a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler •
a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback
• a Belching Baboon • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •
The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
www.Billmyers.com
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A BEAT-UP BASKETBALL BACKBOARD
© 2000 by Bill Myers
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotation is from the HOLY BIBLE, New International Version (NIV). ® 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a beat-up basketball backboard/ Bill Myers.
p. cm.—(The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle; #18)
Summary: Misadventures abound when the Ricko Slicko Advertising Agency arranges popularity and fame for clumsy Wally McDoogle, young writer of superhero stories.
ISBN 978-0-8499-4027-9
[1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Self-acceptance—Fiction. 3. Authorship—
Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Title
PZ7.M98234 My 2000
[Fic]—dc21
00-025058
CIP
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 14 QW 20 19 18 17 16 15
For Carl and David . . .
Thanks for the neat title, guys!
“Before I formed you in the womb I
knew you, before you were born I set
you apart.”
—Jeremiah 1:5 (NIV)
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. A Day in the Life of . . .
3. On the Ball (or under it . . . )
4. Rockin’ and Rollin’
5. The Fame Game
6. Willard Weirdness
7. Reality Pays a Visit
8. Blame the Fame
9. Let the Game Begin
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
All right, all right . . . maybe wanting to be the most popular kid in the world was a bit of a stretch. Still, I do have a certain reputation. Need somebody to trip over his shoelaces and fall flat on his face every time he gets in front of the class? I’m your man. Need someone for the eighth graders to turn upside down, stick his head into the toilet, and flush? Here I am.
So, when Ricko Slicko’s Advertising Agency claimed they were so good that they could take the biggest loser in the country and turn him into the most popular guy on the planet, I knew I qualified. Quickly, I fired off a letter to them saying that they had to pick me. Unfortunately, every kid I knew fired off a similar letter. This might have made the competition a little tough except for one minor detail . . . all their letters recommended me, too!
Now Ricko Slicko himself was downstairs talking with Mom and Dad to see if I really was the world’s biggest klutz, while I was upstairs in my bedroom praying hard that I would be chosen:
Please, God, I’ll do anything You want. You want me to empty the cat box for life? Done. You want me to change my socks more than once a week? Deal. You want me to eat my little sister’s cooking without coughing, gagging, and calling 911? Um, er, can I get back to You on that?
“Wally? Will you come down here a moment?” It was Mom! I could tell from her voice that a decision had been made.
All right! Great! And I didn’t even have to agree to eat my sister’s cooking!
But she wasn’t finished. “I’m afraid we’ve got some disappointing news for you.”
Okay God, how ’bout if I just eat the stuff that hasn’t been charcoal-ized?
I finished the prayer and quickly opened my door. A simple task for most human beings. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten the part about moving my head out of the way. (Hey, I can’t remember everything.)
K-FWAMP
K-THUD
shatter, shatter, shatter
The K-FWAMP was the hard door hitting my soft nose.
The K-THUD was that same hard door hitting my glasses.
And the shatter, shatter, shatter was the lenses to those glasses cracking into a hundred pieces, which would explain the hundred versions of the world I now saw, which would also explain . . .
“WHOA!”
not seeing my sister’s Barbie convertible sports car when I staggered into the hallway. No problem— except for the part where I stepped into the toy’s front seat, couldn’t get my foot out, and began to
roll, roll, roll, roll
down the hall. It’s not that I couldn’t remove my foot; it’s just that I wasn’t sure which one of the hundred feet below was my real foot.
Even that wouldn’t have been so bad, if it wasn’t for our cat, Collision, who, as you may recall, did not get his name by accident. At the moment, he was sitting on a table beside the giant aquarium at the end of the hall next to the steps. He was staring at Dad’s tropical fish, obviously dreaming of sushi, when
roll, roll, roll, roll
“LOOK OUT!” I cried. “COLLISION, LOOK OUT!”
K-RASH
“MEOWRRRRR!”
glug, glug, glug, glug
In sheer terror he sort of attached himself to my chest. Meanwhile, the aquarium toppled over, turning our stairway into a miniature water park—complete with five tropical fish and one boy shooting the rapids with his foot stuck in a Barbie sports car.
After watching my life pass before my eyes (scary all by itself) and telling God I’d even eat my sister’s charcoal-style cooking, I finally
Ouch!” K-“
hit the bottom of the stairs.
As far as crashes went, it wasn’t bad. On the McDoogle Scale of Mishaps, it only registered a 6.8, which explains why Mom an
d Dad weren’t too concerned. (It’s only when I break through the wall and into the neighbor’s house that they start to get nervous.)
“Wally,” Dad calmly said as he helped me to my feet, “I’d like you to meet Mr. Slicko of Ricko Slicko’s Advertising Agency and his Lovely Assistant, Doris.”
As I stood, I did my best to pry Collision off my chest. Finally, he released his claws and
MEOWRRR . . .
went flying across the room. Well, actually not “across the room,” more like directly on top of Lovely Assistant Doris’s head.
She screamed and hollered, then did a little dance. Collision howled and dug his claws in a little deeper . . . which made her dance a little harder . . . which made Collision howl even louder and dig his claws in even . . . well, you get the picture.
Meanwhile, I did my best to appear calm and collected as I tried to shake Mr. Slicko’s hand. (I would have appeared more calm and collected had I known which one of the hundred hands reaching to me was his.)
“Hello, Willard,” he said.
“Maff’s Mwally,” I answered. It was supposed to be, “That’s Wally,” but for some mysterious reason I was speaking a foreign language. Fortunately, the mystery didn’t last long as my Barbie-powered foot suddenly shot out from under me, causing me to crash to the floor and spit out Dad’s prized Zanzibari sunfish.
And there, staring down at my soaked and battered body, was Lovely Assistant Doris, who danced and screamed . . .
as Collision howled and hissed . . .
as five exotic fish flipped and flopped . . .
as the last of the water trickled down the stairs. Ricko Slicko turned to my parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. McDorkel,” he said, beaming, “I’ve changed my mind. Your boy is exactly what we’re looking for.”
That night, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. Think of it: Me, Wally-the-Walking-Disaster-Area McDoogle, becoming the most popular guy in the world. Was such a thing possible? Granted, people had been convinced that Pokémon cards were actually worth trading, but to get people to believe that I was actually popular? What’s next? Convincing them that a book with a character named Harry Potter could actually sell? Was there no end to the miracles that could be accomplished?
To help pass the time, I reached for Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer. Maybe writing one of my superhero stories would help me unwind. I opened the screen, punched on the power, and went to work . . .
Our superhero, the ever-popular and always-careful-to-brush-between-meals ImaginMan, looks out his spacecraft window. To his surprise he sees a giant flock of meteors flying straight for him. Before he has a chance to ask if meteors really fly in flocks (or do they travel in herds or schools, and if it’s schools does that mean they go through different grades until they graduate—–and more important, who cares?) he fires his retrorockets to dodge those rascally rocks.
He dodges to the left. They’re still coming.
He dodges to the right. And still they’re coming.
In a flash of heroic thinking our hero heroically thinks: Uh-oh, I’m dead!
Suddenly, he recalls his newly installed Meteor Eater (sold at Intergalactic department stores everywhere).With one flick of the switch he releases a powerful spray that covers the deadly rocks and immediately turns them into Jell-O pudding (your choice of chocolate or vanilla).
“Oh, boy!” he shouts as he reaches for a bowl and spoon. “Dessert!”
The blobs of pudding splatter against the front of the ship as ImaginMan sends out his trusted robot, R-2 M-NOT, to scrape off the delectable delicacies and bring them in.
Then, just when you’d think things couldn’t get any weirder
BRR-ING
the phone on his desk rings. The only problem is,
BRR-ING,
his spaceship doesn’t have a desk. Come to think of it,
BRR-ING,
it doesn’t have a telephone, either.
Suddenly, he remembers he’s reading a book. That’s right, it is merely his finely tuned imagination (along with some incredible writing on this author’s part) that made him feel he was dodging meteors and eating pudding.
BRR-ING
He slams the book shut and races to the phone to beat the fourth ring, before that pesky answering machine kicks in.
“Hello?” he says.
“ImaginMan, is that you?”
ImaginMan strains to listen, but it’s hard to hear over all the BLEEPS, PINGS, and BLAMS going on in the background.
“Who is this?” he shouts.
“The Vice President of the United States.”
BLEEP, PING, BLAM “Sir, I can barely hear you. What’s
going on? What’s all that noise?”
“It’s horrible!” the Vice President cries. “It’s hideous! It’s horrendous! It’s——”
“I get the picture,” our hero interrupts. “Are you sure? ’Cause I got a few more ‘H’ words. How ’bout horrific or ——”
“Sir, where are you?”
“I’m hiding under the President’s desk.”
“Why?”
“That awful alien from the planet Brain Freeze is trying to take over the world again.”
“You don’t mean——”
“That’s right, it’s that villainously vile villain . . . (insert scary music here) . . . KidVid! He’s on the loose and he’s got a brand-new plan.”
BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP “What is it this time, sir?”
“He’s passing out free computer games to everyone in our world.”
PING, PING, PING
“I don’t understand. How’s that a problem?”
“Soon everyone on Earth will become so addicted to these mindless games that his planet will invade ours without a fight.”
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM
“What’s going on in the background?” “Our beloved . . . President”——the Vice President’s voice grows weaker—— “they’ve already . . . got him . . . hooked.” “You mean on the game?”
“Yes! I’m the only one left.” His voice grows more and more faint. “Can . . . no longer . . . resist.”
“Sir,” our hero shouts, “you’ve got to hang on!”
“Must . . . play . . . game.”
“Mr. Vice President! Don’t give in to its power! Don’t give in!”
But it is too late. Now the only thing our hero hears over the phone is
BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP
PING, PING, PING
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM
and background voices speaking in dreaded Videoese: “Cool, dude . . . awesome shot ...”
Quicker than you can ask yourself, “Hey, is Wally picking on video games?” our hero races to his front door, throws it open, and runs out into the street.
It’s worse than he suspects. The streets are deserted. No one is working, no one is shopping, no one is going to school. Everyone has called in sick and is staying home, glued to their TV screens and computers. All our hero hears through the open windows are mindless grunts and groans, accompanied by even more mindless comments.
It’s terrible, unbelievable, almost as bad as watching professional wrestling. (Well, not quite, but you get the drift.) And it’s all the work of (more scary music, please) KidVid! ImaginMan must act fast. It’s time to do what he has to do, so he better hurry and do it.
Translation: It wouldn’t hurt to get a move on.
He spins around, races back into his house where he slips into his ImaginCape, then enters his ImaginCave where his ImaginMobile is idling, waiting for him to hop in, when suddenly——
“Wally! Wally, are you in bed?”
I looked up from Ol’ Betsy a little startled. “Yes, Mom,” I called out. “I’m sound asleep.” “Nice try, son. Now get to bed; tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Okay,” I called.
I shut Ol’ Betsy down and snapped off my bedroom light. I suspected that the only thing as weird as my ImaginMan story would be what I would face tomorrow—what I would have to
do to become the most popular kid in the world.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Tomorrow wouldn’t be as weird as my superhero story, it would be weirder. A lot weirder.
Chapter 2
A Day in the Life of . . .
“Willard, wake up now. Wake up.”
I quietly rolled over, . . .
gently yawned, . . .
slowly opened my eyes, and . . .
LEAPED OUT OF BED SCREAMING FOR MY LIFE
“AUGHHHHH!”
My room was packed tighter than Aunt Thelma’s girdle. At least a half-dozen strangers were crammed inside, with twice that many TV lights blazing away. And every eye, every light was focused upon yours truly.
Now, being someone who always keeps his cool, especially in unusual situations, I calmly opened my mouth and, at the top of my lungs, shrieked,
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?!”
“Relax,” a familiar voice called from behind me, “everything’s okay.”
I twirled around to see Ricko Slicko by a cameraman who was videotaping my every move. “This is going out LIVE to fifty million households across the nation,” he said.
“It is?” I gave an embarrassed little smile.
“That’s right.” He grinned.
Instantly, I did what any self-respecting person appearing in fifty million households would do . . . I looked down to make sure the front of my pj’s was buttoned.
Good. Now on to less important issues. “W-w-what’s going on?” I stammered.
“It’s all part of my campaign,” Mr. Slicko replied. “It’s a new TV show called A Day in the Life of Willard McDorkel.”
“That’s ‘Wally McDoogle,’” I corrected.
“Whatever. The point is, you’ve got an entire nation watching you this very moment. Now is the time to impress them all.”
I turned back to the camera, once again feeling my mouth twist into a self-conscious grin.
“Is there anything you’d like to say to them?” he asked.
“Me?” I kinda croaked.
“That’s right, Willard. Is there anything you’d like to say to more than fifty million people? This is your big chance.”
My heart pounded. My mind raced. He was right, this was my big moment. All I had to do was say something clever, something brilliant, something that would make me the most popular person in the country. But what? What could I possibly say to impress an entire nation?