Funny Boy Meets the Dumbbell Dentist from Deimos (with Dangerous Dental Decay)
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FUNNY BOY MEETS THE DUMBBELL DENTIST FROM DEIMOS (WITH DANGEROUS DENTAL DECAY)
Dan Gutman
Dedicated to Joseph C. Gayetty,
the inventor of toilet paper.
Look it up if you don’t believe me.
Contents
Warning
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
A Biography of Dan Gutman
WARNING: IF YOU READ PAGE ONE OF THIS BOOK, YOUR I.Q. WILL DROP ONE POINT. IF YOU READ THE WHOLE BOOK, YOUR I.Q. WILL DROP TO ZERO.
Introduction
Ah, hahahahahahahahaha!
Prepare yourself, pathetic Earth creatures. For it is I, Funny Boy, the most amusing alien life form in the universe, who has come to save your butts once again. While you sit there on your bloated behinds playing your video games and eating your Frosted Mini-Wheats (which are so much better than both Mini-Wheats that are unfrosted and Frosted Maxi-Wheats), nogoodniks from outer space have been coming to destroy your sad and useless planet. And the only one willing to lift a finger to stop them has been me.
But do I get any thanks for saving your world? No. You don’t call. You don’t write. You don’t text. You don’t tweet.
You don’t care.
First, if you recall, came the airsick alien from Andromeda. Then there were those bubble-brained barbers from the Big Bang. After that came a bunch of chitchatting cheeses from Chattanooga. I defeated them all with my incredible arsenal of jokes, puns, wisecracks, toilet humor, and . . . uh . . . umm . . . comic timing.
That’s when it occurred to me . . . A . . . B . . . C . . . yes! The aliens were attacking in alphabetical order! Somewhere, out in the expanding confusion of the universe, alien sleazeballs and dirtbags (or is that sleazebags and dirtballs?) were actually waiting patiently in line to attack the Earth!
They may have been mass murderers, but at least they were polite!
Who would be next, I asked myself? They would have to start with the letter D, obviously. The Dominating Doofuses from Denmark? The Devilish Doormen from Delta 8? The Daydreaming Daytona Drivers from DeFuture?
Read on and find out.
Or don’t. You can just read this page over and over again if you want to. It’s a free country. Or you can go see if there’s anything good on TV. (As if!) There are lots of things you could be doing right now that have to be better than reading this junk.
But to be honest, you might as well go on reading the book at this point, because we’re not giving you your money back.
NOTE TO READER: If you’re looking for a well-written, heartwarming, educational story with a valuable life lesson or a positive message that will help you grow as a person and impress your parents and teachers, guess what? You picked the wrong book! Ha-ha-ha-ha!
If there’s anything in this book that you find personally offensive or in poor taste, consult your doctor immediately and ask about getting a sense of humor transplant.
The story you are about to read has been carefully screened by the Parents Advisory Board to be certain it has no inappropriate language, such as dork, booger, burping, lice, maggots, poop, pee, pus, snot, stupid, vomit, moron, armpit, or fart. If you see any words like those, close your eyes immediately before your brain turns to guacamole. Then alert the authorities, so all copies of this book—digital and otherwise—can be destroyed.
CHAPTER 1
THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE BOOK. THAT’S WHY IT’S NUMBER 1. IT PROBABLY THINKS IT’S THE BEST CHAPTER, AND GOES AROUND TELLING ALL THE OTHER CHAPTERS HOW GOOD IT IS. ARROGANT JERK!
Perhaps I should introduce myself.
“Self, I would like you to meet Funny Boy.”
Oh, wait. Sorry! Maybe instead of introducing myself to myself (which serves no purpose at all) I should introduce myself to you. That would make much more sense.
I, Funny Boy, was born on the planet Crouton, which is about the size of Uranus. The planet, that is. Crouton is shaped like a loaf of bread. In fact, my home planet is made of bread, and is quite tasty when toasted, with a little butter and strawberry jam. Yum!
Crouton is 160,000 million light years away in the Magellanic Cloud Galaxy. How far is that? It’s so far away that we don’t even have a McDonald’s on the whole planet. That’s far!
Thank God for Taco Bell!
In case you’re wondering (or even if you’re not) I am nine years old, or 3,287 in Croutonian years. You see, Crouton makes one revolution around the sun every day. My planet spins so fast, the centrifugal force makes it almost impossible to keep anything on a table, which always makes mealtime an adventure. Every time you put a plate on the table, it goes flying off and hits the ceiling. So does the table, for that matter. But we solved that problem. We eat on the ceiling.
But I digress, whatever that means.
When I was a little boy, I made the tragic mistake of shooting a spitball at my brother Bronk. Instead of grounding me, my parents did the opposite—they put me in a rocket ship and sent me to Earth. I considered this a bit of an overreaction, but what do I know about parenting skills?
Fortunately, my parents put my dog Punchline in the rocket with me and aimed it toward the Milky Way, even though I personally prefer Snickers. When Punch and I entered the Earth’s atmosphere, we were amazed to discover that Punch could not only talk, but could also sing all the songs from the classic Broadway show West Side Story.
Even more remarkable, my sense of humor, which was already highly developed on Crouton, had become enhanced to the point that it was now a superpower. On Earth, I could effortlessly come up with an endless series of jokes, puns, riddles and one-liners. Like this one . . .
Q: What did one eye say to the other?
A: Between you and me, something smells.
Something about Earth’s atmosphere had made me hilarious.
STOP! TURN BACK! IT’S NOT TOO LATE TO DITCH THIS AND READ THAT BOOK THAT WON THE NEWBERY AWARD.
My spaceship crash-landed near San Antonio, Texas, just as Punch was singing “I Feel Pretty.” In an amazing stroke of luck, we smashed through the roof of an underwear factory. Tons of Fruit of the Looms cushioned our fall and enabled Punch and me to survive the impact. We also received free underwear for life.
Or I did, anyway. Punch prefers to parade around underwearless. She is, after all, a dog. On Crouton as on Earth, dogs do not wear underwear. But they do wear wristwatches. Why would a dog wear a wristwatch, you ask?
To tell time, of course!
When Punch and I landed in the underwear factory, we were discovered by a kindly underwear inspector named Bob Foster who became my foster father, whether he wanted to or not. He took us home against his will, and we became one big happy family, except for Bob, who wishes we would leave already.
Earth had been very, very good to me, and I wanted to do something to help my adopted planet. But what could I do? I had nothing except the clothes on my back, and I couldn’t exactly take them off. If I walked around naked I would get arrested, or have my life made into a reality TV show.
Then it hit me—I would be a force of good and use my super sense of humor to fight evil on my new planet! I would don a cape (well, a yellow-checked tablecloth) and a fake nose and
glasses to become a superhero I call . . . wait for it . . . Funny Boy!
WARNING! THIS BOOK SHOULD NOT BE READ BY PEOPLE WITH BACK PAIN, WOMEN WHO ARE PREGNANT, OR ANYONE WHO HAS A BRAIN.
CHAPTER 2
THE BABY BOOM. WHEN FUNNY BOY ATTEMPTS TO APPREHEND A PERFECTLY INNOCENT PERSON ON THE STREET BECAUSE HE MISTAKENLY ASSUMES SHE’S COMMITTING A CRIME.
Why is “abbreviation” such a long word? I think there should be an abbreviation for “abbreviation.”
Anyway, it was a lovely sunny Sunday, with a few lazy clouds hanging in the sky. There was a slight breeze, and spring was in the air.
But the weather has absolutely nothing to do with the story, so there was really no reason to bring it up. Don’t you hate when they do that in books?
I was sitting in Bob Foster’s house minding my own business and watching some adorable cats play the piano on the Internet. Suddenly I felt a rumbling.
“It must be an earthquake!” I shouted to my dog Punch. “Quick! Let’s go hide in the bathtub!”
Somebody once told me that during an earthquake, you’re supposed to hide in the bathtub. I think it’s because you might get all dirty in the earthquake, so you’ll want to take a bath as soon as it’s over.
“It’s not an earthquake, you dope,” Punch told me. “That’s your stomach rumbling.”
Oh yeah. She was right. I was just hungry. So I went and got some Doritos.
(THIS IS CALLED FORESHADOWING, BY THE WAY. LATER IN THE STORY, FUNNY BOY IS GOING TO FEEL A RUMBLING AGAIN, BUT IT’S GOING TO BE REAL RUMBLING, BECAUSE THE EARTH WILL BE INVADED BY SOME INTERGALACTIC NUTJOBS! ONLY REALLY HIGH-QUALITY LITERATURE HAS STUFF LIKE FORESHADOWING.)
Bob Foster wasn’t home. He had to work over the weekend, inspecting underwear at the factory. Just so you know, Bob inspects underwear as it comes off the assembly line, not underwear that people are wearing. If you try to inspect underwear that people are wearing, they scream and you get thrown in jail.
When Bob inspects underwear, he puts a little slip of paper inside that says INSPECTED BY BOB. So if you ever buy underwear and there’s a slip of paper inside that says INSPECTED BY BOB, that means that Bob inspected it. Inspecting underwear is a tough job, but it’s a lot easier than cutting out those leg holes.
Anyway, Punch said she wanted to go for a walk. Man, she has to go for a walk all the time! I would think that if a dog was smart enough to talk, it should be smart enough to use a toilet like the rest of us.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll take you out for a walk. Maybe we can catch some bad guys while we’re on the street.”
So after I ate a few more Doritos and watched a cat play Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, I put on my Funny Boy costume and we headed for the great outdoors.
You would think that bad guys would be all over the streets, wouldn’t you? I mean, on TV the streets are filled with robberies, murders, fires, kidnappings, carjackings, and people shooting guns and committing crimes all the time. But when we got out on the street, it was amazingly quiet and peaceful. The only person I saw was some lady pushing a suspicious-looking frilly basket with wheels.
“Halt!” I shouted to the lady.
“Good morning,” she replied. “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
“The weather doesn’t interest me,” I said. “I am Funny Boy, defender of all that is good in the universe! And you’re under arrest!”
“What did I do?” she asked, acting all innocent.
“I have reason to believe you have illegal contraband in that rolly basket,” I said. “Come with me. You have the right to remain silent.”
“But it’s just my baby,” she said, picking it up. “See?”
“Put that thing down!” I shouted. “Are you trying to get us all killed? Run, Punch! Run for your life! It’s a baby bomb!”
Have you heard about baby bombs? They’re bombs made in the shape of babies. Nobody suspects a thing, because babies are so cute. But when you pull the pacifier out of the mouth and you throw the baby bomb at your target, it explodes into a million pieces.
BOOM! A well-made baby bomb can reduce a small building to rubble in seconds.
“It’s not a baby bomb,” she said. “It’s my son, Benjy.”
“Oh, sure it is,” I told her. “Let me see that baby’s driver’s license.”
“He’s a baby!” she replied. “He doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
“Well, I can see that you’re not going to come quietly,” I said, “so I need to question you. Tell me, how do you communicate with a fish?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.
“Just answer the question,” I said. “How do you communicate with a fish?”
“Uh . . . you . . . drop it a line?” she guessed.
“Okay, you got lucky on that one,” I said. “Well, how about this? Why don’t oysters give any of their money to charity?”
“Uh, because they don’t have any money?” she guessed.
“No!” I informed her. “Oysters don’t give any of their money to charity because they’re shellfish. Get it? Shellfish? Selfish?”
“That was worse than the first one,” said the lady.
“I’m just getting warmed up,” I told her. “Now I’m going to bring out my ‘A’ material, and you will be unable to resist the awesome superpower of my humor.”
“Knock yourself out, Funny Boy.”
“A string walks into a bar and asks for a drink,” I said. “The bartender says, ‘We don’t serve strings in here.’ So the string walks out, rubs himself against the curb, and ties himself into a knot. Then he walks back into the bar and asks for a drink. The bartender says, ‘Aren’t you the string that was just here a few minutes ago?’ And the string replies, ‘No, I’m a frayed knot.’ ”
Get it—a frayed knot? Afraid not? That’s what I call high-quality humor!
“How could a string walk into a bar?” the lady asked.
“It can’t!” I told her. “That’s part of the reason why it’s funny!”
“Look, I’d really love to stay and chat with you,” the lady said, “but it’s time for Benjy’s nap. Say bye bye, Benjy.”
“Bye bye,” said Benjy. “Gurgle gurgle.”
“A baby bomb with a built-in speech synthesizer!” I marveled. “What will they think of next?”
“Just ignore him,” said Punch, who had kept her big mouth shut up until this point. “He’s an idiot.”
The lady looked at Punch.
“Uh, your dog just talked,” she told me.
“Yes, she did,” I replied, “and do you know what’s even more amazing than a talking dog?”
“What?”
“A spelling bee!” I told her. “Get it? Spelling bee?”
“I don’t get it.”
Clearly, this woman was not that bright and could not appreciate the immense magnitude of my wit.
“I’ll let you off with a warning this time,” I told her. “But don’t even think about blowing up one of those speech-synthesized baby bombs in this town. I’m keeping an eye on you, lady.”
SO, ARE YOU ENJOYING THE BOOK SO FAR? IS THERE ANYTHING WE CAN DO FOR YOU? A NICE COOL DRINK? A PILLOW? A NECK MASSAGE? ANYTHING TO MAKE YOUR READING EXPERIENCE MORE PLEASURABLE.
CHAPTER 3
WHERE DO FICTIONAL CHARACTERS GO TO THE BATHROOM?
I, Funny Boy, am a student at the Herby Dunn School in San Antonio, Texas. It was named after some guy named Herby Dunn, who invented the electric spoon. It was a spoon that you plugged into the wall. It didn’t have a motor in it, and it didn’t do anything, but it was technically an electrical appliance. There was also a solar-powered one that you could use if you found yourself eating lunch in a tanning booth.
My teacher is Mrs. Allison Wonderland. She’s really nice, and I can tell that she likes me a lot.
“Take a seat, Funny Boy,” said Mrs. Wonderland, when I arrived at school on Monday morning.
“Why?” I asked.
“Do you have some extra chairs you’re trying to get rid of?”
“Just sit down,” said Mrs. Wonderland, “and please, no funny stuff today. I had a rough weekend.”
“Of course not,” I said as I climbed on the seat and put my head near the floor and my feet on top of the desk.
“Sit up please, Funny Boy,” said Mrs. Wonderland.
“Well, which is it?” I asked. “Do you want me to sit up or do you want me to sit down? I could do both, but I might wind up in the hospital. Speaking of which, do you know what usually winds up in a hospital? Watches!”
All the kids looked at me.
“Do you want me to beat him up, Mrs. Wonderland?” asked Sal Monella from the back row.
“No thank you, Sal,” she replied. “But thank you for offering to help.”
Wow, what a nice guy! On planet Crouton, beating somebody up is what we say when we give somebody a present. At my last birthday party back home, ten kids beat me up. Then we had pizza and cake.
Sal is a huge guy whose fists are bigger than my whole head. He looks like a human meatball. He likes being in fourth grade so much that he’s been in it for ten years.
I looked around for Tupper Camembert, who is the love of my life, the most beautiful girl in the world, my reason for living, and the grandchild of Earl Tupper, the inventor of Tupperware.
“Where’s Tupper?” I asked the kid sitting next to me.
“She’s absent,” he replied. “Mrs. Wonderland said Tupper has a dentist appointment.”
“Oh no!” I sobbed. “How will I make it through a day without seeing my lovely Tupper?”
WARNING! THIS BOOK SHOULD NOT BE TAKEN INTERNALLY. READ IT OUTSIDE.
Allison Wonderland told us to open our social studies books and turn to the chapter on the presidents.