Funny Boy Takes on the Chit-Chatting Cheeses from Chattanooga

by Dan Gutman

  FUNNY BOY

  TAKES ON THE

  CHITCHATTING

  CHEESES FROM

  CHATTANOOGA

  Dan Gutman

  Illustrated by Mike Dietz

  Dedicated to George Crum,

  the inventor of the potato chip.

  Look it up if you don’t believe me.

  Contents

  Note to the Reader

  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

  NOTE TO READER: If you are looking for a well-written, educational book with a deep and positive message that will impress your parents and teacher with how smart you are, guess what? You picked the wrong book! Ha-ha-ha-ha!

  This book is for laughs. If there is anything in this book that you find personally offensive, 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 words such as dork, booger, moron, or armpit. If you see any words like those, alert the authorities.

  Introduction

  AH, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

  Thought you’d gotten rid of me, didn’t you? Nice try! Well, I’m back, and funnier than ever!

  I am Funny Boy, defender of all that is evil and enemy to all that is good. Oops, I mean the other way around! I have been sent here to save Earth from the unspeakably disgusting aliens that have been landing and inhabiting your planet right under your very noses.

  Wake up, Earth people! While you sleep, go to school, and watch television, alien sleazeballs are threatening your way of life. It is up to me, and only me, to defend your planet from the forces of evil and wickedness wherever I might find them. My weapons: jokes, puns, quips, wisecracks, and sometimes ... if necessary ... toilet humor.

  You probably think I’m crazy. Fine. But keep this in mind: In Funny Boy #1, I used my superior sense of humor to save Earth from the airsick alien from Andromeda. In Funny Boy #2, I used my superior sense of humor to save Earth from the bubble-brained barbers from the Big Bang.

  Do you still doubt that aliens are in your midst? And can you continue to doubt the power of my sense of humor?

  This is no joke, Earth people. Something very curious occurred to me after I drove off those bubble-brained barbers. Not only were aliens attacking Earth, I realized, but they were attacking ... in alphabetical order!

  If my theory is correct, the next alien force will start with the letter C. It could be alien communists, or alien cartoonists. Alien condominiums or alien contact lenses. I have to watch for the letter C very carefully.

  I know what you’re thinking. If Funny Boy truly saved Earth twice, how come you didn’t hear about it on the news? How come nobody brought a current events report about it to school?

  Well, I’ll tell you why. There’s a massive government cover-up going on. You see, your government is so petrified that people will panic, they invent ridiculous stories so the public won’t know about alien invasions.

  You know those Tickle Me Elmo dolls that were so popular for a while? You probably thought they were just adorable talking toys. Well, think again. Millions of those things were programmed to blow up the first time they were tickled on Christmas morning. But thanks to me, it didn’t happen.

  That’s okay, you don’t have to thank me now. I was just doing my job. The satisfaction of having saved the planet is enough reward for me.

  Just to let you know, I’ve got my eye on this Harry Potter kid, too. I don’t trust him.

  I can prove to you that there’s a government cover-up aimed at preventing the general public from finding out about all the alien attacks on Earth. Just the other day I was watching the news and they were talking about a meteor shower that people would be able to see that night.

  Ha! I knew perfectly well that meteors don’t take showers. In fact, they hardly bathe at all. That meteor shower was an invasion by some very evil aliens who wanted to turn your entire state of Nevada into a desert. Lucky for you, I was around to stop them.

  So if you want to know the truth about what’s going on up in the sky at night, listen to me. Believe me, brother, it’s scary out there. If you think that airsick alien and those bubble-brained barbers were tough, wait until you read about the intergalactic dirtball I had to do battle with this time. ...

  —Funny Boy

  CHAPTER 1

  WHICH YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ IF YOU ALREADY READ THE FIRST TWO FUNNY BOY BOOKS, BUT YOU CAN IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT, OR HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE.

  Why was 6 afraid of 7?

  Because 7 8 9.

  That was one of the first jokes I heard when I landed on Earth. You see, I was born on Crouton, a distant planet about the size of Uranus. The planet Uranus, that is.

  Crouton is much like Earth, with a few exceptions. For instance, Earth rotates on its axis, while Crouton rotates on a long barbecue skewer like a gigantic rotisserie chicken.

  When my rocket ship crash-landed on Earth after the four-day voyage from Crouton, I realized three things:

  My dog, Punch, who was in the rocket ship with me, now had the power to speak due to some irregularity in Earth’s atmosphere.

  My sense of humor, which was always very powerful on Crouton, suddenly had supernatural strength. I had become frighteningly funny.

  But most of all, I realized that I had to go to the bathroom really badly.

  Punch and I were rescued by a nice man named Bob Foster. Because his name was already Foster, I asked him if he would be my foster father. Bob Foster’s response was to suggest that I jump in a lake.

  Taking a swim sounded like a terrific idea. I could tell that Bob Foster really cared about my well-being. Later, after Punch and I had dried off, we went over to Bob Foster’s house for a visit. Bob Foster invited us to spend the night after we chained ourselves to his coffee table.

  The rest, as they say, is history. Bob Foster, Punch, and I have become one big happy family.

  I skipped a lot of the details, of course. I didn’t tell you anything about the underwear factory. And I didn’t tell you about the time Punch peed on Millard Fillmore’s rug at the White House. You can read about them in Funny Boy #1 and #2 if you want.

  Go ahead. Read those books. The rest of us will wait here. When you finish reading #1 and #2, we’ll all move on to the next chapter, and my next adventure.

  CHAPTER 2

  YOU DON’T HAVE TO READ THIS CHAPTER EITHER, BUT YOU MIGHT WANT TO, BECAUSE IT SETS UP THE REST OF THIS RIDICULOUS STORY, AND IF YOU DON’T READ IT, YOU KINDA WON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON LATER.

  It all began the day the cows went on strike.

  It was a cold and dreary Texas day. The clouds were rolling in on the plains and the wind was blowing furiously.

  Not that any of that matters, of course. But books always seem to say what the weather is like. Don’t you just hate that? If you’re ever reading a book and the author starts describing the weather, just skip ahead to the next paragraph. Believe me, you won’t miss a thing. They just put that stuff in to fill pages.

  Anyway, I was telling you about the day the cows went on strike.

  It seems that some scientists had used bioengineering to clone a herd of cows that were far more intelligen
t than normal cows. These cows, it seems, started wondering what we humans were doing with all the milk we were taking away from them every day. When they found that we were not only drinking it but also turning it into cheese, they got really upset. So they went on strike, refusing to give any more milk until they were given a say on what we humans did with it.

  “No pasteurization without representation,” they mooed.

  Well, to make a long story short, these super-intelligent cows spread the word to the average-intelligent cows. And the average-intelligent cows spread the word to the dumb cows. The dumb cows, not really knowing what to do with this information, told the goats.

  The next thing you know, there was a serious worldwide cheese shortage.

  What does any of this have to do with aliens attacking Earth? Oh, you’re gonna find out. Believe me, you’re gonna find out.

  The day the cows went on strike, I was making my usual rounds as Funny Boy, walking the streets of San Antonio, Texas, where I live. I was searching for evildoers so I could rid the world of them.

  I was looking pretty sharp in my Funny Boy costume—yellow cape over my pajamas and a fake nose and glasses.

  There weren’t any evildoers around, which really bummed me out. Without evildoers, there was no need for Funny Boy, just as if there were no car crashes, there would be no need for automotive repair shops.

  But suddenly, I spotted a guy who was clearly up to no good.

  He was driving an odd-looking little truck slowly down the street. Every so often, he would stop the truck and get out. He had a goofy-looking blue hat on, and a big bag over his shoulder. He got out of the truck and walked up to people’s houses. Then, without even asking, he would take some stuff out of his bag and just push it through a slot in the front door. After that, he would just walk away and do the same thing to the next house.

  “Halt, evildoer!” I shouted, leaping into his path before he could commit any more crimes.

  “What can I do for you, sonny boy?”

  “My name is not sonny boy,” I informed him. “It’s Funny Boy. And you’re under arrest!”

  “What for?”

  “Illegal dumping,” I snapped. “You can’t just throw garbage into people’s houses and walk away like nothing happened.”

  “But I’m a mailman!” the guy protested.

  “I’m not falling for that,” I retorted with a sneer. “All men are male men.”

  The guy started laughing, so I knew it would not be long before he had ceased his illegal activities. As you may know, people find it very difficult to commit crimes and laugh at the same time.

  “As Funny Boy,” I continued, “it is my duty to use jokes and humor to make criminals obey the laws of the land.”

  “So you’re going to tell me jokes?”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “What do you call a boy with three eyes?”

  “What?”

  “Seymour.”

  “That’s terrible,” the man groaned. “Please stop that.”

  “I have not yet begun to unleash the power of my humor!” I shouted. “Why don’t elephants smoke?”

  “Why?”

  “They can’t fit their butts in the ashtray.”

  “Okay, okay,” he whimpered, covering his ears. “I’ve heard enough. Please stop telling jokes.”

  “I will stop telling jokes if you stop dumping your trash into other people’s houses.”

  “Anything, anything.”

  By now you are certainly asking yourself what a cheese shortage and mailmen have to do with aliens attacking Earth. You’re probably yelling, “Get to the point!”

  Okay, I’ll get to the point.

  That very night, four enormous cheeses fell from the sky, and one of them landed on top of a mailman in Appleton, Wisconsin.

  CHAPTER 3

  YOU MIGHT WANT TO READ THIS CHAPTER BECAUSE THIS IS WHEN THE ALIENS FIRST ARRIVE AND IT’S REALLY COOL. BUT HEY, IT’S A FREE COUNTRY; AND IF YOU DON’T READ IT, NOBODY’S GONNA PUT YOU IN JAIL OR ANYTHING.

  We heard about the falling cheeses because Bob Foster, my dog, Punch, and I were sitting in the living room that night watching the Food Network on TV. They were showing a documentary about eggplant.

  “Why do we have to watch the Food Network?” Punch asked Bob Foster. “You get over a hundred different channels. Can’t we watch something else?”

  “What’s wrong with the Food Network?” Bob asked.

  “It’s a whole network about food!” Punch and I wailed.

  “Okay, okay,” Bob said, picking up the remote control. “I’ll switch to the Weather Channel.”

  “No!” Punch and I screamed. “Not the Weather Channel!”

  At that moment, the words SPECIAL REPORT flashed on the screen. The three of us stopped arguing. There was a lady on the screen holding a microphone.

  “We interrupt ‘The History of Eggplant’ for this special bulletin,” the reporter announced. “This is Pamela Lancashire reporting from Appleton, Wisconsin, where a very strange, unexplainable event has occurred. Let me explain. Minutes ago, four cheeses, each about the size of a school bus, fell from the sky and landed in the parking lot behind this Appleton post office. One of them flattened a mailman named George Gouda.”

  The camera pulled back to show an enormous wedge of cheese, with a crushed mail truck beneath it.

  “Wow!” Punch exclaimed. “In fact, bowwow!”

  (Ever since Punch arrived on Earth and realized she could talk, she has refused to bark like normal dogs.)

  “Imagine that!” I said. “Cheese falling from the sky!”

  “Did I ever tell you that cheese is my hobby?” Bob Foster commented.

  “Hobbies are coin collecting and building model cars,” I scoffed. “You can’t have cheese as a hobby.”

  “I’ve always been fascinated by cheese,” Bob continued. “Did you know that there are more than two thousand different kinds of cheese?”

  “Will you be quiet?” Punch interrupted. “I’m trying to watch TV.”

  The TV reporter bent down and put her microphone in the face of a mailman who was lying in a huge puddle of cheese. Melted cheese was dripping down his face.

  “We have an exclusive interview with the unfortunate letter carrier right now. What happened, Mr. Gouda?”

  “Cheeeeeese,” the man moaned groggily. He looked like he was in shock. “Cheeeeeeese.”

  “Mr. Gouda doesn’t appear to be in any condition to talk right now. But we’ll have a live interview with him just as soon as he is coherent.”

  “What does coherent mean?” I asked.

  “Something you’ll never be,” Punch cracked.

  NOTE TO READER: Coherent means “speaking or thinking in a way that makes sense.” See, you actually learned something! Who says this book has no educational value?

  “Back to our studio,” the reporter announced, “for the conclusion of ‘The History of Eggplant.’”

  “Wait!” shouted a voice on TV.

  “Who said that?” the reporter asked.

  “Me.”

  “Who’s me?”

  “I did. The cheese.”

  The reporter turned around, a puzzled, frightened look on her face. The camera panned down to the cheese. It was a horrifying sight. The cheese didn’t have a normal face. At least it didn’t have what we think of as a normal face. It had five eyes arranged like the Olympic rings. The mouth was a big, gaping hole. The face was floating around on the cheese. There was no nose.

  “A t-talking cheese?” the reporter asked. “A living, breathing cheese?”

  “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” Bob Foster commented.

  “How can a cheese talk?”

  “This wouldn’t be a very interesting book if the cheese didn’t talk,” Punch quipped.

  “Will you two be quiet?” I whispered. “She’s going to interview the cheese!”

  “Greetings, people of Earth!” The cheese spoke cheerfully, in perfect
English. “We come in piece. Ha-ha! Get it? Piece? Peace on Earth? Piece of cheese?”

  “That cheese is pretty funny,” Bob Foster noted.

  “For a cheese,” added Punch.

  “Do you have a name?” the stunned reporter asked.

  “Romano,” the cheese replied. “And behind me are my comrades, Mr. Fontina, Mr. Mozzarella, and our leader, Mr. Monterey Jack.”

  “Y-you are all named after types of cheese?” the reporter asked warily. “Well, what else would we be named after?” Romano asked.

  “Where are you from?” the reporter asked.

  “Chattanooga.”

  “Chattanooga, Tennessee?”

  “No, the planet Chattanooga. It is in another galaxy, forty million light-years from Earth. We have come to rescue your planet.”

  “Rescue us?” asked the reporter. “From what?”

  “The cheese shortage, of course!” replied Fontina.

  “Yes,” Mozzarella explained. “We understand there is an extreme shortage of cheese on your planet due to some uncooperative cows. We have the ability to clone ourselves and produce unlimited amounts of cheese. We will supply you with all the cheese you need.”

  “And that’s why you came to Earth?”

  “Well, also because you have cable TV.”

  “So you’re not some evil aliens who want to take over the planet or anything like that?” asked the reporter.

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” The cheeses all laughed nervously. “Nothing like that at all. We are friendly cheeses. Happy cheeses.”

  “So this is good news for all of us!” bubbled the reporter.

  “Cheeeeeeeeese,” moaned George Gouda.

  “Well, good news for most of us. Reporting live from Appleton, Wisconsin, this is Pamela Lancashire. We take you back to ‘The History of Eggplant.’ It’s not an egg. It’s not a plant. What is it?”