by Dan Gutman
Around seven o’clock the next evening, in the town of Cape May at the southernmost tip of New Jersey, precipitation began to fall from the sky.
Now, you may think the weather had nothing to do with this story. In fact, it had everything to do with this story.
Ordinarily, the word “precipitation” means rain or snow. But what fell from the sky were little flecks of cheddar cheese.
At first, nobody noticed anything unusual. It looked like snow flurries. But gradually, people realized it wasn’t snow at all.
A little girl stuck out her tongue to catch a snowflake, and she spat it out immediately. A driver flipped on his windshield wiper and found that it smeared the flakes across the windshield. A lady felt some flakes land on her arms and wondered why they didn’t feel cold.
The cheese stuck to the ground and soon the town of Cape May was blanketed in white. Friends started calling other friends on the phone, and people came running out of their houses to see if the raining cheese was some kind of joke. In minutes, the whole town knew the truth.
New Jersey was getting cheesed.
The cheese storm moved up the coastline and soon accumulations of three inches of cheese were reported all over the state. Trenton, the state capital, was cheesed in. Northern New Jersey was paralyzed.
At first people thought it was funny. Kids celebrated because they wouldn’t have to go to school the next day. They had cheese-ball fights and built cheesemen in their backyards. Some people started shoveling the cheese off their driveways or brushing it off their cars so they would be able to drive to work in the morning.
But there would be no work the next morning. By six o’clock, the National Weather Service reported that a foot of cheese had fallen on some parts of New Jersey, with drifts as high as three feet. All the schools in the state were closed.
It didn’t stop. It got worse. Big globs of cheddar cheese fell from the sky. Cars got stuck in it. It clogged up sewers and chimneys. People couldn’t open up their front doors to get outside. The brave souls who tried to trudge through all the cheese to get to supermarkets found their boots got stuck in the glop until they couldn’t move. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as all the supermarkets were shut down and boarded up to prevent looting.
The Garden State Parkway, a highway that crosses the state from top to bottom, became a river of cheese. Cars just stopped in the middle of the road with cheese up to the axles. Tow trucks couldn’t move.
Newark Airport was closed. The Lincoln and Holland tunnels going into New York City were closed. So was the George Washington Bridge. Bus and train service was halted. Police, fire, and ambulance crews prepared for the worst.
As temperatures got higher during the day, the cheese began to melt slightly. By noon it was a sloppy, oozing, gooey mess. Helicopters flying overhead reported that the state of New Jersey looked like a giant undercooked pizza.
The most amazing thing was, New Jersey was the only state that got cheesed. Not a drop fell on Pennsylvania, New York, or Delaware, all of which border the state.
The rest of the country watched what was happening with amazement and horror. JERSEY GETS CHEESED! shouted the headline of the New York Post. Emergency crews rushed to the state to rescue people who were trapped inside their houses. When the President declared the entire state of New Jersey to be a disaster area, comedians joked that they’d thought New Jersey already was a disaster area.
I watched the cheese storm on the Weather Channel with Bob Foster and my dog, Punch.
“What could be causing it?” Punch asked. “Cheese doesn’t just fall from the sky.”
“Maybe it’s a hoax,” I guessed.
“It’s no hoax,” Bob Foster replied, with a worried expression on his face. “It has something to do with those cheeses in Wisconsin. I told you they weren’t just normal cheeses.”
Cheesy trivia from Bob Foster: 80 percent of the cheese made in the United States is cheddar. Cheddar cheese is named for a village in southwestern England, where they have made this kind of cheese since the 12th century!
CHAPTER 8
IF YOU MAKE IT TO THE END OF THIS CHAPTER, YOU’LL BE HALFWAY THROUGH THIS STUPID BOOK. THAT’S NOTHING TO BRAG ABOUT, MIND YOU.
The cheese storm that devastated New Jersey stunned and shocked the nation. We watched the horrifying images on TV that evening.
Hundred-year-old trees had been toppled over by tons of melted cheese clinging to their branches. Houses were almost completely covered by enormous mounds of cheese. We saw people standing on their rooftops waving to be rescued. It was very upsetting, especially to Bob Foster, whose hobby was cheese.
It seemed fairly obvious that Monterey Jack, Romano, Fontina, and Mozzarella had something to do with what had happened in New Jersey. The alien cheeses, we realized now, had not come to Earth to help America through our cheese shortage. Oh no, that was just a story they made up to mask their true intentions.
We had to face reality. Monterey Jack, Romano, Fontina, and Mozzarella were evil. And they were angry. They clearly had other plans for Earth. We just didn’t know what those plans were yet.
It was quiet around the dinner table that evening. Bob Foster, who liked to serve cheese at just about every meal, prepared a cheese-free dinner. We discussed how lucky we were to be living in Texas, so far away from the gooey cheese fields of New Jersey. Even I wasn’t in the mood to crack any jokes.
“Let me think,” Bob Foster said, rubbing his chin. “Cheese is very high in protein and rich in calcium and vitamin A. ...
“So?” Punch asked.
“What does that have to do with what happened?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what we can do to stop this insane cheese menace.”
“They’re alien cheeses, right?” Punch asked. “Well, there’s only one person who can stop aliens.”
I was just about to eat a spoonful of my SpaghettiOs when I realized that Bob Foster and Punch were staring at me.
“Funny Boy,” Punch urged, “you’ve got to do something!”
“Me? Wh-what can I do?”
“You defeated the airsick alien, didn’t you?” Punch asked.
“Yeah, she was no match for my sense of humor.”
“You defeated those bubble-brained barbers, didn’t you?” Bob Foster asked.
“I just told them jokes,” I explained. “What do you expect me to do, tell jokes to a cheese?”
“Yes!” Punch and Bob Foster shouted at the same time.
I didn’t think it would work. Reluctantly, I agreed to use the superpower of my sense of humor to battle the cheeses.
But first we had to find them. When the dinner dishes had been cleared away, Bob Foster tuned his TV in to CNN. The cheesing of New Jersey was the top story, but CNN reported that the cheeses had gone into hiding.
It was the same on ABC, CBS, NBC, TNT, HBO, PBS, and every other network with three initials. None of them had been able to locate the cheeses for an interview. Suddenly, the cheeses weren’t talking.
When the news was over, Bob Foster flipped to the Food Channel for a few minutes before bedtime. They were in the middle of a cooking show with Chef Rick Cotta when suddenly the picture went blank. A moment passed, and then Mozzarella’s ugly “face” filled the screen.
“Listen here, Earthlings! Now our true story can be told. You have angered us! No more Mr. Nice Cheese. Now we are going to make you pay.”
Chef Cotta was now tied to a chair and covered with a giant glop of cheese.
“B-but why are you so angry?” Chef Cotta asked through the cheese that was dripping down his face. “What have we done to you?”
“You eat cheese!” Mozzarella thundered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You eat cheese!” Mozzarella repeated. “And we are cheese!”
“You mean you are angry because we eat your kind?” the chef asked, disbelieving.
“He’s pretty smart, for a human,” snickered Fontina.
“W-we never
realized that cheese had feelings,” the chef admitted.
“How do you think we feel when you grill us, fry us, grate us, melt us, and dribble us on tortilla chips to make nachos?” asked Mozzarella. “It’s disgusting!”
“How would you like it if you came to our planet and found we ate human beings?” asked Fontina. “What if we ate grilled human sandwiches? What if we made macaroni-and-human dinners for our children? How would you feel if we spread humans on bagels, put you on crackers, and cooked you on pizzas? What if we munched on Human Doodles?”
“B-b-but ... there are hundreds of different kinds of cheeses,” Chef Cotta asked. “There must be at least one that you will allow us to eat.”
“There is only one kind of cheese that we despise ... American cheese! And now America and the planet Earth must die!”
“B-b-but ... w-we had no idea.”
“It is too late for apologies, Earthling! The cheesing of New Jersey was just a small demonstration of our power. If you do not give us what we want, we will unleash the full fury of our cheese arsenal and you will be extremely sorry you crossed us.”
“What do you want? What are your demands?”
“I’m not going to negotiate with a chef even if you do have your own TV show. Bring us ... the President of the United States of America!”
Congratulations! It’s halftime. You have reached the exact middle point of this book. This would be a good time to stretch your legs, have a snack, use the bathroom, and so on. Enjoy the second half!
CHAPTER 9
I’M GETTINC TIRED OF THINKING UP THESE DUMB CHAPTER TITLES. JUST KEEP READING AND LEAVE ME ALONE, OKAY?
Five minutes after the alien cheeses demanded on national TV to speak to the President of the United States, the phone rang in Bob Foster’s kitchen. Bob Foster picked it up.
“It’s President Purgallin!” Bob Foster whispered, handing me the phone excitedly.
“Funny Boy, this is Myles Purgallin,” the President barked.
“Yes, sir!” I blurted, snapping to attention.
“I need you to meet me in Appleton, Wisconsin, first thing in the morning!”
Wow! A national emergency takes place and the first person the President of the United States calls is me. What an honor. It was the most exciting moment of my life. My heart was pounding.
“I’ve got school in the morning,” I told President Purgallin. “How about Saturday?”
“Earth may be destroyed by Saturday!”
This is great, I thought to myself! If Earth were destroyed by Saturday, I wouldn’t ever have to do homework again! I wouldn’t have to deal with teachers or books or pencils or report cards because we’d all be dead and ...
“I’ll be right there,” I told the President.
Quickly, Bob Foster wrote a note to my teacher:
DEAR MRS. WONDERLAND,
PLEASE EXCUSE FUNNY BOY FROM SCHOOL TODAY. HE HAS TO GO TO WISCONSIN TO PREVENT GIANT CHEESES FROM TAKING OVER EARTH. I WILL PICK UP HIS HOMEWORK TOMORROW, UNLESS OF COURSE THE WORLD IS DESTROYED LATER THIS AFTERNOON.
SINCERELY,
BOB FOSTER
Bob Foster, Punch, and I rushed to Wisconsin for our meeting with President Purgallin.
“Did you know,” Bob Foster informed us as we boarded the plane, “that the average American eats ten pounds of cheese each year?”
“Will you knock it off?” Punch screeched. “The whole planet is gonna be destroyed, and you’re giving us cheese trivia.”
A long white limousine was waiting for us when we got off the plane. A Secret Service agent hopped out and opened the door for us. The President was waiting inside the car.
“Good to see you again, Funny Kid,” the President said, sticking out his hand.
“That’s Funny Boy, sir,” I corrected him.
“Whatever. As you know, Earth is being threatened by some enormous cheeses from outer space. Once again I need your unique gift of humor to repel this threat to our existence.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Mr. President,” Bob Foster commented, “speaking of cheese, did you know that in the country of Tibet, yaks supply milk for cheese? Cheese is also made from donkey milk, zebra milk, and camel milk.”
The President looked at Bob Foster for a long moment.
“Who is this guy?” he asked.
“That’s Bob Foster, sir. Remember? He’s my foster father. He knows a lot about cheese. Maybe he can help us defeat this cheese menace.”
“You’ve got to know what you’re up against, Mr. President,” Bob Foster said. “Who was it who once said, ‘Know thy enemy’?”
“Somebody with bad grammar,” the President grunted.
The President looked like he was in a bad mood. It must be difficult running the country, it occurred to me. Every day you have to deal with the economy, Congress, conflicts with other nations, domestic problems. He certainly had enough problems to deal with. And now, enormous cheeses.
The limo pulled onto the highway, WELCOME TO WISCONSIN, a billboard read, AMERICA’S DAIRYLAND.
“I hate cheese,” the President muttered.
It wasn’t long before we had reached Appleton. The limo pulled up to a large barn, which the cheeses were apparently using as their headquarters for world domination.
“Let me do the talking,” the President told me. “I’ll find out what they’re up to. Then we’ll have you use your super power of humor.”
“Okay.”
The barn door opened and we walked inside. And there they were. Four enormous cheeses, dripping and oozing. They looked even bigger than they did on TV. And they were certainly smellier. The odor was overpowering. It was disgusting. I used my cape to cover my nose.
“So this is the President of the United States,” Romano snickered, sliding toward us.
“The most powerful man in the world,” drawled Mozzarella.
“Is he the best Earth can offer?” Fontina snorted.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” snickered Monterey Jack.
“He’s got some friends with him, I see,” added Mozzarella.
“I don’t have time for small talk,” the President snapped. “Which one of you is the big cheese?”
“I am,” all four cheeses replied.
The President boldly walked up to the cheeses.
“I understand you are upset because we Earthlings eat cheese,” he stated. “Do you plan to take away all our cheese to prevent us from eating you again?”
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” the cheeses chortled.
“Just the opposite, Mr. President.” Fontina grinned gleefully. “Just the opposite!”
“Tell ’em the plan,” Mozzarella smirked.
“Yesterday, we covered your state of New Jersey with a thick layer of cheddar,” Romano reminded us. “Next we will do the same to the rest of the United States. Then we will cover your entire planet, until Earth is one gigantic—cheese ball!”
“That’s horrible!” Bob Foster groaned.
“All’s fair in love and war,” commented Monterey Jack.
“It’s gonna be Earth parmigiana!” Mozzarella cracked.
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” the other cheeses laughed.
“When Earth is entirely covered by cheese,” Romano continued, “it will block off the rays of the sun. This will trigger massive global cooling. The temperature of your planet will drop lower and lower. It will be another Ice Age! Earth will become uninhabitable and all human life will cease to exist!”
“Welcome to the Cheese Millennium!” Mozzarella cracked.
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” the other cheeses laughed.
“Good plan, eh?” asked Mozzarella.
“That’s the stupidest plan I ever heard in my life,” I told him honestly.
“Who asked you, fake-nose boy?”
“These cheeses are nuts,” Bob whispered to me. “You’d better have some good jokes this time, or we’re finished.”
“What
are your demands?” the President asked grimly.
“Our demands are simple,” Fontina replied. “One, you must stop the manufacture, distribution, and sale of all cheese. Two, you must make the eating of cheese punishable by death. Three, you must turn the Smithsonian Institution into the National Museum of Cheese. And four, you must change the Pledge of Allegiance to read as follows: I pledge allegiance to the cheese, who rules the United States of America, and to the Fondue for which it stands, one Nation, individually wrapped, with curds and whey for all.”
“That’s ridiculous!” the President snapped. “It’s out of the question.”
“So you refuse to give in to our demands?”
“I have listened to your silly demands,” the President warned. “Now you must listen to this.”
The President gave me a shove forward. I was now face-to-face with the largest cheese in the world.
“Uh, yes,” I stammered. “My name is Funny Boy. And I will defeat you by using my advanced sense of humor.”
“Your what?”
“Jokes, puns, quips, wisecracks,” the President answered. “After Funny Boy gets you laughing, you will see the folly of your ways and leave the good people of Earth alone.”
“You must be joking,” Romano replied.
“Of course I’m joking!” I agreed. “That’s why they call me Funny Boy.”
“Go ahead,” the President urged. “Tell him one of those jokes of yours.”
I happened to have just finished reading a book titled Milton Berle’s Private Joke File, which was filled with over ten thousand jokes for every occasion. I tried to recall a few of the better ones.
“A father told his son that if he behaved, he could grow up to be just like Lincoln. The kid replied, ‘Who wants to be a tunnel?’”
The cheeses just stared at me.
“It’s not working!” the President whispered to me. “Try another one.”
“I know a kid who was so dumb,” I quipped, “he didn’t know he was ten until he was twelve.”