Funny Boy Takes on the Chit-Chatting Cheeses from Chattanooga

by Dan Gutman

  “Funny Boy, sir!” Punch shouted excitedly. “He can beat those cheeses. I just know he can!”

  Everyone in the room turned around and stared at me. I gave a little embarrassed wave.

  “Funny Boy?” The President snorted. “He failed miserably the last time I gave him a chance. What makes you think he can defeat the cheeses now?”

  “I’ll tell you why, sir,” Punch explained, standing up on her hind legs. “There are only twenty pages left in this book, so Funny Boy has to defeat the aliens, and quickly!”

  “What book?” the President shouted.

  “The book we’re all in,” explained Punch. “Remember I told you we are all fictional characters?”

  The President conferred with his top advisers, who apparently confirmed for him that they were all fictional characters in a children’s book.

  “How many pages did you say are left in the book?” the President asked.

  “Still twenty, sir,” Punch echoed.

  “Funny Boy, come here!” the President ordered.

  All eyes were on me as I walked slowly up the aisle and climbed up to the podium. I felt so nervous that I was shaking.

  “Funny Boy,” the President sighed. “I want to apologize for calling you a loser and a dope.”

  “Apology accepted, Mr. President,” I replied.

  “I’m sorry I said you weren’t the least bit funny.”

  “It’s okay, sir.”

  “I deeply regret saying you were a dumb kid, an idiot, a moron with the brains of a pile of mud.”

  “You never said that last part, Mr. President.”

  “Oh, I guess I was just thinking it. But I take it all back now. Funny Boy, you are our last and only hope. Our nation turns to you in its hour of need. Will you help us?”

  SUGGESTION TO READER: As you read the following, have a friend hum “America the Beautiful” in the background.

  As I stood there on the podium in the White House, I gazed out at all the pleading faces before me. I thought about all the things I had come to love about my adopted planet. Things I had come to take for granted. Things like double coupons at the supermarket. And intermittent windshield wipers. Those little yellow sticky notes that come in so handy.

  I decided that it was up to me to make the world safe. Safe for Personal Pan Pizzas and Blow Pops and Groundhog Day. Safe for drive-through windows at fast-food restaurants. Safe for Ritz Bits and synchronized swimming. Safe for people who call you on the phone at dinnertime trying to sell you things. I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

  “I’ll do it!”

  NOTE TO READER: If you are reading this book in school, begin making noises like a chicken at this time. Maybe your teacher will think you are crazy and send you home for the day.

  CHAPTER 13

  READ THIS CHAPTER! THIS IS WHEN IT GETS REALLY EXCITING AND IT LOOKS LIKE FUNNY BOY IS GOING TO DIE!

  I, Funny Boy, was on my way for a final confrontation with the chitchatting cheeses from Chattanooga.

  United States Government planes, helicopters, and cars rushed Bob Foster, Punch, and me to the Wisconsin barn where the cheeses were still headquartered. I had thrown away my copy of Milton Berle’s Private Joke File and surfed the Internet looking for jokes and riddles. Armed with a full arsenal, we marched through the doors. We were immediately hit with a powerfully foul odor.

  “Whew!” I choked. “Who cut the cheese?”

  “Aha!” Mozzarella proclaimed. “I see our young friend Dummy Boy is here. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “That’s Funny Boy,” I announced, holding my nose. “I have been sent by the President of the United States to defend the planet Earth, including Antarctica, where nobody in their right mind would even want to go. Who’s the big cheese around here?”

  “I am,” all the cheeses replied.

  “You already used that joke once in this book,” Punch whispered.

  “I know,” I replied. “But nobody laughed the first time, so I thought I would try again.”

  “Come to me, Funny Boy,” Monterey Jack ordered. “I want to tell you something before we kill you.”

  Slowly, I approached the cheese.

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Monterey Jack warned ominously. “You’re getting too big for your britches, Funny Boy. This time you bit off more than you can chew. We are armed to the teeth. Actions speak louder than words. It is time for you to face the music. You may think you are funny, but we will have the last laugh. And that’s the bottom line.”

  “Do you always have to talk in clichés?” I asked.

  “Old customs die hard,” Jack replied.

  “Didn’t you ever hear the cliché ‘live and let live’?”

  “That’s easier said than done, Funny Boy.”

  “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. Surrender now and we’ll build a cheese-themed amusement park in Orlando, Florida.”

  “Hahahahaha!” Mozzarella cackled. “In twenty-four hours, your entire planet will be our personal amusement park!”

  “Hmmm. Good point,” I admitted. “Okay, then you asked for it. The time has come for me to tell jokes that are so funny you will die laughing.”

  “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” Monterey Jack replied.

  Suddenly, a long, low buzzing sound was heard. It lasted about five seconds.

  “What was that?” Bob Foster asked.

  “We have just turned on our invisible joke-deflector shield,” Fontina snickered. “It is totally impenetrable to humor. Your jokes will just bounce off harmlessly. Hahahaha!”

  “Joke-deflector shield?” Bob Foster repeated. “That’s impossible.”

  “Go ahead and see for yourself,” Mozzarella challenged. “Try a joke.”

  “Okay,” I answered. “Where does a one-armed man do his shopping?”

  “Where?” Punch asked.

  “In a secondhand store.”

  The cheeses had no reaction at all.

  “We didn’t even hear it,” Fontina hissed. “The joke bounced right off the shield.”

  “Try another one,” Bob Foster suggested.

  “Okay. Why were the little strawberries so upset?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Their parents were in a jam.”

  The cheeses just sat there, like cheeses.

  “Drat!” I complained. “The joke-deflector shield is too strong. My jokes aren’t going over.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that maybe they’re just not funny?” Punch asked.

  “Enough lame attempts at humor!” Romano shrieked.

  Monterey Jack yelled, “Now it is time to separate the men from the boys!”

  “Huh?”

  “I think he means he’s going to kill us,” Bob Foster told me.

  The four cheeses surrounded Bob Foster, Punch, and me, pushing us through a doorway and into a tiny room just big enough for the three of us. Once we were inside, the door shut behind us. The only furniture in the room was a chair.

  “Help!” I yelled.

  “You’re in a pickle, Funny Boy!” Monterey Jack hollered through the door. “You don’t have a ghost of a chance. Pack it in. The writing is on the wall.”

  I looked around. The walls were a pleasant off-white, with blue trim but no writing.

  “What are you going to do with us?” hollered Bob Foster.

  “Here’s some food for thought, Funny Boy!”

  Suddenly, a spray of creamy yellow goop shot out of a pipe on the ceiling.

  It splattered over all of us.

  “What’s that stuff?” Punch asked. Bob Foster dipped a finger into the yellow goop and tasted it.

  “It’s Cheez Whiz!” he reported.

  “That’s right,” Mozzarella shouted from outside. “We will fill the room with Cheez Whiz until you are all dead! This is what we are going to do to Earth! Enjoy the rest of your life, Funny Boy! What’s left of it! Hahahahahahaha!”

  The Cheez Whiz had coated the f
loor, and the level was now rising above our ankles. My feet were stuck in it. The cheese kept squirting out of the pipe, rising higher and higher.

  “We’re doomed!” Bob Foster moaned. “If the cheese reaches the ceiling, there will be no air left.”

  “We’re going to drown in cheese!” Punch wailed. “What a horrible way to die!”

  So, how are you enjoying the story so far? Exciting, isn’t it? Do you think Funny Boy can escape from these cliché-cracking cheeses? Or is it all over for him? Will the President do anything to save him? What about Punch? Will she ever be able to get the Cheez Whiz out of her fur? Will Bob Foster still have cheese as a hobby, or will he get a life? Will Monterey Jack ever run out of clichés?

  Okay, okay, back to the story ...

  CHAPTER 14

  THE BIG SURPRISE ENDING THAT WILL COMPLETELY SHOCK YOU, UNLESS YOU ALREADY GUESSED IT.

  The tiny room was almost completely filled with Cheez Whiz. Bob Foster and I climbed up on the chair so we could breathe the little air that was remaining at the top. Poor Punch was covered with cheese. I held her above my head. “We’re goners!” Bob Foster shouted, spitting Cheez Whiz. “There’s no way out!”

  The level of Cheez Whiz kept rising. I was standing on my tiptoes to keep my nose out of it. A few more seconds and it would be over my head.

  Suddenly, a loud bang was heard. The Cheez Whiz stopped rising and quickly began to drop. I could see that the door had been opened. The Cheez Whiz flowed out the opening like lava from a volcano. And standing there at the door was ...

  You’re just dying to know who it is, aren’t you?

  And standing there at the door was ... Tupper Camembert!

  “Tupper!” I shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saving your life, my darling!”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw you on TV at that press conference,” she explained. “You were so brave, so manly. Instantly I fell in love, hopelessly in love.”

  Bob Foster, Punch, and I stumbled out of the cheesy room, the Cheez Whiz dripping off us.

  “But how did you get in here?” Bob Foster asked. “How did you get past those four giant cheeses?”

  “See for yourself,” Tupper grinned, motioning to the side.

  Behind her were four gigantic plastic containers. Trapped inside them were Monterey Jack, Fontina, Romano, and Mozzarella.

  “Tupperware!” Tupper announced proudly.

  “Of course!” Bob Foster exclaimed. “Tupperware is the perfect container for storing just about any kind of leftovers! And they’re dishwasher safe, too! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”

  “You see,” Tupper continued, “my great-great-grandfather was Earl S. Tupper, the inventor of Tupperware. I was named after him. I can get Tupperware in any size or shape that I want.”

  “That is the lamest explanation for a rescue I have ever heard,” Punch said, shaking her head.

  “Actually, I think the explanation in the second Funny Boy was even more lame than this one,” declared Bob Foster.

  “Hold your horses!” Monterey Jack hollered from inside his Tupperware prison. “Can’t we bury the hatchet, clear the air? We have no ax to grind. It was all much ado about nothing.”

  I strolled over to Monterey Jack. “So,” I gloated. “Now the glove is on the other hand!”

  “You mean the shoe is on the other foot,” Monterey Jack moaned.

  “Right. I was never very good with clichés,” I admitted. “You know, Monterey, this Tupperware you’re in is microwavable. ...

  “No!” the cheeses shrieked.

  “Forget about microwaves,” Tupper suggested. “I disabled the joke deflector. Why don’t you just tell some of those funny jokes of yours?”

  “You really think my jokes are funny, Tupper?”

  “Hysterical!” Tupper exclaimed. “Won’t you tell those cheeses some jokes and save the world ... for me?”

  “I’d rather be microwaved,” Mozzarella moaned.

  “For you, Tupper, anything. Okay you cheeses, how much did the pirate pay to get his ears pierced?”

  “How much?”

  “A buck an ear. Get it? A buccaneer?”

  “Please stop!” Romano groaned. “It’s bad enough that we have been confined in these Tupperware containers. Must we also listen to your pathetic attempts at humor?”

  “Yes! Why couldn’t they play cards on Noah’s ark?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Noah sat on the deck.”

  “No more jokes. Please!” shouted Fontina. “The pain! The pain!”

  “What’s yellow and green and eats grass?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “A yellow-and-green grass eater. What’s yellow and blue and eats grass?”

  “A yellow-and-blue grass eater?” Mozzarella guessed.

  “No,” I informed him. “They only come in yellow and green.”

  “Stop the torture!” Romano begged. “Have you no sense of decency! In heaven’s name, please stop this torture!”

  “My sense of humor is beginning to grate on you, isn’t it?” I sneered. “Get it? Grate on you?”

  “Not puns!” Mozzarella screamed. “I’m begging you. Anything but puns!”

  “Do you know where the first doughnut was made?”

  “Where?”

  “In Greece.”

  That was it. Suddenly, all four cheeses began to shrivel up. Their faces disappeared into themselves, leaving a big gloppy mess. All was quiet. I went over to Monterey Jack to see if he was still breathing.

  “He’s dead,” I told the others. “Dead as a doornail.”

  We had a brief moment of silence to think about what had happened, and what could have happened if Tupper Camembert had not come along and rescued us.

  “Well,” Bob Foster finally said. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

  “The bigger they come, the harder they fall,” Punch grinned.

  “You live and learn,” added Tupper.

  “Some folks just can’t take a joke,” I concluded. “Okay, enough clichés.” I wrapped my cheesy arms around Tupper Camembert and gave her a big hug.

  “My hero!” She swooned.

  Once again the forces of funniness had thwarted evil. I not only saved the world and conquered the forces of evil but I even got the girl. I was like the James Bond of kids!

  Once again, I had made the world safe. Safe for mint-flavored dental floss and supermodels. Safe for inflatable furniture and battery-operated candy dispensers. Safe for the windchill factor and for movies based on thirty-year-old TV sitcoms that weren’t even good thirty years ago.

  That concludes this adventure. Until we meet again, my friends, let me leave you with two small pieces of wisdom. First, always remember that you are unique, just like everyone else. Second, if at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is definitely not for you.

  A Biography of Dan Gutman

  Dan Gutman was born in a log cabin in Illinois and used to write by candlelight with a piece of chalk on a shovel. Oh, wait a minute, that was Abraham Lincoln. Actually, Dan Gutman grew up in New Jersey and, for some reason, still lives there.

  Somehow, Dan survived his bland and uneventful childhood, and then attended Rutgers University, where he majored in psychology for reasons he can’t explain. After a few years of graduate studies, he disappointed his mother by moving to New York City to become a starving writer.

  In the 1980s, after several penniless years writing untrue newspaper articles, unread magazine articles, and unsold screenplays, Gutman supported himself by writing about video games and selling unnecessary body parts. He edited Video Games Player magazine for four years. And, although he knew virtually nothing about computers, he spent the late 1980s writing a syndicated column on the subject.

  In 1990, Gutman got the opportunity to write about something that had interested him since childhood: baseball. Beginning with It Ain’t Cheatin’ If You Don’t Get Caught (1990), Gutman wrote several nonficti
on books about the sport, covering subjects such as the game’s greatest scandals and the history of its equipment.

  The birth of his son, Sam, inspired Gutman to write for kids, beginning with Baseball’s Biggest Bloopers (1993). In 1996, Gutman published The Kid Who Ran for President, a runaway hit about a twelve-year-old who (duh!) runs for president. He also continued writing about baseball, and the following year published Honus & Me, a story about a young boy who finds a rare baseball card that magically takes him back to 1909 to play with Honus Wagner, one of the game’s early greats. This title stemmed a series about time-travel encounters with other baseball stars such as Jackie Robinson, Babe Ruth, and, in Ted & Me (2012), Ted Williams.

  In his insatiable quest for world domination, Dan also wrote Miss Daisy Is Crazy (2004) and launched the My Weird School series, which now spans more than forty books, most recently Mayor Hubble Is in Trouble! (2012).

  As if he didn’t have enough work to do, Gutman published Mission Unstoppable (2011), the first adventure novel in the Genius Files series, starring fraternal twins Coke and Pepsi McDonald. There will be six books in the series, in which the twins are terrorized by lunatic assassins while traveling cross-country during their summer vacation. These books are totally inappropriate for children, or anybody else for that matter.

  Gutman lives in Haddonfield, New Jersey, with his wife and two children. But please don’t stalk him.

  Gutman and his sister Lucy in New York in 1956.

  A young, stylish Gutman at home in Newark, New Jersey.

  Gutman in his Little League uniform in 1968.

  Gutman with two babies born in 1990:

  the first baseball book he wrote, and his son, Sam.

  Gutman in Liverpool, England, at the site of the real Strawberry Field. “I idolize the Beatles and they inspire all my books,” he says.