Uncle John's the Enchanted Toilet Bathroom Reader for Kids Only!

by Bathroom Readers' Institute

  “It’s your glasses, Aunt P.,” Carl would say. “They’re on top of your head.” (They were always on top of her head.)

  Carl didn’t mind too much. He was old enough to take care of himself. But he wished he had someone around to challenge him on video games. He’d only asked Great-Aunt P. to play once. “Can’t do it, kiddo!” She’d waved her gnarled fingers at him. “Arthur-i-tis. See?” Carl winced and stuffed his hands in his armpits. What if this Arthur-i-tis stuff was catching? That would be a major disaster.

  You see, Carl was a gamer of some renown—a national champion, in fact. He had shattered all the high scores for his favorite game, Blood-soaked Zombie Armies of Death. Beating other players had become so easy that he played with all but one of his fingers taped together. Carl was getting a little desperate until one day (last week) he heard a knock at the door. Great-Aunt P. was playing with her rubber duckie in the tub, so Carl answered. A stooped little old man stood outside.

  “Hello,” he said. “Are you Carl?”

  “Yes,” said Carl.

  “Splendid,” said the man, and the bow tie he was wearing whirled like a pinwheel. “I am your fairy gamemaster.”

  “Right,” said Carl, and he slammed the door and turned to head back to his room. “Crikes!” He braked so fast his sneakers squeaked. Just a foot away stood the elderly man, still smiling, his bow tie swirling to a stop. “H-how’d you get in here?” Carl stammered.

  “Maybe you missed the ‘fairy’ part of my title?” The man wiggled his bushy white eyebrows. Then he clapped his hands. “Down to business. The video-game company sent me. No one is playing Blood-soaked Zombie Armies of Death anymore because everyone thinks it’s impossible to beat your score. The company’s losing money big time. So they hired me to beat you.”

  Carl snorted. The guy was ancient—at least 40. “So, kids who have been playing since they were toddlers can’t beat me, and you can?”

  The fairy gamemaster rubbed his veiny old-man’s hands together and nodded.

  “Fine.” Carl invited the fairy gamemaster into the family room and turned on his game system. He picked up the tape to seal his fingers together, but the fairy gamemaster stopped him.

  “Better not,” he said. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”

  Carl raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything. He just pushed Start, and then Two Players. Within a minute, sweat was dripping down Carl’s forehead. He was ahead, but only by 10 points. And the fairy gamemaster had amassed the biggest army of blood-soaked zombies he’d ever gone up against. After another minute, the old man pulled ahead. Carl rubbed his sweaty forehead against his shoulder, not daring to stop toggling for even a second. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.

  Ten seconds later, the first round was over. The fairy gamemaster had wiped out Carl’s zombies with a laser lobotomy ray. Carl hadn’t even known the game had a lobotomy ray! The next round was even worse. With a hip twist that looked like it could break a bone, the FGM shot a bright green fart-bomb out of a zombie’s backside. Carl’s zombies turned into green sludge, and the fairy gamemaster’s zombies danced around in a blood-soaked zombie frenzy. The FGM’s score rolled higher and higher and higher until…Kaboom! The TV exploded.

  Great-Aunt Primrose ran into the living room, tying on her robe. “What was that?” she yelped.

  The fairy gamemaster dropped his controller. “Primrose?” He took one of Great-Aunt P.’s gnarled hands in his and brought it to his lips.

  “Ew!” Carl shut his eyes.

  “My darling! Is this where you’ve been for the last two years?” asked the FGM.

  Great-Aunt Primrose blinked. “Where are my glasses?” she asked. “Has anyone seen my glasses?”

  “On your head, darling!” The fairy gamemaster eased the glasses down onto her nose. She blinked a few more times, and then her mouth fell open.

  “Noodleman? Is that you?”

  “Huh?” Carl looked from the fairy gamemaster to his great-aunt and back again.

  The next day, Bow Tie Noodleman—the great-uncle his great-aunt had misplaced—showed up with all his stuff, including a trunk filled with more gaming gear than Carl had ever seen.

  Carl was in gamer heaven. He had a zombie-killing gamemaster living right in his house. And Great-Uncle Bow Tie had promised to take him on as an apprentice. “But you’re going to have to practice more than you have been.” He winked. “If you want to earn your wings.”

  THE END

  οοο

  “The only time I worry about the press is when I’m up at Balmoral fishing. When I’m standing in the river for hours, I sometimes have a pee in the water. I’m petrified some cameraman is going to catch me at it.”

  —Prince Charles of England

  SOCCER SORCERY

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  Winning at soccer requires strength, teamwork, and speed. (But a little magic doesn’t hurt!)

  HUDDLE BEFUDDLE

  Most sports teams rely on coaches to pep up players for a win. Some African soccer teams have a different strategy: They hire witch doctors to “bend the lines, bewitch the ball, befuddle the referees, and paralyze goal keepers,” says African journalist Bartholomäus Grill.

  The use of juju (magic) to change a game’s outcome is so common that fans watch for hexes and spells as closely as they watch the match. During one pro game in Kenya, a dog wandered onto the playing field, lifted its leg, and peed. The fans went wild. They were sure someone was using the dog as juju to win the game.

  SKIPPY AND THE JUJU

  During soccer season Jackson Ambani is a busy man. The hand-lettered sign tacked to his shack on the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya, reads, “Witch doctor.” Ambani has practiced juju in East Africa for more than 40 years. “Juju works,” he insists.

  Ambani works juju for several Kenyan soccer clubs. Before a game, he rubs a “secret green powder” on his hands. (Sorry. He won’t reveal the ingredients.) Then he dumps seashells out of a Skippy peanut butter jar. The shells show him whether his client’s team would win without his help. If not, the witch doctor goes to work.

  First, he tosses a bit of cloth clipped from an opposing player’s clothes into a clay pot. Then he adds herbs. He learned the best ones to use from his juju elders. (Don’t ask…they’re secret.) Next he puts in blood from chickens and porcupines. The juju Ambani brews is meant to “trip up” the player during the match and help his client’s team win.

  GOALS AND GORE

  Ambani isn’t the only witch doctor working for soccer teams. It’s not unusual to see a witch doctor smearing pigeon’s blood around an opposing team’s locker room before a game or sprinkling the ashes of dead animals near the other team’s goal. One witch doctor even tried to bury a live cow in front of the other team’s goal to guarantee a win. (Officials stopped him.)

  Juju isn’t free. Ambani charges from $20 to $2,000, depending on how much magic a team needs. According to one source, “Some teams spend so much money on juju, they can’t afford to travel to away games.” And if a client doesn’t pay up? The witch doctor works magic against the client’s team.

  REVENGE OF THE WITCH DOCTOR

  In 1992, the Ministry of Sport for the Ivory Coast hired witch doctors to help the country’s team—the Elephants—win the Africa Cup. The Elephants did win: 11 to 10. But the Ministry didn’t pay the witch doctors. Bad decision: the witch doctors cursed the national team. The Elephants fell into a slump that lasted ten years. In 2002, the Minister apologized to the witch doctor and paid the $2,000 still owed.

  NO CANNIBALS ALLOWED!

  Former soccer player Roger Milla says it takes more than magic to make a winning team. He thinks his country, Cameroon, proves it. “We are not strong in witchcraft,” Milla said. “But our football is better than in those nations where magic is so strong.”

  Milla isn’t the only one trying to downplay the role magic plays in African soccer. The Confederation of African Football (CAF)
has been trying to stop soccer juju for years. “We are no more willing to see witch doctors on the field than cannibals at the concession stand,” the CAF official said.

  DO YOU BELIEVE?

  It’s as tough to stop soccer magic in Africa as it would be to make Africans quit playing—and loving—the game. From Algeria to South Africa, and in just about every country in between, entire nations grind to a halt when a big game of “football” (their name for soccer) is on TV.

  For those who would rather practice juju than attend soccer practice, Botswana Sports Magazine printed this warning: “There is no evidence that football games can be won through witchcraft alone.”

  FAIRY SURPRISES

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  Things you may not know about world-famous fairies.

  ARIEL

  First Appeared to Humans: 1611, in William Shakespeare’s play The Tempest.

  Known For: Summoning storms (tempests), causing shipwrecks, and helping people fall in love. Before that, Ariel spent 12 years stuck in the hollow of a tree, thanks to an evil witch.

  Surprise! Ariel is a boy, not a girl. But female actors played the part of Ariel from the mid-1600s until 1930.

  THE BLUE FAIRY

  First Appeared to Humans: 1883, in Carlo Collodi’s The Adventures of Pinocchio.

  Known For: Helping Pinocchio transform from a puppet to a real boy. The Blue Fairy also makes Pinocchio’s nose grow…and grow…and grow whenever he lies.

  The Surprise: She can turn herself into a blue mountain goat. (How cool is that?)

  THE SUGAR PLUM FAIRY

  First Appeared to Humans: In 1892, in a ballet called The Nutcracker by Pyotr Tchaikovsky.

  Known For: Wearing ballet slippers and performing “The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” The fairy’s dance has become a popular Christmas treat all over the world.

  Surprise! The Sugar Plum Fairy’s first performance, (in St. Petersburg, Russia) was a flop. Critics called her “corpulent” and “podgy”—fancy words for “fat.”

  TINKER BELL

  First Appeared to Humans: 1904, in J.M. Barrie’s play, Peter Pan.

  Known For: Speaking fairy language (which sounds like golden bells tinkling) and leaving fairy dust on the hands of anyone who carries her.

  Surprise! Tink is the jealous type. If Peter Pan pays attention to other females—especially the human girl, Wendy—watch out! Once, in a jealous rage, she told the Lost Boys to shoot Wendy with their bows and arrows.

  THE COTTINGLEY FAIRIES

  First Appeared to Humans: 1917 in Cottingley, Britain.

  Known For: Showing up in photos. Fifteen-year-old Elsie Wright and her ten-year-old cousin Frances Griffiths took the photos. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—who wrote the Sherlock Holmes mysteries—believed the girls when they said the fairies were real. He even wrote an article called “The Evidence for Fairies” for a magazine.

  Surprise! When Frances and Elsie were elderly women (in the 1980s), they admitted that the fairies in four of the photos were made using hatpins and cardboard cutouts. But the fifth fairy photo? They swore that one was real.

  THE FART KING

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  An Uncle John’s Totally Twisted Tale

  IN THE REDWOOD KINGDOM of the Far West lived an aging mountain lion. He had been king of the forest for many years. He was a kind and fair-minded leader, and the other animals respected him. But his strength had faded, and he knew that he would soon die. He gathered the animals around him and told them that it was time to choose a new king.

  “I am strongest,” said the bear. “I should lead.”

  “But I am wisest,” said the owl. “I would be the best king.”

  “I am both strong and wise,” said the elk. “I should be in charge of the forest.”

  The skunk pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “Only one animal can make you all run in fear, and that is me,” said the skunk. He raised his tail, and the bear, the owl, and the elk scrambled backward.

  The skunk did not spray. He laughed. “My scent is more powerful than all of you. Unless any of you can match the power of my smell, the throne belongs to me!”

  Little Rabbit hid beneath the ferns nearby, listening. He was so frightened by the bigger animals that he farted.

  “Ugh!” said a squirrel. “That smells awful.”

  “Worse than awful,” said a chipmunk.

  Little Rabbit had an idea. If I’m that smelly, maybe I could be king, he thought. Imagine that! A little rabbit like me, king of the forest!

  Little Rabbit hopped to the front of the gathering. “I challenge you to a fart contest,” he said to the skunk. “The winner will be king.”

  Little Rabbit bent forward, raising his tail. He farted long and loud. The animals scurried away.

  “Ha!” said the skunk. “Your fart smell lasts for only a few seconds. My odor can last for days.” And he lifted his tail and sprayed the poor rabbit.

  Little Rabbit fled home to his burrow. When he got there, the other rabbits would not let him in. “You smell like Skunk,” they said. “Come back when you are odor-free.”

  That night, Little Rabbit nearly froze to death hiding among the forest ferns. It was many days before he was allowed back into the rabbit burrow. In the meantime, Skunk took the throne as king of the forest, threatening to spray anyone who challenged his rule.

  All of the animals lived in fear. They couldn’t stand the new king, but anyone who protested was sprayed. Soon, the entire forest smelled of skunk spray.

  “We must do something!” said the squirrel.

  “But what?” asked the deer. “The skunk is powerful. If we protest, he will spray us again.”

  The animals secretly made their way to the den of the former king. The mountain lion was weak and near death, but he let them in.

  “Oh, kind king,” said the raccoon. “Our new leader is a tyrant!”

  The lion raised one feeble paw. “The solution is in all of you,” he said. “No one creature can match the strength of dozens.” And then the lion closed his eyes…and died.

  “What did he mean?” asked the mole. “The skunk has the most powerful odor of all. How can we overpower him?”

  Little Rabbit was so excited that he farted again. The others backed away, and suddenly the rabbit knew what to do. “None of our farts alone are a match for the skunk’s odor,” he said. “We must all fart together! Together, we can destroy him!”

  “To the bean patch!” trumpeted the elk.

  “To the bean patch!” echoed the owl.

  The animals ate their fill of ripe, juicy beans. Then they waited for digestion to begin.

  “I feel something gurgling,” said the deer.

  “Yes,” said the bear. “The time to strike is at hand.”

  The animals crept through the forest. They found Skunk napping on the throne, and they formed a circle around him. And then…they fired! Ptt-oo-oo-t-t-t! The sound of farts filled the air.

  Gas hit the skunk from every angle, overpowering him with its stench. He jumped off the throne and ran as fast as he could to get away from the terrible smell. And he was never heard from again.

  The animals decided to form a three-creature panel to rule the forest. The owl, the bear, and the elk were elected.

  As for Little Rabbit, he was given a medal—for extreme bravery under fire.

  Moral: Many small farts can bring down a tyrant.

  THE END

  οοο

  FUN FACTS ABOUT FARTS

  οTermites produce more farts for their size than any other creature. Because they mostly eat wood, they need lots of bacteria in their guts to help digest it. Bacteria produce a lot of gas, so the termites fart repeatedly to release it.

  οFor some time, scientists have said that cow farts play a role in global warming. Now they’re saying it’s not cow farts; it’s cow burps. Cow farts stink, but they don’t have a lot of methane in them. Because methane holds onto a lot of heat when it g
ets into Earth’s atmosphere, it is the gas that contributes most to global warming. Cow burps are full of the stuff. And just one cow can burp up 243 pounds of methane a year.

  οHow much power is in a fart? If you could fart without stopping for six years and nine months, it would equal the explosive energy of a nuclear bomb.

  The Tall Tall Tower

  by Will Strong

  HA! CRAVEN KNIGHT!

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  Before journeying to the realm of castles and kings, you’d better brush up on your Olde English insults.

  INSULT: “Pah! Hast thou no kissing-comfits?”

  MEANS: “Yuck! You need a breath mint.”

  INSULT: “Thou art a blathering fiddlehead!”

  MEANS: “Your head is as empty as a fiddle and you talk too much.”

  INSULT: “This grub tastes like one.”

  MEANS: “This food tastes like maggots.” (Back then, it actually might have been.)

  INSULT: “Open your wink-a-peeps, you whifling zuche!”

  MEANS: “Open your eyes, you insignificant tree stump!”

  INSULT: “Barlafumble, whilst thou art still able!”

  MEANS: “Give up while you can!”

  INSULT: “Away with yon snawky slibber-sauce!”

  MEANS: “I am not taking that nauseating medicine.”

  INSULT: “What a poopnoddy thou art!”

  MEANS: Either “You’re a dummy” or “You’re making a fool of yourself for love.”

  INSULT: “Thou art prone to pumpkinification.”