About the Book
Have you ever been trapped inside a runaway car?
Have you broken a world record? Is there someone in your class who will stop at nothing to kiss you? Have you ever tricked your dog into doing your homework? Have you sold head lice for fun and profit? Or has your mum ever used raspberry and white chocolate muffins as weapons of minor destruction?
I’m Tom Weekly. All of these things have happened to me. I’ve turned them into the stories, jokes, cartoons, lists and quizzes in this book. My life is an exploding muffin.
And these are the crumbs.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Meatball
RecordBreakers
Runaway Car (Part One)
Shirt
Writer’s Block
Reverse Halloween
What Would You Rather Do?
Tom Weekly: Child Genius
Toffee by Anjali Dutton
Interview With Myself in a Bathroom Mirror
The First Kiss
The Good Boy
Nits For Sale
Nit Quiz
Runaway Car (Part Two)
Acknowledgements
About the Author and Illustrator
About Tristan Bancks and Room to Read
Books by Tristan Bancks
Copyright Notice
Hey,
I’m Tom Weekly, and this is my fifth book of freaky, funny short stories about my life.
Eating is pretty much my favourite sport – Mum reckons I demolish the week’s shopping in one afternoon – and almost every story in this book features food: flying meatballs, melted Bubble O’ Bills, Australia’s stickiest toffee, a very special chocolate mousse, rat’s tail French fries, weaponised muffins and the world’s tastiest toenails.
As well as sharing these mouth-watering treats, I’ll answer some of the toughest questions facing the youth of today:
1. What should you do if you’re at a friend’s house for dinner and you find a very long, very thick hair in your meal?
2. How many spiders would you need to have crawling on your body for 30 seconds in order to beat the Guinness World Record?
3. What’s an ingenious way to get out of Friday morning’s maths test?
4. What do you do if you’re trapped alone in a runaway car, speeding backwards downhill, and you can’t find the brakes?
5. How can you turn a friend’s incurable head lice problem into a profitable business?
There’s a wise, ancient saying that I like to quote: ‘Sometimes life can give you an atomic wedgie. Don’t even bother to pick it out.’
Stay weird.
Tom
Jack’s mum makes the best meatballs in the world. They are delicious and delumptious. If there were a meatball Olympics, Mrs Danalis would win gold. I always manage to score an invitation to Jack’s house on meatball night. I’ve eaten 17 of those little nuggets of heaven so far. I have one left on my plate and – I can’t believe I’m saying this – there’s no way I’m eating it.
‘Go on,’ Mrs D says. ‘Don’t be polite.’
I glance around the table. They’re watching me. Mrs Danalis, Mr Danalis, Jack and his rotten little three-year-old brother, Barney, have all finished their meals. Mrs D has a rule that no one leaves the table and there’s no dessert until everyone is done.
‘Eat up, Tom, and I’ll serve the tiramisu,’ she says.
My mouth gushes with saliva and my stomach licks its lips at the mention of Mrs D’s tiramisu – a creamy, cakey Italian dessert. It’s my second favourite food in the world.
‘Move it along, mate,’ says Mr D. ‘Game starts in five minutes.’
‘Yeah, hurry up, you big boobyman!’ Barney screeches, then throws his head back, laughing like crazy.
‘Don’t say “boobyman” at the dinner table, please, Barney,’ says Mr D.
‘You just said it!’ Barney replies, then he laughs again and sings, ‘Booo-by-man, booo-by-man, booo-by-man!’
Barney has been voted Australia’s most annoying child three years in a row.
‘We’ll ignore that bit of rudeness and let Tom finish his meal,’ Mrs D says.
I look down at my plate. It’s still there. One lone meatball … with a very long black hair twisted through it. It looks like someone might have sewn the hair through the meat with a needle and thread. It is the thickest, blackest, greasiest hair in the world. It looks like it’s from a horse’s tail. Last I checked, the Danalises don’t own a horse but, somehow, a horse has broken into Jack’s kitchen while his mum was cooking and dipped its tail into the big pot of meatballs, leaving a special present for me before trotting off.
‘Don’t you like them?’ Mrs D asks, looking hurt.
‘I love them,’ I say. And it’s true. I do. There’s a secret agreement between me and Mrs Danalis that we won’t tell my mum that Mrs D’s meatballs are my favourite food. ‘I just had a big lunch. I’m full.’ Saying this and knowing that it will mean no tiramisu makes me want to cry.
‘Too full to finish my meatballs?’ she says, horrified.
I stare into her eyes, then down at the meatball. I’d like to gently slide the hair out and flick it onto the floor, but they’re watching me. Why did I have to get the hair? A family member could just be honest about this, but I’m a guest. I can’t do that. If I embarrass Mrs D by telling her that there’s part of a horse in my meatball, she may never let me stay here or cook me meatballs again.
‘Bor-ing!’ Barney chants, then he flings his plastic spoon at me. It glances off my face, smearing tomato sauce across my cheek before smacking the wall behind me.
Mr D’s eyes flash and he leaps from his chair.
This could be my chance to rip the hair out.
‘Just ignore it, please,’ Mrs D warns.
Mr D sits.
Nuts. I was too slow.
Jack narrows his eyes and motions to the meatball, as if to say, Just eat it!
I take one last look around at the family. There’s no way out of this. I have to take the plunge.
‘I’m kidding,’ I say. Mrs D looks up. ‘Of course I’m not too full to eat my last meatball.’
She looks pleased.
I prod it with my fork. Juice flows from the puncture holes, runs down the length of the hair and pools on my plate. I raise it towards my face. They watch on. I move in slo-mo, giving ample time for someone to notice the hair and save me. But they don’t. Are these people blind? How can five people around one table have their eyes on a single meatball and I’m the only one who can see the hair?
It reaches my lips, still warm, and I try to push it to the back of my mouth so that the whole thing goes in. I don’t want to have to slurp the hair up like a spaghetti noodle. Then I swallow the meatball whole. It slides down my throat in one great lump, like I’m a python devouring a rat.
‘Good boy,’ Mrs D says, clapping her hands lightly. ‘Jack, help me with the dishes, will you?’ She shoots Mr D a look. ‘You too.’ He starts clearing plates.
Jack and his folks take the dishes to the kitchen, leaving me and Barney at the table. Barney sticks his finger in his ear, scoops something brown and flaky out and eats it. This makes me slightly ill. I can still feel the giant lump in my throat. I take a sip of water but it’s still there. I reach my thumb and forefinger into my mouth and feel around.
The hair seems to be wedged between my two bottom back teeth on the right-hand side. I pluck at it – twang, twang – trying to unhitch the hair. It won’t budge. I get my fingers around the hair and pull hard. I realise that the meatball is still connected to the hair. It’s hanging halfway
down my throat, like meatball bungee.
‘What you doing, boobyman?’ Barney asks, but I barely hear him. I’m more focused on the giant lump of cow meat and horse hair stuck in my throat. My forehead erupts in sweat. Panic reaches up from my chest and clutches my throat.
I coil the hair around my finger, careful not to let it slip. I test the tension. I take a deep breath. Then I rip it towards the front of my mouth. The meatball launches up and out of my throat. It goes sailing between my lips and through the air. Tomato sauce spatters the tablecloth as it shoots across the table.
It seems to be heading right for Barney’s face. I’d give my entire Batman comic collection to see it hit him but, if it does, I know he’s going to squeal like a wounded pig and land me in a whole heap of trouble. I want to freeze time, snatch the meatball out of the air, feed it to the dog under the table and then press play again. But, unfortunately, that’s not one of my superpowers. All I can do is watch, silently, as the meatball continues on its doomed voyage across the table.
Barney watches too, mouth gaping open, as it flies towards him.
Schloop.
It lands right in his gob. It’s unbelievable. I’m hopeless at basketball. I never hit free throws. And yet somehow I have managed to land a three-centimetre-wide meatball in a three-and-a-half-centimetre-wide hoop – Barney’s pie hole.
There is a long pause as we both register the shock. You know how little kids leave a few seconds between when something bad happens and when they start to bawl their heads off? I think that’s what’s happening now.
I wait. His bottom lip quivers, then it starts huffing in and out. He’s going to lose it. I can’t believe this. If he dobs me in, tells his mum that I spat a meatball into his mouth, it’ll wreck my chances of tiramisu.
But then, as quickly as he started, Barney stops huffing his lip in and out. His eyes glaze over and he starts to chew. He tastes the delicious sauce, the premium-quality meat, the sweet-smelling herbs and spices. He chews and chews … and he swallows the meatball, burying the evidence.
‘Here we go!’ Mrs D sings, entering the room with the chocolatey dessert of my dreams.
‘Yummy in Barney tummy.’
‘Yes, Barney loves tiramisu, don’t you?’ his mum says.
‘No, Barney get extra meatball!’
I want to tell him to shut up.
Mr D and Jack come in carrying spoons and bowls.
‘Big boy give me his last one,’ Barney says, pointing at me.
I shake my head, trying to warn the little brat to be quiet.
‘Big boy has a name, Barney. It’s Tom. And big boy ate his own meatball.’ She shakes her head and clicks her tongue, smiling at me. ‘I don’t know where he gets these ideas.’
‘Kids,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Could I please use the bathroom?’
‘Uh-uh,’ Barney says. ‘Big boy go PYOW! Meatball flyyyyy across table into Barney mouf.’
Mr D, Mrs D, Jack and I are all staring at Barney now.
‘Barney, you know we don’t like lies,’ says Mr D. ‘Even little ones.’
I worry when I hear the way Mr D says the word ‘lies’. He suffers from CDS – Cranky Dad Syndrome – a terrible illness that many fathers come down with at some point in their lives. Once he gets started like this it can only lead to bad things.
‘Barney NOT lie!’ he screams at his dad.
‘Don’t you yell at me, young man,’ says Mr D, his eye twitching slightly as the CDS takes hold.
‘Daddy NO call Barney LIAR!’
‘Okay, mister, off to bed.’
Uh-oh.
‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ Barney screams. ‘Barney NO. GO. BED!’
‘Say nigh-nigh,’ says Mr D.
‘Just wait,’ Mrs D demands, holding up her hand.
Mr D doesn’t listen. He’s had enough. He picks Barney up off his chair. The little gremlin kicks and screams, throws the rest of his plastic cutlery and makes his body go stiff as a board. He’s almost impossible to carry.
‘Barney’s a naughty boy!’ says Mr D. ‘Throwing his things around.’
‘BARNEY NO NAUGHTY!!!’
‘Yes, Barney tell fibs.’
‘BARNEY. NO. TELL. PIGS!’
‘Say nigh-nigh.’
‘Barney no say nigh-nigh. Barney want timbuctoo.’
‘No dessert for you.’ Mr D carries him around the table towards me.
Mrs D yells, ‘Stop!’
I’ve never seen a family meltdown like this. I feel terrible.
‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ I ask again, nervous.
‘Before you do, Tom,’ Mrs D says. ‘I’m sorry to ask but …’
Jack puts his head in his hands. ‘Mum …’
‘We have a bit of an issue at the moment with Barney and truth-telling,’ she says. ‘But I don’t like seeing him upset like this. So, I have to ask the question …’
No. Please don’t ask the question, I think.
‘Is there any truth to what Barney’s saying? You didn’t, somehow, give him your last meatball … did you?’
I stare at her. My mouth dries up. I look around at the family. I can either ’fess up and tell the truth, or let an innocent man take the rap for a crime he didn’t commit. I want to say, I’m sorry. He’s telling the truth. I hauled the meatball up out of my throat by a horse hair that somehow made its way into your dinner, shot it into Barney’s mouth and he ate it.
But, just at that moment, Barney slaps me hard across the face with his tomato-saucey little hand. I wipe the sauce off, look him square in the eye, and say, ‘No, Mrs D. Big boy not a liar. Barney telling fibs. Nigh-nigh, Barney.’
I give him a little wave and Mr D hauls him out of the room. Barney screams, ‘BIG BOY DIIIIIIIIE!’
His voice fades as he is dragged off down the hall.
‘I’m very sorry about that, Tom,’ says Mrs D. ‘Tiramisu?’
‘Yes, please,’ I tell her.
She gives me an extra-large serve, and I think to myself, Nigh-nigh, Barney. Nigh-nigh.
As I go to dig into the tiramisu with my spoon, I notice something buried in the cream. I touch it with the tip of my spoon, and I realise that it has wings.
It is the biggest, blackest blowfly I have ever seen.
‘Go on,’ Mrs D says. ‘Don’t be polite.’
Me and Jack are pretty good at breaking stuff, so we’ve decided we’re going to break a Guinness World Record. People set records all the time for the kind of dumb stuff that Jack and I do just for fun. So here’s what we’re going to attempt …
World’s longest ear hair – currently held by Anthony Victor of Madurai, India, who has ear hair 18.1 centimetres long (more than half a school ruler). I’m pretty sure my pop beat this when he was alive. I learned how to abseil on the hair from his right ear. And don’t even get me started on his nose.
World’s longest burp – currently 1 minute, 13 seconds and 57 milliseconds by Michele Forgione of Italy. It is my life’s dream to meet Michele Forgione and learn this ancient art form. My personal best is 5.7 seconds, thanks to Nan’s broccoli and cheese muffins.
Heaviest weight lifted by nipples – currently 32.6 kilograms (the average weight of an adult goat), held by ‘The Baron’ from Finland. I’m keen to attempt this. I just need to find the right goat.
Longest distance travelled keeping a table lifted with one’s teeth – currently 11.8 metres with a 12-kilogram table and a 50-kilogram person sitting on it. I once bit off my sister Tanya’s big toe when she wanted me to eat Vegemite off it. It was unbelievably chewy, so I figure my superhuman jaw strength should help me smash this one.
Fastest time to eat three extremely hot bhut jolokia chilli peppers – currently 16.15 seconds by American Jason McNabb. I’ll leave this one to Jack and tell him they’re just cute little baby capsicums. I’m also thinking of going for the blindfolded maggot-eating record by telling Jack they’re rice bubbles.
Most spiders on the body for 30 seconds – curre
ntly 200, achieved by Daniel Jovanovski of Macedonia. There are about 1000 huntsman spiders in our shed. I might start collecting them and remind Jack how Spider-Man got his powers.
Most clothes pegs clipped to the face in one minute – currently 51 pegs by Italian Silvio Sabba. I once clipped 12 paperclips to my tongue. The guy in Emergency thought it was incredible. Mum, not so much.
Tallest toilet paper tower in 30 seconds – currently 28 rolls, also achieved by Silvio Sabba in 2013. From an engineering point of view, I’m thinking three-ply toilet paper – the expensive stuff – might provide the greatest stability. And Jack is a Jenga master.
Most ice-cream scoops thrown and caught (in a cone) by a team of two in one minute – currently 25 by Gabriele and Lorenzo Soravia of Germany. We figure this should be so easy that we don’t even need to use cones. We’re going to catch the scoops in our mouths – and eat them – within the minute. I’m thinking we’ll beat the World Record for longest brain freeze at the same time.
World’s longest fart. I can’t get an exact figure on the World Record, but I’m pretty sure it was Jack Danalis of Kings Bay, Australia, in my top bunk two nights ago during a sleep-over. No Guinness World Records officials were present, and Jack was asleep at the time, so it may not count, but he’s confident he can do it again. We’ve put him on a strict diet of prunes and lentils.
If you could break any world record, what would it be? Let me know at [email protected]
I hear the loud, non-stop honking of an old-fashioned car horn out front, and my heart sinks. It sounds like a flock of wounded geese. I should ignore it. I need to ignore it. But I don’t. I go to the door and open it a crack. The heat of the day smacks me in the face and boils my eyeball juice. It’s 40 degrees, the hottest day of summer so far. Nan is sitting in the driver’s seat of a long, wide, shiny, light-blue 1952 Ford Crestline. A classic.
My Life and Other Weaponised Muffins Page 1