by Bill Myers
My Life As a
Smashed Burrito with
Extra Hot Sauce
Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers
Series
SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF
. . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT
The Case of the . . .
Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms
• Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •
Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle
My Life As . . .
a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait
• a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food •
Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target
• a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut •
Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler
• Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint •
a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver
• a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion •
a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)
• a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie •
Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion
• a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler •
a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback
• a Belching Baboon . . . with Bad Breathe •
The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
www.Billmyers.com
the incredible worlds of
WallyMcDoogle
My Life As a
Smashed Burrito with
Extra Hot Sauce
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A SMASHED BURRITO WITH EXTRA HOT SAUCE
Copyright © 1993 by Bill Myers.
Cover illustrations by Jeff Mangiat
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations in reviews.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. Visit us on the Web at www.tommynelson.com.
Tommy Nelson® books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail: [email protected].
Scripture quotations are from the International Children’s Bible®, New Century Version®, copyright © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are from The New International Version of the Bible, copyright © 1978 by the New York International Bible Society.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a smashed burrito with extra hot sauce / Bill Myers.
p. cm.—(The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #1)
Summary: When twelve-year-old Wally, a computer whiz kid who is a “walking disaster area,” and the bully of Camp Wahkah Wahkah find themselves fighting for their lives together, Wally realizes that even his worst enemy needs Jesus.
ISBN 0-8499-3402-8 (trade paper)
[1. Camps—fiction. 2. Christian life—fiction.
3. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series ; Myers, Bill, 1953 . incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #1.
PZ7.M98234My1 1993
[Fic]—dc20
92–45183
CIP
AC
Printed in the United States of America
05 06 07 08 09 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Terri, Kevin, Apphia, Noel, Tabitha . . .
and, of course, my good buddy, Joe.
“Happy is the person who finds wisdom. And happy is the person who gets understanding. Wisdom is worth more than silver. It brings more profit than gold. Wisdom is more precious than rubies. Nothing you want is equal to it.”
—Proverbs 3:13–15
Contents
1. Just for Starters
2. New Friends / Old Enemies
3. Testing . . . One, Two, Three
4. More Wisdom Bites the Dust
5. Oops . . .
6. Uh-Oh . . .
7. The Competition Begins
8. Revelations
9. Danger . . . Big Time
10. A Test of Faith
11. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters
Don’t get me wrong, Camp Wahkah Wahkah wasn’t the worst experience I’ve ever had. I mean, when you’re the shortest kid in sixth grade, forced to wear Woody Allen glasses all your life, and basically serve as the all-school punching bag, you’ve got lots of bad experiences to choose from. But Camp Whacko (that’s what we called it for short) definitely rated right up there in the top ten.
I knew I was in trouble the moment I stepped onto the camp bus. Of course it was full of the usual screaming crazies. No surprise there. I mean, you take the politest kid in the world and put him on a camp bus, and he goes bonkers. Count on it. It’s like a law or something. What caught me off guard was the flying peanut butter and jelly sandwich . . . open faced, of course. I tried to duck, but I was too late.
K-THWACK! right in the old kisser.
Fortunately, the jelly was grape, my favorite. And by the gentle aroma of freshly baked peanuts, I knew the peanut butter had to be Skippy. Another lucky break. What was not lucky was that it completely covered my glasses. I couldn’t see a thing.
Before I knew it, the bus ground into gear and lurched forward. Everyone cheered. Well, almost everyone. I was busy stumbling down the aisle at record speed. Of course, there were the usual “Smooth move, Dork Breath” and “Way to go, McDoogle” as I tumbled past. (What a comfort to hear familiar voices in time of trouble.)
Then I got lucky. Through the peanut butter I caught a glimpse of an empty seat toward the back. It took a little doing and bouncing off a couple campers—“Oh, ick!” “Get away, Geek!” (more of my old school chums)—but I finally managed to crash into the empty seat.
Whew. Safe at last. Well, not exactly . . .
As I peeled the bread off my face and removed my glasses, I noticed that the whole bus had grown very quiet. I quickly scraped the peanut butter and jelly gunk off of my glasses and into my hands. Then I pushed my glasses back on.
I wished I hadn’t.
The first thing I noticed was that all eyes were on me.
The second thing I noticed was a thick crackly voice. A voice that sounded like it ate gravel for lunch and then washed it down with a box of thumbtacks.
But that was nothing compared to the third thing I noticed—the fierce-sounding, gravelly voice was directed at ME.
“You’re sitting in my seat.”
I turned to see who was talking.
Another mistake. Sometimes if you’re going to die, it’s best not to know the details. But by recognizing the kid’s face and noticing the size of his biceps, I not only knew the “who,” I knew the “how.”
It was Gary the Gorilla. He hated that name. In fact, he did bodily harm to anyone he heard using it. But it was all anyone knew him by. We’d never officially met, but I recognized his picture from the papers. Or maybe it was the post office. Or maybe both. It didn’t matter where. The point is, once you saw it you never forgot it. And you’d always go out of your way to avoid it.
That’s okay, I thought. Don’t panic. Turn on some of that world-famous McDoogle charm. Be his friend. Yeah, that’s it. The poor guy’s probably just misunderstood. Maybe
if somebody reached out to him and tried—
“Hi there,” I said, reaching to shake his hand. “My name is Wally McDoogle. I’m, uh . . .”
I don’t know whether I stopped because of the look on his face or the gasps from the crowd. But when I glanced down at our handshake, I saw the problem. I had just transferred all of the peanut butter and jelly gunk from my hand into his.
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Gorilla, . . . er, that is, I mean . . . ”
With one swift move he had me by the collar. Next, I was high above his head and pressed tightly to the ceiling of the bus.
Suddenly, my whole life passed before my eyes. Well, it wasn’t my whole life. Mostly just the part of how I got into this predicament. It all started with Dad less than eight weeks ago . . .
“Don’t worry,” he shouted, leaning over the lawn mower as I fought to empty the grass catcher. “Church camp will be great for you.”
“But Dad—”
“Especially that two-day canoe trip—get you out in the wild away from the luxuries of the big city—”
“But Dad—”
“New challenges, new adventures—”
“Dad.”
“And the most important thing of all . . .”
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes.
“It will make you a real man.”
“A real man.” That seemed to be Dad’s whole purpose in my life lately. Maybe it had to do with him being All-State something or other back in his high school football days. Or maybe it was because Burt and Brock, my older twin brothers, win every sports trophy they can get their sweaty paws on. Or maybe it was because I made the mistake of telling everybody at dinner one night that I wanted to be a writer.
“A writer?” Dad winced.
“Yeah, but not just a writer—a screenwriter. You know, like movies and stuff.”
“Yeah, but . . . a writer?” The word stuck in his throat like Aunt Martha’s overcooked chicken.
“Sure, lots of people do that.”
“But . . . a writer?”
Less than four weeks later, the brochure from Camp Whacko mysteriously showed up on my dresser. It wasn’t long before the camp found its way into our daily conversations. It made no difference how I argued. Somehow, someway, just four weeks later, I found myself loading my bags into the car and heading for the church bus.
“You sure you need that computer thing?” Dad asked as he suspiciously eyed the laptop computer I was carrying to the car.
“Sure Dad.” I tried to sound matter of fact. “It will, uh, um, it will help me take notes on all the outdoorsy stuff I learn.”
“Hmmm . . .” was all he said.
I pulled the computer closer to my side. This could get messy.
He stood beside the car and slowly crossed his arms.
“Please, God,” I silently prayed, “not Ol’ Betsy, too.” (“Betsy,” that’s what I call my computer.)
Finally, Mom spoke up. “I think he should take it, Herb. It’s one thing to ship the boy off to camp against his will, but to take away his computer?”
“I didn’t say we should,” Dad hedged. “It’s just with all the new experiences he’ll be having, I wonder if it’s really necessary to—”
“I really think he should take it, Herb.”
Now, everyone in our family knows what it means when Mom says “really” like that. It means her mind is made up. Oh sure, Dad could still have his way—after all, he is the man of the house. But if he did, it meant he’d have to pay for it in the days to come. Little things like cold dinners, burnt toast, or finding starch in his underwear. You know, details like that.
“It was just a suggestion,” he offered as he threw the rest of my bags into the trunk.
“Thanks, Mom.” I grinned and climbed into the car.
“No sweat, Kiddo,” she said, sticking her head through the open window and giving me a goodbye kiss. “But you owe me.”
“Put it on my bill.”
Dad started the car, but before we pulled away, Mom went down her list of usual “Mom” things. You know, stuff like, “I expect you to wear your pajamas. Tops and bottoms.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And don’t forget to change your underwear.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And don’t forget to floss. Remember, healthy gums are happy gums.”
“Son . . .” Now it was Dad’s turn. But instead of a long lecture he reached over, put his powerful hand on my shoulder, and looked me straight in the eyes. I knew it was going to be something profound, something deeply moving, something I’d remember the rest of my life.
“Son,” he repeated to build the suspense. Then after a deep breath he continued. “Think . . . manly thoughts.”
I did my best to smile. He gave me a reassuring nod, put the car in gear, and off we headed for the bus.
That was just half an hour ago. And now, thirty short minutes later, I was pinned to the roof of the bus by Gary the Gorilla.
So this is what it feels like to die? I thought. Not so bad. Course, it would be better if he’d let go of my collar so I could breathe. Still, on the McDoogle pain scale of 1 to 10 this is only a—
Suddenly, an idea came to mind. I reached down to his meaty hand (the one wrapped around my throat) and scraped the rest of the peanut butter and jelly from it. Next I began to eat the stuff. The idea was to get him to laugh, to show him that I was just a stupid geek and that this was all just a stupid geek accident.
Unfortunately, he didn’t laugh. But the rest of the bus did. And as they chuckled, Gary, being the insecure kind of bully he was, naturally thought they were laughing at him.
His grip around my neck tightened.
Now, I’ve got to admit, I don’t exactly remember praying. Sometimes when you’re busy dying you forget little details like that. But suddenly, out of the blue, I heard this voice:
“Put him down, Gary.”
At first I thought it was God, or at least one of those archangel guys we hear about in Sunday school. After all, this was a church bus going to a church camp. But when I turned I saw it was only a counselor. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. I’d take what I could get.
Gary gave the man a glare but the counselor stayed cool and calm.
“Put him down,” the man repeated.
I gave my glasses a nervous little push back onto my nose. Unfortunately, it was with the hand still dripping in peanut butter and jelly. I noticed an exceptionally large glob of the goo starting to fall. I tried to catch it but I was too late.
K-SPLAT!
From high above it nailed Gorilla Boy right in the ol’ face.
The bus broke into even louder laughter.
Gary never had people laugh at him—at least not to his face—at least no one who lived to tell about it. And to have it happen twice in a row was unthinkable. But instead of enjoying the experience as something to treasure and remember, Gary turned beet red. The muscles in his neck began to tighten and quiver. He turned to the rest of the bus and gave them his world-famous death glare.
The rest of the bus stopped laughing. Come to think of it, they may have stopped breathing.
Finally, the counselor’s voice broke the silence. “It’s the last time I’m telling you, Gary . . . put him down.”
Slowly, Gary turned his head and directed his death glare at me. I could almost feel the plastic rims of my glasses melting.
Then he dropped me. I hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. But at least a living sack of potatoes. For that I was grateful.
I was not grateful for Gary’s final words to me. “I’m not going to forget this, Weasel. No one makes a fool of me. No one.”
Chapter 2
New Friends /
Old Enemies
Three hours later we pulled into Camp Whacko. We hopped from the bus and hauled our junk off to our luxurious cabins—complete with rusting bunk beds, squeaky bed springs, and paper-thin mattresses. It didn’t look like sleep would be a high priority. But that�
�s okay. I planned to spend the nights counting all the different six-legged wildlife scurrying across the floor, anyway.
After settling in, we all met at the softball bleachers. I did my best to sit as far away from Gary and his two goon friends as possible. But by the way they kept whispering and glaring at me, I figured China would have been too close.
The counselor guy who saved my life—Dale was his name—did most of the talking. He went on about how much fun we were going to have at Camp Whacko. You know, the standard, run-of the-mill “I’m glad you’re all here” and “we’re all going to have a great time” sort of stuff.
Then he talked about the overnight canoe trip coming up in a few days. And finally he got around to the week’s theme. “For the next five days we’re going to learn all about wisdom. Isn’t that exciting?”
Guess again. More like five days of nonstop boredom. No offense, but I’d only heard them rattle on about wisdom a billion times in Sunday school. That didn’t stop ol’ Dale, though. He just went on rattling. “Wisdom is knowing right from wrong. It’s learning what God’s will is and then doing it. Now, can anybody here give me an example?”
A hundred hands shot up—mostly belonging to the younger crowd . . . mostly belonging to the girls who all had instant, heartbreaking crushes on the guy.
I tried my best to pay attention, but no sale. I’d heard it all before. So I reached down to Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer. I quietly popped open her lid and snapped her on. Her screen started to glow, and I started to think.
There has to be some way of making this wisdom stuff more interesting. If I could just come up with the right story. Then before I knew it, my fingers started to fly across the keyboard. . . .
It has been a long afternoon for our superhero. Already, Mutant Man McDoogle has stopped a runaway train, saved the earth from a cloud of giant asteroids, and cleaned out the family’s cat box.
And now to the biggest challenge of all——complex fractions. (Being a sixth-grade superhero with homework does have its disadvantages.) Grabbing his pencil and math book, he snaps on the ol’ tube for a little Brady Bunch rerun inspiration. Suddenly, right in the middle of “Here’s a story, of a lovely lady...” the TV picture breaks up. Instead of Marsha and the gang giving their cute little smiles and their cute little waves from their cute little boxes we see...Dr. Ghastly the gorilla!
