by Bill Myers
MY LIFE
as a
Computer
COCKROACH
Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers
The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle
—My Life As a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce
—My Life As Alien Monster Bait
—My Life As a Broken Bungee Cord
—My Life As Crocodile Junk Food
—My Life As Dinosaur Dental Floss
—My Life As a Torpedo Test Target
—My Life As a Human Hockey Puck
—My Life As an Afterthought Astronaut
—My Life As Reindeer Road Kill
—My Life As a Toasted Time Traveler
—My Life As Polluted Pond Scum
—My Life As a Bigfoot Breath Mint
—My Life As a Blundering Ballerina
—My Life As a Screaming Skydiver
—My Life As a Human Hairball
—My Life As a Walrus Whoopee Cushion
—My Life As a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)
—My Life As a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard
—My Life As a Cowboy Cowpie
—My Life As Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion
—My Life As a Skysurfing Skateboarder
—My Life As a Tarantula Toe Tickler
Baseball for Breakfast (picture book)
SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF
. . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT
The Case of the Giggling Geeks
The Case of the Chewable Worms
The Case of the Flying Toenails
The Case of the Drooling Dinosaurs
The Case of the Hiccupping Ears
Other Books by Bill Myers
McGee and Me! (series)
Bloodhound, Inc. (series)
Forbidden Doors (series)
The Bloodstone Chronicles (fantasy)
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
MY LIFE
as a
Computer
COCKROACH
(Formerly titled My Life As a Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A COMPUTER COCKROACH
(formerly published under the title My Life As a Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)
© 1999 by Bill Myers
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, except for brief excerpts in reviews.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson®. Tommy Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the International Children’s Bible®, New Century Version®, © 1983, 1986, 1988.
Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a computer cockroach (formerly My life as a mixed-up millennium bug) / Bill Myers.
p. cm. — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #17)
Summary: When inept Wally McDoogle discovers that whatever he types on his computer turns into reality, what starts as just a little cheating soon escalates into a war.
ISBN 978-0-8499-4026-2
[1. Computers Fiction. 2. Cheating Fiction. 3. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953– . Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #17.
PZ7.M98234Mm 1999
[Fic]—dc21
99-35244
CIPP
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 EPAC 17 16 15 14 13
To Nancy Rue—
Another friend committed to reaching youth
“The LORD detests lying lips, but he delights in men who are truthful.”
—Proverbs 12:22 (NIV)
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. The Cheating Begins
3. Bye-Bye, Kilroy
4. Uh-Oh
5. Uh-Oh x 2
6. Faking It
7. 11:59 and Counting . . .
8. The United States of Wally
9. This Means War!
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
So what’s so wrong with a little cheating? You know, scribbling an answer or two on your wrist before the test, or embroidering them on the back of the shirt of the person sitting in front of you. Then, of course, there’s the ol’ standby of hiring a sky writer to scrawl the answers up there in the sky so as you gaze out the window you just happen to come up with all the right answers.
So what’s the matter with that?
Unfortunately, I found out the answer the hard way: PLENTY!
Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to shout. I guess I just don’t want you to have to go through what I did. Not that you could; after all, there’s only one Wally The-Walking-Disaster McDoogle. But still . . .
It all started with P.E., which, as everyone knows, stands for Physical Embarrassment. Once again Coach Kilroy (whose name could just as easily be Coach Kill-Wally) was on my case. All year he’d been threatening to flunk me. That’s why Mom and Dad suggested I take the special course he was offering over the winter break for extra credit. It sounded great, except for the part where I actually had to go to class.
“Come on, McDoogle! Stop being a wimp and climb that rope! You’re holding up the line! Climb the rope!”
It was all part of an elaborate obstacle course Coach had set up outside on the soccer field. “To get you ready for the big computer crash,” he shouted. “When that Y2K bug hits and there’s rioting in the streets, you’ll thank your lucky stars that I made you tough enough to survive!”
That was Coach’s new mission in life . . . to help us survive some sort of big, worldwide computer crash. I appreciated the thought, but right now I just wanted to survive the last eighteen minutes of class.
I’d been hanging on to that rope, trying to climb it, for just a little past forever. But with no success. (Unless you call my arms stretching a good foot and a half longer than they’re supposed to “success.”) It’s not that I’m a wimp—shoot, sometimes I work out for hours on end . . . if you call pushing all those buttons on the TV remote “working out”!
“Forget it, McDoogle!” Coach finally shouted. “Move on to the next station! Move it! Move it! Move it!”
Gratefully, I “moved it” and ran to the next station in the obstacle course . . . dragging my newly stretched arms on the ground behind me.
Unfortunately, this station was no better. We were to run through eight tires and up to a giant wall with a fishing net and then climb it. Well, everyone else was running through the eight tires up to the giant wall with the fishing net and climbing it. I, on the other hand, was stepping into one tire and
“Whoa!”
K-Flop
falling on my face. Then stepping into the next one and falling on my face.
“Whoa!”
K-Flop
Of course, Coach was shouting his usual encouragement, “McDoogle, you moron!” but I wasn’t worried. I knew I’d make it to the wall before nightfall.
“Whoa!”
K-Flop
“Whoa!”
K-Flop
I just wasn’t sure which night.
Anyway, after running through the eight tires with my mandatory eight falls, I finally made it to the wall. It was kind of weak and wobbly, since Coach had just built it the day before, but that wasn’t my concern. All I had to do was put my foot in the netting and pull myself up. There, that wasn’t so hard. Just put my other foot in the
netting and . . . uh-oh. I don’t know how I did it, but in 1.3 seconds I managed to get myself slightly stuck. In another 2.6 seconds I got myself majorly stuck.
“McDoogle!” Coach was definitely not happy.
I tried harder, squirming and wiggling, but the more I wiggled the more tangled I got. Finally, I’d turned the nice fish netting into some sort of knotted up crochet.
“McDOOGLE!!”
Fortunately, Wall Street, my best friend, even if she is a girl, was also taking the course, and she raced to my side to help. Over the years she’s had lots of experience in getting me out of problems. “Come on, Wally,” she said. “We don’t want Coach to flunk you. Just put your foot there . . . no, there . . . NO, Wally, there . . .”
Unfortunately, her version of there was slightly different from mine . . . which meant we soon turned that nice piece of crochet I had made into an even nicer knitted sweater.
“McDOOGLE!!”
So there I was, dangling upside down from the fishing net doing my best imitation of a human piñata, when my other best friend, Opera, who was also taking the course, came on the scene. Not only does Opera love classical music (which explains the Walkman headphones surgically attached to his ears), but he also loves junk food (which explains why he weighs just slightly less than a Mack truck).
“Here, Wally,” he shouted. “Grab my hands and I’ll pull you down.”
It wasn’t a bad idea—and thanks to my newly stretched arms I was able to reach down to him. He grabbed my hands and began to pull.
No problem . . . except for Opera’s weight . . . and the weak, wobbly wall . . . and all that pulling.
creak . . . groan
“What’s that?” I yelled.
“Don’t know!” he shouted and pulled harder.
Creak . . . Groan
“Uh, Opera?”
More pulling.
CREAK . . . GROAN
“Oh, Opera?”
Until, finally . . .
CREAK . . .
GROAN . . .
the entire wall started to fall.
“Look out!” Wall Street cried. “It’s coming down!”
She was right. The wall and I were falling straight toward the ground. For one terrifying second I was afraid I’d be smashed flatter than a tortilla hit by a semi carrying a load of sumo wrestlers . . . until I saw the tires.
The good news was the wall and I weren’t going to hit the ground at all. We were going to land right on the tires . . . right on those nice rubbery, bouncy tires. And I was right, they were nice, rubbery, and bouncy. So bouncy that as soon as I hit them I flew back up and out of the net. Not, of course, without accidentally getting my leg stuck in one of the tires and sort of pulling it up with me. Once again I came back down, this time landing on my own private tire, and once again
Boing!
Boing!
I flew back up.
So there I was,
bounce . . . bounce . . . bouncing . . .
across the soccer field like a giant basketball, when I realized two very important facts:
1. I was about to run out of the nice, soft soccer field, and
2. My next stop would be the not-so-nice (and definitely not-so-soft) teachers’ parking lot.
I knew I had to protect myself from all that asphalt and gravel, so I decided to curl up inside my tire and ride it out until we finally stopped bouncing.
The good news was the bouncing eventually stopped. The bad news was we quit bouncing and started to
ROLL . . . ROLL...ROLL...
ROLLROLLROLLROLL . . .
faster and faster and faster some more. Soon, everything was a spinning blur—the trees, the cars, the school wall.
THE SCHOOL WALL!
Ah, yes, the school
K-RASH!
wall.
Fortunately, that was about all I remembered from Coach’s little Y2K training. It’s hard to remember anything when you’ve been totally knocked out. However, before I slipped into unconscious-ville, I did remember thinking something else . . . I remembered thinking I might not exactly be getting an A in P.E.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong . . .
Six hours later I lay in bed, milking my injuries for all they were worth. You know the routine . . . “Oh, Mom, could you get this? Oh, Mom, could you get that?” And if she hesitates, just put a bit more whine in your voice and bingo: instant parent slave.
Good ol’ Mom . . . works every time.
Unfortunately, it’s not quite the same with Dad. It seems every time I complain to him about a broken body part, he jokingly offers to break something else to help take my mind off the pain.
Good ol’ Dad.
Anyway, since dinner was about to be served (in bed, of course), I decided to kill a little time by writing one of my superhero stories. Someday I hope to be a writer . . . if I can live through the seventh grade . . . and Coach Kilroy’s class.
I got up, strolled over to my desk, fed my fish, checked out my science project of living cockroaches in a terrarium (hey, everybody needs a hobby), and whipped out Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer. Finally, I turned her on and got to work:
It has been another super swell day for the stunningly stupendous and superb superhero...Chocolate Chum. Already he has talked a well-known restaurant chain into replacing all its maple syrup with chocolate syrup (ever try chocolate-covered waffles?...Don’t!); convinced a local broccoli farm to start selling chocolate-covered broccoli (Double Don’t!); and broken up a half-dozen Chocoholic Anonymous meetings by standing up and shouting, “Hi, my name’s Choco Chum, I’m a Chocoholic...AND I’M PROUD OF IT!”
Now, with the satisfaction that he has again made the world a sweeter, sweller, and just a little bit chubbier place to live, our hero pops out his microwave meal of spaghetti and fudge balls (smothered in extra chocolate sauce) and waddles over to turn on the TV.
But instead of his favorite game show, Wheel of Chocolate, there’s a bunch of crazed overweight guys yelling and jabbing their fingers at each other. “Oh, brother,” our hero groans, “it’s another political debate”...until he realizes these guys aren’t politicians, but professional wrestlers.
He switches channels.
But it’s the same thing. Instead of Touched by a Chocolate Bar, it’s another wrestling match.
He switches again. Now, instead of that famous purple fudgesicle singing, “I love you, you love me,” there’s even more wrestling. What in the world is going on?
Suddenly, our hero’s Choco-phone rings. He picks it up and answers, “Hello?” But before there’s an answer, he notices the chocolate receiver is melting in his hand. With a mind as bright as a three-legged horny toad (latest research indicates horny toads are not terribly smart——no matter how many legs they have), our hero decides the only solution is to
Gobble, Gobble
Munch, Munch
Burp, Burp
eat the receiver.
But not to worry, dear reader. Thanks to some very clever writing on this author’s part, a fax machine just happens to be sitting alongside the Choco-phone. A moment later it rings and a fax starts printing.
Our hero grabs the fax paper, but instead of reading it, he uses it to wipe the Choco-phone chocolate off his hands! (Okay, so maybe he isn’t as smart as a three-legged horny toad.) An e-mail message pops up on the computer screen, which also just happens to be sitting beside his fax machine. (Am I good or what?) Our hero turns to the screen and, since computer monitors are a lot harder to eat than telephone receivers, he begins to read:
Greetings, Choco-Chump!
By now you’ve discovered I’m replacing all of
your favorite television shows with professional
wrestling shows.
Chocolate Chum’s mind spins. Who could pull off such a dastardly deed? Who could possibly want to watch professional wrestling, nonstop, twenty-four hours a day? And if he did, how could he possibly be smart enough to know how to send e-ma
il?
He continues to read:
But it’s not just your favorite shows, it’s
everybody’s TV shows!
And it’s not just TV. My new, handy-dandy
Microwave Manipulator is changing all TV and
radio shows into wrestling matches. Soon that’s
all anyone will be able to see or hear.
“Oh no!” our delectable do-gooder cries. “This can’t be possible. Tell me it isn’t so!”
It is so, Choco-Chubs. Soon the only
entertainment anyone will ever enjoy is
professional wrestling. Unless, of course, you
are foolish enough to try to stop me!
Slugs and kicks,
Outrageous Ray the Wrestler
P.S. Where’s that bad-guy music that always
happens when bad guys talk in your stories?
TA-DA-DAAAA . . .
P.P.S. Thanks, that’s more like it.
Suddenly, our hero grows as pale as a bar of white chocolate. And for good reason. The last time they met, Outrageous Ray held him in a hammerlock so long that he melted into a pathetic puddle of good-guy goo. It took months of physical therapy to shape him back into a respectable piece of milk chocolate.
And now...
The very thought makes him shiver, putting more bumps on his skin than the backside of a Nestle’s Crunch bar. But a hero’s got to do what a hero’s got to do, so our hero does it. Without a moment’s hesitation he goes to:
PLAN A
It’s a complicated plan where he drops to his knees, starts wailing, and cries for his mommy. But when Mommy doesn’t answer he goes to:
PLAN B
He leaps up, races to the Choco-Cave, hops in his Choco-mobile, and squeals out and onto the highway.
Precious seconds tick away. Who knows what damage Outrageous has already wreaked, what wreckage Ray has already reaped, not to mention the horrors of seeing the entire Brady Bunch dressed up as professional wrestlers! What——
Knock-knock-knock
I looked up.
“Wally, sweetheart, I’ve brought you your dinner . . . if you feel up to eating it.”
It was Mom. I’d almost forgotten, I was supposed to be sick in bed!
“Just a minute,” I cried.
