by Bill Myers
MY LiFe
as a
BIGFOOT
BREATH MINT
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 • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •
a Haunted Hamburger, Hold the Pickles
• a Supersized Superhero . . . with Slobber •
The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet
Picture Book
Baseball for Breakfast
the incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle
MY LiFe
as a
BIGFOOT
BREATH MINT
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A BIGFOOT BREATH MINT
© 1997 by Bill Myers.
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 excerpts in reviews.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson. Tommy Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Tommy Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are from the International Children’s Bible®, New Century Version®, © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a bigfoot breath mint / Bill Myers.
p. cm. — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; bk. #12)
Summary: Wally’s visit to the Fantasmo World amusement park, where his Uncle Max works as a stuntman, turns into a disaster involving computer errors, runaway rides, and other outrageous mistakes.
ISBN 978-0–8499–3876–4 (pbk.)
[1. Amusement parks—Fiction. 2. Stunt performers—Fiction. 3. Uncles—Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953– .
Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #12.
PZ7.M98234Myd 1997
[Fic]—dc20 96–32349
CIP
AC
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 EPAC 27 26 25 24 23
For Roberta Sanford—
who taught me how to “read.”
“‘Honor your father and your mother.
Then you will live a long time. . . .’ ”
—Exodus 20:12
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. Action!
3. Fantasmo World
4. The Ride of a Lifetime
5. Dad to the Rescue . . . Almost
6. Breakfast Acrobatics
7. Rehearsal
8. It’s Showtime, Folks
9. Unlikely Hero
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
“Jump!” my little sister Carrie screamed. “Jump, Wally, jump!”
“I can’t. My shoelace is stuck!”
“Then unstick it,” Mom shouted.
“If I could unstick it, I wouldn’t be stuck!”
Ah yes, welcome to another not-so-minor McDoogle mishap. . . .
Just a few seconds earlier I’d been playing tugof-war with one of Mom’s suitcases. I had been trying to pull it off the luggage carousel at the airport. And it had been trying to pull me on.
Unfortunately, it won.
It’s not that I’m a wimp or anything. It’s just that my older twin brothers, Burt and Brock, got all the muscle DNA in the family. But that’s okay; there’s more to being a seventh-grade guy than just having muscles. There’s . . . there’s . . . well okay, maybe there isn’t. At least not when you’re battling with your mom’s overstuffed luggage.
Of course I had tried to jump off the luggage carousel. But as I’ve so carefully pointed out, my shoelace was caught and—
“Wally, look out!”
I glanced up. Directly above me a gazillion suitcases tumbled out of the overhead chute. They bounced down the ramp heading directly toward . . . you guessed it, the one and only me.
Great, I sighed, just great. I finally get to go to California, and I don’t even get out of the airport before I become Samsonite road kill.
But, being the inventive type of genius I am, I turned to my family and quite calmly screamed my head off.
“SOMEBODY HELP ME!”
My brothers were the first to ignore my request. It’s not that they’re insensitive or anything. I’m sure they wanted to help. It’s just hard to help someone when you’re falling on the floor laughing.
But not Mom. No sir. With the courage and dedication only a mother can have for her child, she turned to Dad and said, “So Herb, shouldn’t you be doing something?”
To which Dad heroically muttered, “I suppose.” (I sometimes get the feeling that Dad would love me more if I had followed in Burt’s and Brock’s footsteps as All-School Superjocks. Instead I’m the All-School Punching Bag.)
By now everyone in Baggage Claim was staring. If my best friend Wall Street had been around, she’d have charged admission. It looked like I was performing this one for my favorite charity . . . The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Dork-oids.
But not to worry, good old Dad had promised Mom that he’d save me. And if there is one thing he’s learned over the years, it’s not to disappoint good old Mom.
Anyway, he heroically leaped to my rescue.
Unfortunately, his leaper isn’t as heroic as it used to be. Actually, the leaping was okay. But the landing part got kind of messy.
“Oww!” he cried as he landed beside me. “My back! My back!”
Normally I would have offered him words of sympathy. But since those suitcases kept tumbling toward us, and since he wouldn’t have back pain in heaven, I figured why bother.
And then, just when we were about to be smashed flatter than today’s special at the House of Pancakes, an incredible bronzed form leaped over us.
With superhero strength, he threw his body between us and the falling suitcases.
BAM, THUD, SPLAT!
He took the full impact of the luggage as it smashed into his megastrong body.
The crowd gasped in admiration.
But he wasn’t done. Not yet. Next he ripped off his leather jacket and stuffed it between the conveyor belts. The luggage carousel began to growl and shudder. Then it began to shake, rattl
e, and roll. Finally the whole machine ground to a stop.
I was speechless. It was the most heroic rescue I had ever seen. The people around us started to clap and cheer.
And the superhunk? After taking a couple of bows, he dropped to my side. With an incredible smile, he said, “Hi, you must be Wally McDoogle.”
My mouth dropped open. Had my reputation for klutz-oidness spread all the way to the West Coast?
“Well, yeah,” I stuttered. “But how did, who are—”
“I’m your Uncle Max. I haven’t seen you since you were a couple of years old,” he said, brushing his thick blond hair out of his deep blue eyes.
“You’re . . . you’re my dad’s brother?” I stuttered.
“That’s right, kiddo. Welcome to L.A.”
Now, I’d heard stories about Uncle Max all of my life. He was the rebel of the family. While Dad is more the go-to-church-and-try-to-do-the-right-thing kind of guy, Uncle Max is more of the if-it-feels-good-do-it-and-keep-on-doing-it-until you-drop-dead-from-doing-it-too-much variety. That may be part of the reason he is one of the top-paid stunt men in Hollywood. In fact, he is so good that he has his very own stunt show at the world-famous movie theme park, Fantasmo World.
We’d bugged Dad for years about going to Los Angeles, where he’d grown up, and visiting his brother. But he’d always found an excuse. It took some distant great aunt’s death to finally bring us out. It seems Great Aunt Thelma had made Dad the executor of her will (that’s the guy in charge of dividing up all the loot), so he had to come out. And since there was no way he could do so without bringing us (oh, he could try, but he wouldn’t live to tell about it), here we were.
And there, towering above me in all of his coolness, was Uncle Max.
The first thing you notice are his ultracool looks: great tan, huge muscles, and thick blond hair. In fact, as we headed to his car with our bags, I bet there wasn’t a single babe who didn’t check him out.
And he checked them out right back.
Cool.
Then there was his even cooler sports car. Granted, it was a little crowded with all seven of us (not to mention our luggage) crammed in. But I gotta tell you, once we got going, that puppy could scoot.
“Man’t mou mo mower?!”
“What’s that, Herb?” Uncle Max called to the backseat.
It was a little difficult for Dad to speak since one of Carrie’s suitcases had jammed against his mouth, but he tried again. “Man’t mou mo mower?!”
Mom translated. “He’s wondering if you can’t go slower.”
Uncle Max laughed. “Don’t be such an old lady, Herbie. This little baby doesn’t really get going until it hits ninety.” He glanced into the mirror. “Uh-oh, it looks like we’ve got company.”
“Huh?” Dad asked.
Uncle Max hit the gas as he shouted, “Hang on!”
We shot forward. The acceleration shoved us so deep into our seats that for a moment I thought I’d landed in the trunk. He started zipping in and out of lanes like some skier in the Winter Olympics. And with each swerve and turn, our suitcases and ourselves flew back and forth inside the car.
SCREECH . . .
“WAAAAY!”
SQUEAL . . .
“WOOOAH!”
SKIIID . . .
“WAUGHHH!”
Everyone was shouting and having a great time.
Everyone but Dad. He was shouting, too, though I think he missed the “great time” part.
“Hang on,” Uncle Max yelled. “A couple of thugs have been following us since the airport. It’s time to give them the slip.”
While Dad was busy having cardiac arrest, the rest of us were having the ride of our lives. Think of it. We’d barely been in California an hour, and we were already in the middle of a car chase right out of the movies. But this was no movie. This was better than a movie. This was reality!
Unfortunately, reality didn’t last nearly long enough. Just when we were really getting into it, Uncle Max dropped back down to his cruising speed of 90 miles per hour.
What a disappointment for us.
What a relief for Mom and Dad.
And since the luggage had shifted (my sister’s suitcase was now embedded in my left armpit), my father was finally able to shout, “What do you think you’re doing?!”
Uncle Max smiled. “Relax Herbie. It’s just a couple of fellows interested in collecting on some gambling debts.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’ve been giving them the slip for weeks. No biggie.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Listen,” he said, suddenly changing subjects, “I’ve gotta be on the set at six tonight. We’re doing a big stunt at the Santa Monica Pier for the new Arnold Swizzlenoggin picture.”
“You know Arnold Swizzlenoggin?!” we all chimed in at the same time. (Well, not all of us—Dad was still working on his, “Yeah, buts.”)
“Know him?” Uncle Max laughed. “I’ve been his stunt double for years.”
“You’re Arnold Swizzlenoggin’s stunt double?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. Any time there’s a stunt that he’s afraid to do, he calls me in.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you come down to the pier and watch?”
“Cool!” we cried.
“What about your show at Fantasmo World?” Dad asked.
“That’s my day job. You can see that tomorrow. I do these other stunts to pick up pocket change. You know, a few thousand here, a few thousand there. So what do you say, Herbie?”
“Can we, Dad?” we all begged.
“Well, it’s been a long flight, I don’t—”
“Should be fun,” Uncle Max interrupted. “And since we don’t have to be there for a couple of hours—”
“Well, I—”
“That’ll give you time to unpack, rest a little, and—”
“Well, I—”
“I’ll tell Mercedes, the cook, to fix you up a nice—”
“You have a cook?” Mom asked, sounding impressed.
“Oh yeah. Just say the word, and she’ll fix you a nice dinner to go. Then you can all come down and watch me work.”
“All right!” we shouted.
Max chuckled. “That is, if it’s cool with the ol’ stick-in-the-mud back there.”
“Can we, Dad?”
Dad swallowed hard. I could tell he was feeling the pressure—which was exactly why we were staring at him.
“Well, I—”
Great! He was back to his “Well, I’s” again. We had him on the ropes.
“What say, Herb?” Max grinned at him.
“Well, I—”
“Time to show your little family what their Uncle Max can really do?”
We continued to look at Dad.
Poor guy. He didn’t have a chance. Each of us kids gave him our best puppy dog stare. You know, the one where you look all sweet and innocent?
He cleared his throat.
We stared harder.
“Well . . .” he coughed slightly. “Sure, why not?”
We all cheered.
But we wouldn’t have cheered if we’d known what was coming up.
Chapter 2
Action!
If Uncle Max’s car was cool, his home was even cooler. He had a giant house that overlooked the Pacific Ocean, a huge swimming pool complete with a waterfall, and for Burt and Brock’s amusement, the kitchen had a refrigerator the size of a meat locker.
It’s not that my brothers eat a lot (Mom says it’s just a teenage phase), but once they’ve quit teenagerhood, I can guarantee you, world hunger will no longer be a problem. There’ll be plenty of food for everyone.
Meanwhile, Dad wandered out to the garage to drool over Uncle Max’s antique car collection.
And little Carrie was in the backyard, pointing at a tree, trying not to have a major stroke. “Look!” she cried. “There are oranges on this tree! There are oranges on this tree!”
“Well of co
urse, Sweetheart, where did you think oranges came from?” Mom asked.
Carrie scrunched her face up into a puzzled frown. It was quite the brain sprain for her little seven-year-old mind to realize that oranges don’t grow on grocery-store shelves.
I went up to one of the supercool guest bedrooms. Its balcony was bigger than my whole room back home. All of this excitement had really stirred up my creativity. Since we had a couple of hours to kill before going to watch Uncle Max, I pulled out ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer, and started one of my superhero stories.
“Open a little farther, Mr. President.” “Ahhhh...”
“A little farther.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhh...”
“Perfect.”
With the poise and grace of a true professional, the fabulously flexible and hygienically heroic Floss Man leaps into the president’s mouth. Expertly he begins flossing between the great leader’s teeth.
“Just a few more seconds, Mr. President.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t want unhealthy gums now, do we?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Because as we all know, healthy gums are happy gu——”
RING, RING.
RING, RING.
Before our hero can rattle off that famous slogan found in every dentist office, the president turns to his desk and answers his phone.
“Hello?”
He tries to listen, but he can barely hear over the shouting inside his mouth.
“Miffer Preffibent! Oh, Miffer Preffibent!”
“I’m sorry,” the president says into the phone, “you’ll have to repeat that.”
“Miffer Preffibent! Oh, Miffer Preffibent!”
“I’m sorry, can you wait just a minute?”
Then, with the genius only an elected official can have, the beloved leader opens his mouth and lets Floss Man leap out.
“Whew,” our hero coughs and gasps. “Were those onions you had for lunch, sir?”
But the president is too busy to listen to bad breath jokes, especially from a piece of string——even if it is both mint flavored and waxed. He resumes his important phone conversation.
