by Bill Myers
MY LiFe
as a
Blundering
Ballerina
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 Breath •
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
Blundering
Ballerina
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A BLUNDERING BALLERINA
© 1997 by Bill Myers.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Verses marked TLB are taken from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois, 60189. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a blundering ballerina / Bill Myers.
p. cm. — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; bk. 13)
Summary: At the suggestion of their speech teacher, Wally and his good friend Wall Street agree to switch places for three days to prove whether boys or girls are better.
ISBN 978-0–8499–4022–4
[1. Sex role—Fiction. 2. Christian life—Fiction.
3. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953– . Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #13.
PZ7.M98234Mydd 1997
[Fic]—dc21
97–34366
CIP
AC
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 QW 20 19 18 17 16
For Bill Myers, Sr.—
one of my heroes.
Love each other with brotherly affection and take delight in honoring each other.
—Romans 12:10 (TLB)
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. Bumble Boy to the Rescue
3. Something in the Air
4. Pass the Cookies . . . to Someone Else
5. Political Correctness
6. A Smokin’ Rehearsal
7. Under Attack
8. Political Crackedness
9. Team Work
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
“It’s way harder being a guy than a girl.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
The best thing about this kind of argument is that it can go on forever.
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
I mean it’s so mindless you can pick up a good book (preferably something with a title that starts with “My Life As . . .”), or catch an America’s Funniest Home Videos rerun, or even do complex fractions—all at the same time—and still keep it going.
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
Unfortunately Wall Street, my best friend (even if she is a girl), and I were just getting into it when Ms. Finglestooper strolled over. As our drama and speech teacher and a recent graduate of Fruitcake U (or some other weird college out West), she felt it was her solemn duty to make every minor molehill into a major mountain.
“Wally,” she said, “I think you and Wall Street might have a topic for some speeches here.” Before we could answer, she turned to the rest of the class and called, “People! People, gather around here for a moment.”
And since “gather around” sounded a lot better than “sit in your seat, keep quiet, and do your work,” the class immediately obeyed.
“What’s up?” they asked as they crowded around us.
“Well, Wally here thinks being a young man is tougher than being a young woman. And Wall Street believes it’s just the opposite.” She turned to us. “Is that correct?”
Wall Street and I nodded our heads off. So did the rest of the class . . . the boys agreeing with me, the girls with Wall Street. And before we knew it, the entire class had returned to the debate:
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“Is—”
“Class . . . class . . .” Ms. Finglestooper clapped her hands. “I think there’s a way to settle this argument a little more intelligently, and maybe create some interesting speeches at the same time.”
“How’s that?” I asked. (Unfortunately I had not read the back cover to this book, otherwise I would have kept quiet and run for my life.)
Ms. Finglestooper smiled. “All you two need to do is simply trade places.”
“What do you mean?” Wall Street asked.
“You and Wally agree to live each others’ lives for a certain amount of time. Let’s say, seventy-two hours.”
“What?!” we cried in unison.
“Sure . . . it will be perfect.” She pointed to me. “You’d get a taste of what girls go through, and you,” she pointed to Wall Street, “will become more sensitive to what guys face. Then, when it’s all over, you may both present speeches about what you’ve learned.”
“I don’t know,” Opera, my other best friend, said. “I’m not so sure how Wally will look in a dress.”
The class snickered, but Ms. Finglestooper shook her head. “No, no, we won’t go to that extreme, but—”
One of the guys interrupted. “Wall Street couldn’t last ten minutes as a guy.”
“She’d last longer than Wally as a girl,” someone argued.
“Would not.”
“Would too.”
“Would not.”
It was nice to hear the discussion getting back to normal. But, unfortunately, as we all know, “normal” never lasts too long in my neck of reality.
Then I heard, “Hey, I gots a gooder idea.” By the stunning lack of grammar everyone knew it was Bruce Breakaface, our star football player, talking. “Let’s, uh, turns it into like a competition— guys against girls. Yeah, and whoever gives in first, uh . . . ,” he frowned as he tried to concentrate. “Uh . . .”
“Loses,” somebody whispered.
Suddenly his face lit up. “Yeah . . . whoever gives in first loses.”
“A piece of cake!” The guys shouted. “You girls are history!”
“No way!” The girls yelled back. “You guys are dead meat!”
“Well,” Ms. Finglestooper said, “now that we’ve covered most of the major food groups, let’s spend the rest of the period writing down the ground rules so everything will be fair and square.”
“All right!” The guys yelled.
“Cool!” The girls shouted.
But not me. It’s hard to yell anything when you’re busy having your body shoved against the wall by one Mr. Bruce Breakaface. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. I could sense it by the glare in his eyes . . . and his choke hold around my throat. “Don’t let us down, McDoogle,” he said.
I understood perfectly. The us was every guy that had ever lived . . . especially Bruce Breakaface. And the letting down would be if I lost to Wall Street. The message couldn’t be clearer— I could either win or I could die.
“So how are they gonna make sure you do all the girlie stuff?” Burt, one of my twin older brothers, asked. He was gnawing on a piece of German sausage. Well, it was supposed to be German sausage. But since it was Wednesday night, and our little sister Carrie’s turn to make dinner, the outside tasted and chewed more like bicycle tires . . . with an inside full of something like overcooked kitty litter. (Carrie still hadn’t mastered the fine art of cooking.)
“We’re going to have judges,” I said as I secretly loaded up my napkin with another one of my sister’s gourmet treats—mashed potatoes that had the delicate taste and aroma of boiled clay.
“So people are gonna follow you around?” Brock, my other brother, asked.
I nodded. “Starting first thing tomorrow morning, different kids will be watching Wall Street and me.” I carefully eased the potatoes below the table and held them out to Collision, our family cat. Having the IQ of a stump, ol’ Collision gobbled them down like there was no tomorrow. And, given the toxic nature of Carrie’s cooking, that just might be the case.
“Pass the glue,” Burt asked.
“That’s not glue!” Carrie protested. “It’s gravy.”
“Yeah, right,” he smirked. “If that’s gravy then I suppose these hard little BB thingamabobs are corn.”
“Peas,” Carrie corrected. “I just fried them a little too long.”
Mom pretended to cough into her napkin (although I secretly suspected she was also preparing a treat for Collision). “Actually, green peas are supposed to be boiled, sweetheart, not fried.”
“Oh. Even after I’ve marinated them in hot sauce?”
Now everybody was coughing into their napkins.
“I don’t know,” Dad said to me when he finally came up for air. “Trading places with a girl? You don’t think that’s going to sissify or warp you, do you?”
“Not any more than he’s already warped,” Burt snickered.
I threw a cautious look to Dad. After all, his idea of being a man involves arm wrestling Arnold Schwartzenegger, being a professional linebacker, and picking my teeth with ten-inch iron nails— all at the same time. In fact, it seems like whenever I turn around lately, he’s shoving a hockey stick or weightlifting magazines into my hands.
“Oh, relax, Herb,” Mom said cheerfully. “I think it will be great fun. Besides, I’m sure it will help the boys and girls be a little more understanding of each other.”
Dad gave a long sigh. “Well, all right,” he grumbled, “just as long as he doesn’t have to wear a dress or anything.”
“No way,” I laughed. “You wouldn’t catch me in anything like that.”
“Well actually . . .” Mom hesitated.
We all looked at her.
“Actually, what?” I asked. (Suddenly wishing I’d read the back cover of this book, again.)
“Well, doesn’t The Nutcracker ballet open the day after tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“And isn’t Wall Street playing the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy?”
“So?”
“So, if you two are supposed to be trading places for seventy-two hours and the ballet is in forty-eight . . .” She let the phrase trail off.
I tried to answer, but it’s hard to talk when you’re hyperventilating.
“You mean Wally’s going to have to be in a ballet?” Carrie asked in wide-eyed amazement.
Suddenly Burt broke out in laughter, followed by Brock.
“Way to go Wally!” Burt slapped me on the back. (Or was it Brock?)
“Cool,” Brock snickered. (Or was it Burt?)
I threw another glance to Dad, who looked almost as bad as I felt. Something about seeing his little boy in a tutu and tights made him majorly uncomfortable.
It didn’t help my comfort level much either.
But before Dad could reach for the phone and enlist me in the Marine Corps or at least sign me up as Evander Holyfield’s boxing partner, Collision went into one of her major coughing fits.
We all turned and watched as the cat ran around and around the room coughing and howling.
“Oh no,” little Carrie groaned. “Somebody call the vet. Collision is doing it again.”
But the running only lasted a minute before it was interrupted by another routine—the one where the cat throws herself down on the floor and starts scooting around and around on her side. Next she starts jumping straight up into the air and then gravity pulls her down. Over and over, she goes straight up into the air and then down.
“Amazing,” little Carrie shook her head. “Whenever it’s my night to cook she does the exact same thing. I wonder why?”
I glanced around to the rest of the family. Everyone was quietly bringing their napkins back up from under the table and silently setting them beside their plates. Poor Collision. It looked like once again she was the only one eating my sister’s cooking.
Fortunately, the little diversion had distracted Dad from calling the Marines. Unfortunately it did little to solve my upcoming stroll through another McDoogle mishap.
Chapter 2
Bumble Boy to the Rescue
Most people count sheep when they can’t go to sleep. Not me. I was counting how many places Bruce Breakaface’s fists were going to land on me. And when I got tired of that, I started counting the number of trips to the Emergency Room I’d be making. It’s not that I was scared or anything. It’s just that if I lost the competition with Wall Street every guy in the world would be humiliated beyond belief. Of course, that would include Bruce Breakaface, who, as you’ve probably figured out, did not get his name by accident.
I knew I could beat Wall Street—after all, she was just a girl. Right? I figured all I had to do was scream at every little crawly thing, call every guy I met “immature,” and flick my hair out of my eyes a zillion times. That’s all there was to this girl stuff.
But there was still that one in a billion chance that something might go wrong. Or, in my case, that something might go right. So, I reached for Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer. Nothing takes my mind off an upcoming death sentence like writing a good superhero story.
It has been another long day of heroics for the world famous (and part-time telemarketing salesman) Bumble Boy. He’s defused a terrorist’s bomb, invented a cure for watching too many TV reruns, and telephoned the same household five times asking if they wanted to change from one phone company to another.
And now he is hanging up his wings, kicking off his shoes (all six of them), and sitting down with a plate of chocolate chip pollen and a nice cold glass of nectar.
No one knows how Bumble Boy turned into
half-bee, half-boy, but it sure gets expensive when he’s shopping for clothes. (Ever try talking your mom into buying three pairs of Air Jordans at the same time?)
Then there’s the little stinger problem. Granted, it stops people from shoving behind him in line, but it definitely makes sitting on air mattresses and water beds a little tricky.
But on with our story. Our stunningly sensational and sometimes sticky superhero (say that seven times fast) is just opening up his latest issue of Better Beehives and Gardens when suddenly the Bumble Phone rings
BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.
BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.
He scoops up the phone with one of his six legs and answers: “Superheros, Unlimited: If needing to be saved is your thing, I’m the bee with the sting.”
At first there is no answer.
“Hello——”
Then finally, through muffled static, he hears a dreaded voice:
“Alas, poor Bug Boy,
We doth meet again.
But things shall be different,
This time I’ll do you in.”
The phrase sends a cold chill through our hero’s exoskeleton. (Do bees have exoskeletons? Well, this one does.) Immediately he recognizes the voice. It belongs to none other than (insert scary music here)...Shakespeare Guy!
“Shakespeare Guy,” our hero shouts. “Shakespeare Guy, is that you?”
“Alas, what knowledge,
Through your thick skull
doth break.
Thou doth not speak a lie,
’Tis indeed the sensational ‘I’.”
Bumble Boy shudders a shuddering shudder of recognition. Of course it’s Shakespeare Guy. Who else could speak such bad poetry? “But how——how did you get out?” Bumble Boy asks. “You were serving a life sentence in a mental hospital for the artistically insane.”
“A wondrous potion,
Hath I concocted.
Then gave it to my warden,
So my sentence he hath forgotten.”
Bumble Boy cringes. He remembers all too well the torture this fiendish fiend had once inflicted upon the world. How literature teachers had dropped to their knees begging him to stop reciting his verses. How poets had gone insane listening to his work. And how (after Bumble Boy had captured him) he was sentenced to life without parole for Cruel and Unusual Punishment of the English Language.
