My Life as a Splatted-Flat Quarterback

Incredible Worlds Of Wally McDoogle [24]

Bill Myers

Nashville, Tenn. : Tommy Nelson, c2005. (2005)

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Christian

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When Wally teases or judges someone unfairly, from his school's janitor to a quarterback playing in the Super Bowl, he suddenly becomes that person, and soon realizes the importance of trying to see others through the eyes of God.

My Life As a

Splatted-Flat Quarterback

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 • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •

The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet

Picture Book

Baseball for Breakfast

www.Billmyers.com

the incredible worlds of

Wally  McDoogle

BILL MYERS

MY LIFE AS A SPLATTED-FLAT QUARTERBACK

Copyright © 2005 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 excerpts 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, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

Scripture quotations in this book are from the International Children’s Bible®, New Century Version®, © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Myers, Bill, 1953–

My life as a splatted-flat quarterback / Bill Myers.

p. cm.— (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; 24)

Summary: When Wally teases or judges someone unfairly, from his school’s janitor to a quarterback playing in the Super Bowl, he suddenly becomes that person, and soon realizes the importance of trying to see others through the eyes of God.

ISBN-10: 0-8499-5995-0 (HC)

ISBN-10: 1-4003-0906-9 (TP)

[1. Empathy—Fiction. 2. Teasing—Fiction. 3. Christian life—Fiction. 4. Humorous stories.] I. Mangiat, Jeff, ill. II. Title.

PZ7.M98234Myld 2005

[Fic]—dc22

2005003500

Printed in the United States of America

06 07 08 09 10 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Peggy Patrick Medberry:

One of God’s great masterpieces.

“Don’t judge other people,

and you will not be judged.”

—Matthew 7:1

Contents

1. Just for Starters

2. Trading Faces

… and other body parts

3. Stinking Rich

4. Grand Ol’ Operaland

5. Wally McDoogle, Please Meet …

er, uh … Wally McDoogle.

6. Wally McDoogle:

Super Jock? Super Not!

7. A Taste of SuperstarDUMB

8. No Pain, No Game

9. My Big Break!

… actually, several of them

10. Wrapping Up

Chapter 1

Just For Starters

The next time I start making fun of someone, do me a favor …

—throw me out of a 747 without a parachute.

—strap antlers to my head and put me in the forest on the first day of deer hunting season.

—make me eat my little sister’s cooking (without the dog under the table to slip it to).

Because anything would be better (and less hazardous to my health) than judging some other guy (or guyette).

It all started when Opera, the human eating machine, and I left the toxic waste site (more commonly referred to as our school cafeteria). We’d just climbed the stairs to the third floor and headed down the hall to Mr. Finglesnorker’s class.

That’s when I spotted the most clueless person on the face of the earth … Megan Melkner.

Megan was clueless for one reason and one reason only: She thought I was cute. (I know, go figure.) Of course, I tried to help her out by suggesting that she see an eye doctor. (And when that didn’t work, I suggested a brain doctor.) But the poor thing wouldn’t listen to reason.

Anyway, Megan just got some new braces— complete with all that neck and head gear. So, of course being me, I did the real mature thing by sneaking up behind her and walking like Frankenstein’s monster.

“Grrrr … Arrrr … Roarrr …”

Yes sir, a real crowd pleaser (especially for kindergartners).

Opera sadly shook his head. “That’s nothing,” he burped. Opera always burps after eating, which means he burps all the time. “Check this out.”

He snuck up behind another kid, Herman Hackalung. Ol’ Hermie holds the record for having the most allergies of any one human being. You name it, he’s allergic to it. And not just normal kid allergies like schoolwork or cleaning your room. No sir, Herman Hackalung is allergic to everything—which explains his constant sniffling, sneezing, and, you guessed it, … hacking.

So Opera started walking behind him sniffling, pretending to wipe his nose, and gasping for breath. (By the looks of things, Opera had just raised the humor level to about first grade.)

I knew I could top that. No sweat. But where? How? Who would be my next victim?

I scanned the hallway. Everybody around us was normal. Well, as normal as middle-schoolers can be. Everyone except our all-school bully … Gary the Gorilla. I don’t want to say Gary’s brain voltage is low, but the guy has flunked so many times that he’s the only seventh grader I know of who is old enough to have his driver’s license … and will soon be eligible for Medicare.

Gary was one guy you didn’t want to mess with. ’Cause if he messed with you back, you could really get messed up … in a broken-body-parts-scattered-throughout-the-school kinda way.

But time was running out. Mr. Finglesnorker’s class was just ahead. Who else could I make fun of before I get there?

And then I saw him … Old Man Clyde the janitor. He was cleaning up something on the floor with a mop and bucket on rollers. Something that looked an awful lot like what we’d just eaten down at the toxic waste site. (I guess some people’s stomachs aren’t so strong.)

Nobody knows how old Mr. Clyde is, but rumor has it that he still has his first car, a dinosaur, in his garage. (Don’t laugh, rumor also has it that T. rexes get great gas mileage.)

Anyway, the old guy was stooped over the floor, mopping away like there was no tomorrow.

I know it was mean, but I ran up behind him, stooped over, and started imitating him.

At least that’s what I wanted to do. But, as you may have noticed, my life doesn’t always go exactly as planned. Especially when God’s in one of His “Let’s-teach-Wally-a-lesson” modes. Which explains my sudden

Slip … Slip … Slipping

across the wet floor.

Fortunately, I didn’t have time for a lot of slipping since the lockers were nearby. Particularly one locker that just happened to belong to Wall Street (my other best friend, even if she is a girl).

One locker whose door she just happened to open right into my …

K-Slam!

face.

“Oh, sorry, Wally. You all right?”

I would have answered, but it’s difficult to talk when you’re knocked unconscious.

But at least I wasn’t slipping. Now, I was just sort of

Stagger-Stagger-Staggering …

right past Megan.

“Hi, Wally.” She grinned at me in all her blinding, metal-mouth glory.

The good news was, I’d regained enough consciousness to answer. The bad news was, I hadn’t regained enough to answer intelligently. So I smiled back and muttered something majorly stupid like:

“Hi.”

Which made Megan light up like a 110-volt Christmas tree plugged into a 220 outlet … (either that or a nuclear reactor).

“Oh, Wally!” she cried. “You like me! You like me! You really DO like me!”

I wanted to stick around and straighten things out, but I was still in the middle of my little …

Stagger-Stagger-Staggering

routine. Actually, I was getting pretty good at it, until I staggered in front of Gary the Gorilla. Good ol’ Gary. We go way back. All the way to Camp Wahkah Wahkah. Which explains why he looked at me with those warm, gentle eyes and snarled:

“Get out of my way, jerkface!”

(You should hear what he calls people he doesn’t like.)

And what greeting from Gorilla Man would be complete without his stretching both arms out to me, and in a most sincere gesture of friendship, shoving me out of his way?

“Oaff!” I oaffed, while proceeding to

Stagger-Stagger-Stagger

toward Opera.

“Now that’s funny!” He burped. “I bet even the eighth graders will laugh at that.”

I managed to give him a thumbs-up as I staggered past and toward my buddy, the janitor. Yes sir, we were about to have a major face-to-face (as in my face planted in his), until I accidentally stepped into his roller bucket.

Suddenly, I traded in my stagger-stagger-staggering for a new means of transportation (and screaming):

“Whooa! Wheeeee! Waaaaa!”

That’s right, I was now

Roll … Roll … Rolling

down the hall!

“HEY, KID!” Mr. Clyde shouted in his craggy voice. “COME BACK HERE WITH MY BUCKET!”

I would have loved to obey, but I was too busy with my

“Whoa!”ing “Wheeeee!”ing “Waaaaa!”ing

And, of course, performing my world-famous …

“AUGH!”ing.

The reason was simple. Just ahead was the stairway that led back down all three floors.

Luckily, there were tons of kids in the hallway to stop me.

Unluckily, they knew it was the beginning of another “My Life As …” book, and they sure didn’t want to ruin a great read for you.

Lucky for you.

Not so lucky for me.

So there I was, shooting down the hallway, with everyone clapping and parting like the Red Sea so I could pass.

Everyone but Mr. Finglesnorker, who just happened to step out of his classroom.

“McDoogle, what are you doing?”

“AUGH!”

“No shouting in the hallway! You know the rules!”

“AUGH! AUGH!”

“I’m warning you, mister, one more scream and you’re getting detention!”

The good news was, I didn’t scream anymore. I’d hate getting detention (especially if it meant missing my own funeral).

The bad news was, I didn’t scream because I’d just run out of floor and started

b-b-b-bouncing

d-d-d-d-down

e-e-e-e-each

s-s-s-s-s-t-t-t-t-t-t-e-e-e-e-e-p-p-p-p-p-p-p.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to go down all three flights.

That was the good news. But, as always, there was some bad news. I didn’t have to go down all three flights because the top flight ended in front of a giant window.

A giant window that I had no choice but to

K-RASH!

through, while once again shouting,

“AUUUGHHH!”

By now I could hear everyone laughing. Even the eighth graders. (Try and top that, Opera!)

Of course, that meant I could also hear Mr. Finglesnorker: “All right, McDoogle! After school, one hour, my room!”

And last, there was the ol’ familiar …

K-SLAM!

which, as anyone who has ever read one of these stories knows … is the sound of one very soft Wally McDoogle slamming into some very hard ground.

But the hard ground was nothing compared to the hard truth I was about to learn.

Chapter 2

Trading Faces… and body parts

I don’t know how long I lay unconscious on the ground. I only know it wasn’t quite long enough.

Because the next thing I knew, I was standing above myself, looking down at myself. I’m not talking about looking into a mirror or anything as normal as that. I’M TALKING ABOUT SEEING MY ACTUAL BODY!

(Sorry, didn’t mean to shout. That’ll come a few paragraphs later.)

At first, I thought I might be dead and my soul was about to go to heaven.

Unfortunately, that would have been the easy way.

Instead, it was like I was somebody else looking down at me. Somebody else in an old uniform, who was all stooped over and who had more pain in his bones than I get from a dozen of my daily catastrophes.

Talk about weird. But hang on, the weirdness gets weirder in a weirder-er sort of way.

I was standing with all the other kids from the school. We’d gathered around the body that looked just like me and watched as it blinked its Wally eyes, shook its Wally head, and tried to regain its Wally consciousness.

“Hey, Wally?” Opera asked, so faintly I could barely hear. “Are you, burp, okay?”

“NOT REALLY,” I shouted in a craggy voice about a hundred years older than mine. “I’VE GOT THIS PAIN IN MY BACK, AND EVERY BONE IN MY BODY IS KILLING—”

Opera turned to me with a frown and interrupted. “Not you, Mr. Clyde. I was talking to Wally.”

At least, that’s what I thought he said. It was kinda hard to understand anything with how quietly he talked.

I’d have thought it was a dream or something— especially when Wall Street pushed her way through the crowd and started helping the other Wally out of the three-foot-deep crater he’d made.

“Here, Wally,” she said, “take my hand. Are you okay? Can you get up? Can you stand?”

Of course, it had to be a dream. Wall Street would never be nice to me like that … unless there was a way to make money out of it. (Wall Street wants to make her first million by the time she’s fifteen—most of it off me.)

“Let’s hurry and get you back upstairs,” she said.

“Why?” the other Wally asked.

“I just called America’s Stupidest Home Videos. They said we could maybe win ten thousand dollars if we got what you just did on video.”

Maybe it wasn’t a dream.

“Really,” the other Wally said. “What’s my split?”

“The usual 50/50: five thousand dollars for me and five thousand dollars for you—minus my four-thousand-dollar fee as your agent and nine hundred ninety-nine dollars for the digital camera.”

“But … that only leaves me with a dollar.”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning. “Pretty good wages for nearly dying, isn’t it?!”

The other Wally nodded, and I knew for sure it wasn’t a dream. It was just too real.

Meanwhile, everyone was turning and heading back toward the school.

“WAIT A MINUTE!” I shouted.

But nobody paid any attention.

I started after them, but my legs hurt too much to run. Instead, I had to limp and hobble. “GUYS … HEY, GUYS …”

At last, the other Wally turned to me. “What’s up, Mr. Clyde?”

“MR. CLYDE?” I shouted. “I’M NOT MR.

CLYDE, I’M WALLY … WALLY MCDOOGLE!”

Everyone laughed.

“You’re who?” the other Wally asked.

“I’M YOU.”

“You’re me?”

I nodded.

“If you’re me, then who am I?”

“I … I DON’T KNOW,” I stuttered. “THIS IS CRAZY!”

“Well, one of you is crazy,” someone shouted, and everybody laughed again.

“Hold it,” Opera said with a glint in his eye. It was obvious he was going for another laugh. “If Mr. Clyde is you,” he said, pointing at Wally, “then maybe you’re, burp, Mr. Clyde!”

The other Wally grinned back. “Right …” Suddenly, he stooped over and started limping around, shouting like an old man. “YES, YES, YES, IT’S TRUE! I AM MR. CLYDE THE JANITOR!”

The group laughed some more.

“No, Wally!” someone shouted. “We’re all Mr. Clyde.”

“Yeah,” another yelled. “We’re all Mr. Clyde! We’re all Mr. Clyde the janitor!”

Now everybody stooped over and pretended to hobble as they headed toward the building, shouting, “WHAT? WHAT’D YOU SAY? YOU’LL HAVE TO SPEAK UP, ’CAUSE I’M DEEEF!”

“WAIT A MINUTE!” I yelled. “WAIT A MINUTE!!”

But, of course, nobody paid attention. They were all too busy making fun of me, or Mr. Clyde, or whoever I was.

I tried following, but my new old body just couldn’t keep up.

Yes sir, we’d definitely taken a wrong turn into Weirdville. And between my bad hearing, stooped back, and aching bones, things couldn’t have been much more painful. Well, actually, they could. Because as I watched the other Wally and kids head back into the building, laughing and making fun of me, I felt another type of pain … one that had nothing to do with a person’s body, but one that hurt even worse.

The one nice thing about being Mr. Clyde was that everyone thought I was such a loser they left me alone. Which was good, since it gave me time to try to figure out what had happened. I mean, let’s face it, on the weirdness scale of 1 to 10, this was definitely a 1,232,3471.2.

But where should I go?

First, I tried Mr. Finglesnorker’s class … until he threw me out:

“I’m conducting a class, Mr. Clyde. You’ll have to clean the room after we’ve finished.”

Next, I tried the teachers’ lounge … until they threw me out:

“Not now, Mr. Clyde. You’ll have to clean up this mess after we’ve gone home.”

Yes sir, I was about as popular as stewed prunes in a trick-or-treater’s bag.

After a few more tries, I finally found a nice quiet place down in the furnace room. Just me and belching Bertha, the thousand-year-old furnace— which almost manages to heat up our building (as long as it doesn’t get below 65 degrees outside … and we don’t die from all the smoke and carbon whatever-it-is-ide).

Now, of course, the best way for me to figure out stuff is to write one of my superhero stories. But since the other Wally had Ol’ Betsy, my laptop computer, I grabbed a pencil and paper and started writing the old-fashioned way. The pain in my hands (I’m guessing it was arthritis or something) was so bad I could barely move the pencil. Still, a guy has to do what a guy has to do.

It had been another series of superheroic super-stunts for our superhero and all-around super-good guy … Random Man McDoogle.

First, he had to calm down the TV weatherman who’d been freaking out over the snowstorm. Actually, it wasn’t the snowstorm that freaked him out, it was the snowflakes——they weren’t all the same shape. Not only that, but they weren’t falling in perfect order. (Apparently, the weatherman’s a bit of a neat freak.)

But he wasn’t as bad as the groundskeeper at Middleton City Park. The poor fellow had spent all day cutting branches from some trees and gluing them to the trunks of others. His explanation? Simple: “That way, every tree will have the same number of branches pointing in the same direction!”

(Simple explanation: weird action.)

And don’t even get me started about the astronomer who realized the stars weren’t all hanging in perfect order.

Yes sir, there was definitely something going on in the neat-freak department. But for now Random Man could kick back, relax, and watch another rerun of Gilligan’s Island. He’s got this thing for Ginger, the movie star.

Anyway, he’s watching the part where a coconut hits Gilligan on the head, when the phone rings:

(Random superheroes have random phone rings.)

He picks it up and answers:

“Random Man McDoogle …

If boredom is your crime,

we’ll mess things up till you whine.”

(Okay, so he’s not a great poet, either.)

The voice on the other end cries, “Random Man, you’ve got to help us! You’ve got to help us!”

“Mother, is that you?”

“I’m not your mother. I’m your President.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“That’s the problem.”

“My mother’s the President?”

“I’M the President.”

“But Mother, I don’t remember voting for you!”

“Random Man, your mother’s not the President——I’M THE PRESIDENT!!”

“But——”

“LISTEN TO ME!”

“Please, Mother, there’s no need to shout.”

With a heavy sigh, the voice continues, “Blendo Boy is on the loose again!”

“You don’t mean——”

Ta-da-DAAAA…

(And you thought I’d forget about

the bad-guy music, didn’t you?)

“That’s right,” the President says. “Blendo Boy … the archvillain who is dedicated to making everything and everybody look and sound the same.”

“Why, that explains the strange behavior of all those people today!” our hero shouts.

“Yes,” the President answers. “And that’s why I sound like your mother.”

“Oh, brother.”

“No, your mother. The baddest of bad boys is making people sound the same, look the same, even dress the same!”

“That’s horrible!” our hero cries.

“Now you understand?”

“No, sir. Now I’m picturing you wearing my mother’s white sundress with all the flowers on it!”

“RANDOM MAN!”

“Sorry, sir. Just a little superhero humor.”

“We need you to find Blendo Boy. He’s constructed a Blendo Beam that he’s firing from his Bubble Sub. You must find him, destroy the beam, and reverse the process before it’s too late.”

“Yes, sir! I’ll get on the case just as soon as I get your gift.”

“My gift?”

“Yes, sir. Mother’s Day is just around the corner and——”

“RANDOM MAN!”

“Sorry. I’m on my way.”

“Oh, and one last thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You don’t think this sundress makes me look fat, do you?”

Without answering, our hero

K-slams

down the phone, while trying to shake the picture of the President’s new wardrobe from his mind. He races out the front door and down the porch steps only to do a perfect

K-thud

face-plant onto the sidewalk.

But wait a minute. Why would he fall on his face? He’s a superhero, not some clumsy dorkoid like Wally McDoogle.

“Hey, I heard that!” (And worse than that, I wrote it.)

Immediately, our hero understands the problem: the porch steps! He spins around to see the steps.

Well, actually, he doesn’t see the porch steps ’cause that’s the problem. They’re gone!

Rising to his feet, he sees that his house no longer has porch steps. Instead, it is like every other house on the block. In fact, it’s like every other house on every other block——every house, which is now the same shape, the same size, and the same color!

But that’s only the beginning. Because suddenly——

“MR. CLYDE!” a voice shouted through the intercom. That, of course, was our beloved principal. (I recognized his voice from all those hours we’ve spent together in detention.) “Another kid’s just donated his lunch to the hallway floor!”

Reluctantly, I set my pencil down and rose to my feet. As far as I could see, things couldn’t look any worse. Unfortunately, I didn’t see as far as my see-er thought I could see … if you see what I mean.

Translation: Hang on to your hats (and white sundresses); the ride’s only begun.

Chapter 3

Stinking Rich

It was pure chaos. People pushed and shoved and trampled over one another while stampeding toward the doors. It was terrible. Worse than folks racing out of the theater when they learned it was a sneak preview of Barbie: The Movie (Part XVII).

(Well, not quite that bad, but close.)

The reason was simple: School had just let out for a three-day weekend, and everyone was racing for home.

Well, everyone but Mr. Clyde … or me … or whoever I was.

Because now it was my job to go through the whole school and clean up. While everyone else’s day was done, mine was far from over. Yes sir, I was definitely having no fun in a major sort of way.

Actually, nothing in Mr. Clyde’s life had been any fun. Not the job, not the way people made fun of him, and definitely not his old age. I mean, let’s face it, being old might look funny on the outside … but it sure wasn’t fun living it on the inside. I still wasn’t sure what was going on, but I’d learned one thing … it would be a long, long time before I ever teased the old guy again.

I was out in the parking lot, picking up trash and promising God that very thing when, suddenly:

Honk! Honk! Hooooonk!

SWIIIISSH

stagger-stagger-stagger …

“OAFF!”

The Honk! Honk! Hooooonk! belonged to one of those fancy limos that cost just under a gazillion dollars.

The SWIIIISH was that fancy limo zipping by so close that it sent me stagger-stagger-staggering … until I fell onto the pavement with my world-famous, patent-pending “OAFF!”

Oh yeah, and there was one other sound effect. The sound of Willard Wadabucks laughing his head off.

“Har Har Har! Next time get out of the way, you old coot!”

I rolled over and saw Willard laughing at me as he climbed into his daddy’s limo. Now, I don’t want to say Willard Wadabucks is rich, but he’s the only kid I know whose parents send him a sack lunch of steak and lobster … served by two waiters, who are dropped off at the school cafeteria every day at noon … by helicopter.

Nobody likes Willard for one reason and one reason only … there’s nothing about Willard to like. But that makes no difference to him. Mommy and Daddy buy him everything he could ever want … including friends—which, of course, means the rest of us hate him even more.

“HEY, WILLARD!” I shouted in my old man’s voice.

He kept on laughing.

“WILLARD!”

He looked back at me one more time. That’s when I made sure he could see the hatred in my eyes. And that’s when it happened… .

Suddenly, there was a loud

sound.

Suddenlier, I was the one getting into the car.

Suddenlier still, I was the one looking back at Mr. Clyde.

Suddenlier stillest-er (don’t try these words at home), I was the one the chauffeur was speaking to.

“Did we have a pleasant day at school, Master Willard?”

I turned to him and gave my most intelligent response: “… uh … um … duh?”

He forced a fake smile and replied, “An excellent response, Master Willard. I could not have replied better myself.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Mr. Clyde getting to his feet and brushing himself off. The guy looked as confused as I felt.

“Master Willard, you shall be pleased to know that I have flown in your two favorite recording artists to entertain you for tonight’s dinner.”

I turned back to him. “Huh?”

“Your favorite singers shall again be dining with us.”

“Wh-who is that?” I asked.

“Why, it’s Jerry Jumpabunch—and Britney Screamalot, of course.”

Once again I responded with incredible intelligence. “Duh … um … uh …”

And once again he replied in incredible fakeness. “Another excellent answer, Master Willard. You are so very clever. Now, if you care to step farther back into the vehicle, you will see I have already heated your hot tub and have your giant plasma-screen TV tuned to your favorite show.”

I glanced back and couldn’t believe my eyes. There really was a giant, steaming hot tub, and there really was a giant-screen TV.

“Is …” I swallowed. “Is all that for me?”

“Certainly, sir. I know how bored you can get during our six-minute drive home.”

I just stared.

“So, please, make yourself comfortable.”

I still wasn’t sure what was going on. But if this was the next person I was supposed to trade places with, I wasn’t going to mind it. Not one bit.

Just imagine living a life of having whatever you want whenever you want it. On the way home, all I had to do was look at a TV commercial for anything, and my chauffeur would get on the phone and order it for me. And the longer I looked, the more of them he ordered. Which was okay except for one little fact… .

I happen to love watching all commercials— especially ones for old folks.

This explains why, when we pulled into my mansion’s driveway, I saw 1,422 boxes of Poly-Want-a-Dent denture cleanser, 5,053 cases of Preparation APE hemorrhoid cream … and what driveway full of embarrassments would be complete without 66,767 packages of BeSure Adult Diapers.

“Where are we going to put all this stuff?” I cried as I stepped from the limo.

“No problem, Master Willard.” I think it was another servant, though it was hard to tell ’cause he looked, sounded, and smiled just as fake as the chauffeur. “We’ll hire a crew to start building you a storage mansion in the back.”

“You mean storage shed,” I said.

“As you wish, sir, a storage … shed.” (Insert fake smile here.) “And would you like that with or without the Olympic-size swimming pool?”

Dinner should have been equally as fun. Who wouldn’t want to eat with two famous celebrities? But it was equally as not. The reason was simple: They both attended the same college that all of my servants attended …

The University of Always Saying Yes with Fake Smiles

Believe it or not, it became a major bother, majorly fast. Because no matter what I said, no matter how stupid it was, they always agreed… .

“Jerry, why don’t you quit being a famous singer and become a brain surgeon?”

“Why yes, Willard, I believe you have a point.”

See what I mean? Or how ’bout …

“Britney, don’t you think you’d look better with a green Mohawk?”

“Why yes, Willard, now that you mention it.”

“But instead of it running from front to back, have it run from ear to ear.”

“Yes, of course! You are so clever!”

Talk about disgusting. And it wasn’t just their saying yes. It was also their laughing… .

“Jerry, would you pass the corn, please?”

“HA-HA-HA! I tell you, Willard, you are so HEE-HEE-HEE funny!”

“I just asked for the corn.”

Now it was Britney’s turn. “He is absolutely right, Willard. HO-HO-HO! You are a real HA-HA-HA crackup!”

It was awful. Like being trapped in my own private sitcom. The more stupid I sounded, the louder they cranked up the laugh track. And if they weren’t laughing, they were praising me. It got to where I didn’t know what was real. Everybody was just pretending Willard was cool because of his money.

Everybody but his parents. They weren’t around to pretend anything.

“Where are they again?” I asked one of the servants.

“Your mother is at a fashion show in Europe, and your father is on safari in Africa.”

“Oh,” I said, sighing.

“But don’t worry, Master Willard. They’ll be home for Christmas.”

“They will?” I brightened slightly.

“Most likely. And if not this Christmas, certainly the next one.”

I tell you, every moment I felt more and more sorry for ol’ Willard. What a lonely guy. And bored. Despite all the fancy gizmos and electronic toys, I was bored out of my skull. It got so bad that I had to do something different. Anything different. Even homework!

(Now, that’s desperate.)

Unfortunately, my servants had taken care of that as well… .

“No, no, no, Master Willard. That is why we hired all those college professors in the east wing. They will do your homework.”

“But isn’t that like cheating?”

“Of course.”

“But isn’t cheating wrong?”

“Not for you, Master Willard.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are filthy, smelly, stinky rich.”

“But I’m also bored!”

“I believe I have a solution, Master Willard.”

I turned to another servant. Before I could stop him, he’d dressed me in swim trunks and carried me out to a giant air mattress floating in a pool, where another hundred waiters brought me food and stuff on silver trays.

“There, Master Willard. Are we happy now?”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t happy. It’s hard to explain, but here I was, surrounded by a hundred people—all willing to do whatever I wanted. But not a single one of them was real. Not a single one of them was somebody I could talk to or be friends with.

Wait a minute! That was it! That’s all I needed … a friend! Why didn’t I think of that before?! I’d just get on the phone, give Opera a call, and finally talk to someone who was real!

“I think …”

I reached up to scratch my head. Suddenly, a dozen servants were scratching it for me— (while a dozen more were rushing out to buy me dandruff shampoo).

“I think I would like—” The rest of the servants all leaned forward, eagerly waiting.

“I think I would like a telephone.”

A gazillion phones appeared in front of me. Phones of every shape, color, and size you can imagine (and some you don’t want to).

I reached for the closest one and dialed Opera’s number. It would be great to finally talk with someone who was real. Not only real, but someone who might actually think my jokes were stupid. Or better yet, someone who might actually disagree with me.

But, even as his phone rang, I began to suspect that somehow things weren’t going to be quite that easy. And, as usual, my suspecter suspiciously suspected correctly.

Translation: Buckle in, folks—you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

Chapter 4

Grand Ol’ Operaland

“Hello? Crunch-crunch.”

“And a good evening to you, Opera. It is I, Wally McDoogle.” I frowned. Not only was I looking like Willard, I was also getting his snooty accent.

“Munch-munch—who?”

“Wally McDoogle, your best friend!”

“You’ll have to speak up. Crunch-crunch, munch-munch. It sounded like you said you were Wally McDoogle, my best friend.”

“Well, am I not?”

“Am you not who?”

“Your best friend.”

“That depends on who you are.”

I sighed heavily. “Opera …”

“No, you’re not Opera, I’m Opera.”

“I am aware that you are Opera.”

“So why are you trying to be me?”

“I am not trying to be you, I am trying to be me.”

“Me who?”

“Me, Wally.”

“Why are you trying to be Wally?”

“I’m not trying to be Wally!”

“Then who are you trying to be?”

“It is rather confusing.”

“You’re telling me.”

“May we start over?”

“From the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you start.”

“Thank you. Listen, Opera, I am in dire need of your—”

“No, no, no. The phone’s gotta ring first.”

“The phone must ring?”

“If we’re starting over.”

“Oh, I see. Uh, well then … ring-ring.”

He didn’t say anything.

I tried again. “Ring-ring?”

Still nothing.

“Are you not going to pick up?” I asked.

“Give me another second.”

“May I ask why?”

“I was in the bathroom.”

“Oh, uh, all right. Ring-ring …”

“Hello, crunch-crunch, who’s this?”

“Opera, look—”

“Opera who? You’ll have to speak up. It sounded like you said you were Opera.”

“Opera!!”

“No, I’m Opera.”

“I know you’re Opera.”

“So why are you trying to be me?”

“I am not trying to be you, I am trying to be me!”

“Me who?”

“Did we not just have this conversation?”

“That depends.”

“Upon what?”

“On if you’re the mental who just called me up pretending to be Wally.”

“You are making me crazy!!”

“No, I think you’re already there.”

“I need your help!”

“I’m not sure I can help nut cases. But if you’d start off by telling me your name, maybe I can—”

“OPERA!”

“No, now remember, we established that I’m Opera.”

“OPERA!!!”

“Very good. And if I’m Opera, who are you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“It can’t be any longer than this conversation.”

“Look, may I come by your house?”

“That depends. Do they let mentals out of the hospital this time of night?”

“I am not a mental!”

“Of course you’re not. You’re actually—”

“OPERA!”

“I’m afraid we’re losing ground. Why don’t you have one of your doctors call me back tomorrow, and we’ll set up an appointment to—”

“Opera, it is I! Wally!”

“Wally?”

“Yes, yes, Wally McDoogle.”

“Well, burp, why didn’t you say so?”

I sighed wearily. “May I come by your house?”

“Sure. Just be careful.”

“Of what?”

“There’s some nut case running around pretending to be me.”

“Right, I’ll be careful. Oh, and Opera?”

“Burp?”

“There is just one rather small detail.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t wish to scare you. It’s just, well, I won’t exactly be looking like myself.”

There was a long pause on the other end.

“Hello? Opera, can you hear me? Opera??”

“Present.”

“I want to warn you that I’ll be looking like someone else.”

“You won’t be looking like me, will you?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Whew, that’s a relief. I’m confused enough as it is.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad somebody does.”

“I shall be over in just a few minutes.”

“Great. Oh, and Wally?”

“Yes?”

“Would you pick up a half-dozen bags of chips on the way?”

“A half-dozen bags of chips?”

“I should have something for your doctors to eat while you’re visiting.”

“Good-bye, Opera.” I hung up the phone and shook my head. I tell you, we may be best friends, but sometimes that guy can sure be a loser. First, there’s his smarts (or lack of them). Then there’s his junk-food habit. It doesn’t matter what it is, just as long as it’s deep-fried, covered in salt, and goes CRUNCH whenever he eats it (and BURP whenever he digests it).

He really is a piece of work. And don’t get me started on all his other loser qualities like—

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to name them all. Because suddenly, like it or not (and I vote for not), I was living them all!

That’s right, all I had done was judge Opera for being such a loser and suddenly there was that

sound, followed by munch-munch, crunch-crunch, BURP! (wow, that was a good one) … and I was that loser!!

How did I know I’d become Opera? Easy …

First off, I was lying on Opera’s bed staring up at Opera’s ceiling. I knew it was his ceiling because the celebrities pinned to it weren’t your normal rock stars, movie idols, or World Wrestling dudes. No sir, these guys were opera stars. And though there was some resemblance to professional wrestling dudes (like the flabby bodies, flabby faces, and mouths twisted in screaming pain), these guys were all dressed in tuxedos.

The second clue was the headphones I wore. The ones listening to, what else but … opera music. It doesn’t matter what it is, if it’s in a foreign language and involves overweight people screaming at each other, Opera listens to it. (Talk about noise pollution.)

Don’t get me wrong, I like all types of music. But to be honest, I’ve heard better shrieking from Collision, our cat, when she gets her tail caught in the electric fan, or kitchen blender, or spokes of my bike … which she does on regular occasion … which explains how she got her name.

Anyway, I quickly ripped off the headphones and threw them onto the floor (actually, onto the mountain of empty potato chip bags covering the floor). That’s when I heard the

Ding-dong, Ding-dong, Ding-dong

of the doorbell.

That’s also when I heard all the yelling, shouting, and yelling some more by Opera’s dad from downstairs. It seemed his dad was always yelling, shouting, and yelling some more. But that was okay. How else could he be heard over Opera’s mom, who was also yelling, shouting, and yelling some more?

(Opera’s family wasn’t exactly like living with the Brady Bunch.)

I glanced back down at the headphones. Compared to his parents’ screaming, the opera music wasn’t so bad after all. And that’s when it hit me. Maybe that was the real reason Opera developed a taste for all that loud singing—it was the only way he could think of to drown out his parents’ fighting. And if that was the case, well, suddenly my friend didn’t seem so weird after all.

But that didn’t stop the

Ding-dong, Ding-dong, Ding-donging

of the doorbell, or the screaming of his parents.

“Hey, chub-o!” Apparently, Opera’s dad stopped yelling at his mom long enough to start yelling at him. “Answer the door!”

I glanced around the room, looking for Opera, but of course there was no Opera there. Only the reflection of me in his mirror … me in Opera’s body. How gross, how awful, how depressing. So gross, awful, and depressing that I found myself reaching for another bag of chips to drown my sorrows. (Hmm, I wonder if there was a connection there, too. If maybe that was the reason he did all the eating.) But I didn’t have much time to wonder because

Ding-dong, Ding-dong, Ding-dong.

“Listen, you idiot!” The good news was, that wasn’t Opera’s dad. The bad news was, it was his mom. “Answer that door before your father finds his belt and gives you the whipping of your life!”

Now to be fair, Opera’s mom isn’t always mean like that. Only when she’s been fighting with his dad, which is only … well, all right, maybe she is always mean like that.

Anyway, to avoid the whipping, I got out of bed.

At least, I tried to get out of bed. But with the extra fifty pounds of Opera weight, it was pretty hard to move. Finally, with an

“Umph! Ugh! Argh!”

and a

“BURP”

thrown in for good measure, I stumbled out of bed and staggered toward the bedroom door.

Talk about hard going. By the time I finally got downstairs to open the front door, I was wheezing out a lung … or two.

The good news was, it was Wall Street.

“Hey, Opera.”

The bad news was, she had brought some of her friends.

“Mind if we come in?”

Before I could explain that I was really Wally, she barged in with the entire high school football team, including one of my twin brothers, Burt—or was it Brock? I can never keep them straight. But it wasn’t their visit that was the problem. It was their shoes. Actually, not their shoes, but their cleats … the ones still covered in half a ton of mud.

Well, they had been covered in half a ton of mud. But as they walked across Opera’s mom’s white carpet, it was the carpet that became covered in mud.

I felt terrible for Opera (but made a mental note to get out of his body before his mother came downstairs … or his father could find his belt).

“So, you all ready?” Wall Street said.

“For what?” I asked.

“To help the team work out, of course.”

“Come on, Fat Boy,” the team’s captain said with a laugh, “quit playing stupid.”

“Maybe he ain’t playing,” Burt (or was it Brock?) said, also laughing.

The others joined in.

“Maybe Lard-Bucket’s got fat for brains, too.”

More laughter.

(How weird. I always knew people made fun of Opera’s weight. But I didn’t know how much it hurt until they were actually making fun of me. And it did hurt. A lot.)

“Hey, guys,” the captain shouted. “Check this out.”

He gave my belly a slap, causing it to wiggle like Jell-O on a jackhammer in the middle of an earthquake.

The whole team roared with laughter.

Yes sir, I’d become quite the joke (though I’ve gotta admit, I wasn’t laughing). Finally, the captain picked me up and carried me toward the stairs. The others followed, whooping and hollering.

“Wall Street!” I cried. “What’s going on?!”

“The boys need help working out,” she called.

“So?”

“So they’re paying you and me money to help them!”

I didn’t like the sound of that. Any time Wall Street talks about money and me in the same sentence, it means she’s making money off me (even if me happens to be disguised as Opera). So I did the only thing I could think of … I screamed to Opera’s dad for help:

“Mr. Opera! Mr. Opera! Help me! Help me!”

To which I heard the sweet, gentle words that can only come from a parent’s loving mouth (at least Opera’s dad’s mouth): “Remember, we get half the profit, Wall Street!”

“Yes, sir!” she called.

“Half the profit for what?” I cried.

“For tossing you!” The captain laughed. “We don’t have a medicine ball at school to throw and build up our arms … so Wall Street thought of you!”

“For a small fee,” Wall Street said.

“That’s right, ten cents a throw,” the captain replied. “So let’s get started, Fat Boy.”

I was really getting to hate the name-calling. But when they decided we use the bathroom (so they could turn on the shower and no one could hear my screaming for help), I realized it was actually the best part of my evening. I felt like a human Ping-Pong ball. The first two players tossed me back and forth as the team shouted, “One, two, three, four!”

As Wall Street shouted, “Ten cents, twenty cents, thirty cents, forty cents!”

As I shouted, “Help, ouch, me! Help, ouch, me! Help, ouch, me!”

After about fifty or sixty tosses they got tired and started dropping me. No problem, except it was usually over the

K-Splash

Glug, glug, glug

open toilet.

Yes sir, I can’t remember having so much fun … except, of course, when I’d become Reindeer Road Kill, or a Broken Bungee Cord, or a Human Hockey Puck, or any of those thousand other times I nearly died.

Still, it was really rewarding to see how I was helping the high-school team work out and get ready for their next big game. Yes sir, I really felt like one of the guys, except for the part of

—not having parents who cared,

—listening to music nobody liked, to drown

out their meanness,

—always eating to forget the pain,

—being made fun of for always eating.

And, just as I had felt bad for Mr. Clyde the janitor and Willie Wadabucks, I began to feel bad for judging and making fun of Opera.

Chapter 5

Wally McDoogle,

Please Meet … er,

Uh … Wally McDoogle

After a good workout, the football team called it a night and hit the road.

After being tossed a gazillion times (and drowning nearly that many), I called it a life and hit my grave. Well, not really, it just felt like I’d died. (Unfortunately, you can’t always go by your feelings.)

Anyway, after bidding the team a fond farewell, I raced upstairs and soaked in the shower a few hours. You’d think I’d have had enough water, but something about your head being in the toilet bowl all evening makes you crave a little extra soap and showering.

Of course, I wanted to go home. But as long as I looked in the mirror and saw that I was in Opera’s body instead of mine, I figured I would be in Opera’s home instead of mine.

Ah yes, be it ever so humble …

“Opera, if you ain’t in bed in thirty seconds, I’m gonna give you the whipping of your life!”

… there’s no place like …

“And tomorrow morning don’t forget to take out the garbage before you make us breakfast!”

… home.

I still hadn’t figured out why I kept jumping into other people’s lives. But I was pretty sure it had something to do with judging and thinking all that crummy stuff about them. Anyway, to pass the time, I found a pencil and some paper in Opera’s desk. Then I crawled into bed, where I discovered three opened bags of potato chips,

K-RUNCH! K-RACKLE!

itch, itch, itch

(That, of course, is the sound and

feel of three opened bags of

potato chips between your sheets.)

and got back to my superhero story.

When we last left Random Man McDoogle, he was practicing his astonishing coordination by falling face-first onto the street.

Once he got up, he noticed everything around him looked the same. Every house looked like every other house. Every car looked like every other car. And every person looked like every other––whoa, hold on to your hats! Every person looked like every other person?? That’s right.

Now he notices men, women, and children are dressed in exactly …

the same clean gray pants,

the same clean gray shirt,

the same clean gray underwear. (At least he hopes so.)

And their hair color? There are no blonds, no brunettes, no redheads. Instead, everybody’s hair is exactly the same color, which is … what else, gray. Even their skin color is the same. No blacks, no browns, no whites. Everybody’s color has been blended into the same ho-hum, boring … gray.

In desperation, Random Man shouts to the nearest passerby, “Mister … Mister?!”

The man stops and turns to him. So does every other man, woman, and child on the street.

“Why do you look like that?” our hero cries. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?”the man asks.

But it wasn’t just the man asking. It was every man, woman, and child asking … all at the same time. It was deafening. (Now you understand why the print is so big.)

Random Man asks, “Why are you all dressed in the same clothes and have the same gray-colored skin, gray-colored hair, and gray-colored … uh––”

“Fingernail polish?” the man asks.

Random Man glances down at the man’s fingernails. They’re painted just like everybody else’s … gray!

“Yes!” Random Man shouts. “Why are you all so weird?”

“We’re not weird,” they shout back. “You are!”

“Sizzling surround sound! Can you guys talk softer, you’re giving me a headache.”

“How’s this?” they all whisper.

“A little better. Now, it sounds like I’ve got Mr. Clyde’s hearing problem again.

“Who?”

“Never mind. But you still didn’t answer my question. Why are you all looking so weird?”

“You’re the weird one!” they whisper in perfect unison.

And then again in perfect unison they start walking toward him.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” our hero shouts. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“You are different!” they whisper as they come closer and closer. “And different is bad.”

“No, different is good,” our hero insists. “Everybody doesn’t have to be the––”

“Different … Different … Different.”

They continue crowding around him––looking very much like bad actors in one of those old zombie movies. There is no place our hero can go, no place he can move! No place to––

“Different … Different … Different.”

The good news is, everyone has showered, so they don’t smell too bad.

The bad news is, it’s hard to smell anything when you’re being suffocated by a crowd of chanting zombies.

And then, as luck would have it (along with some very clever writing on this author’s part), our superhero spots a baby stroller.

Quicker than you can say, “Hey, if everybody is the same, how come one person has a baby stroller?” our hero shoves his way through the crowd and leaps into it.

There in the stroller, wearing her perfectly clean gray clothes (unfortunately, that doesn’t include a perfectly clean gray diaper), Babykins reaches out to him. She hasn’t quite learned to speak, but she’s a quick learner:

“Goo-goorent … Goo-goorent … Goo-goorent.”

Doing his best to avoid her clutches (and the smelly diaper), our hero throws his leg over the side of the carriage and pushes off, like it’s a giant skateboard. Although he’s never understood why zombies move so slow in those zombie movies, he doesn’t complain. Instead, he shoots between their arms and up the steep hill as they continue:

“Different … Different … Different.”

As Baby Mess-N-Pants continues:

“Goo-goorent … Goo-goorent … Goo-goorent.”

Luckily, our hero reaches the hilltop without a problem.

Unluckily, the hilltop has a hill bottom … complete with a lake about five thousand feet below!

Having no other choice, our hero pushes off.

All this as the crowd continues chanting:

“Different … Different … Different.”

And Goo-Goo Girl continues cooing:

“Goo-goorent … Goo-goorent … Goo-goorent.”

And Hero Boy joins the chorus with his own special lyrics:

“AUGH! … AUGH! … AUGH!”

“AUGH! … AUGH! … AUGH!”

The next morning, after serving Mr. and Mrs. Opera each a wonderful breakfast of:

—16 pieces of toast (burnt)

—24 pieces of bacon (burnt)

—8 eggs (burnt)

(Well, at least we know where Opera got his eating skills.)

—4 glasses of orange juice (burnt)

(Well, at least you know who taught my little sister her cooking skills.)

I headed over to my house, er, Wally’s house, er, the house I lived in before I was me, which really isn’t me but… . (Give me a break, you know what I mean.)

Anyway, I knocked on the door and Mom opened it. “Why, hello there, Opera.”

And in my best Dorothy’s-home-from-Oz routine, I threw my arms around her and cried, “Oh, Mom, I missed you sooo much!”

She was obviously a little puzzled. “Well, I missed you, too, Opera.” She opened the door wider. “We’re eating breakfast. Would you like to come in and join us? It’s his little sister Carrie’s morning to cook.”

I froze in fear. But having already had my minimum daily requirement of charcoal, I managed to stutter, “Oh, uh, um, er—I’m really not that hungry.”

She tilted her head quizzically. “Why, Opera, that’s not like you at all.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m not feeling myself these days” (in more ways than one).

“Well, Wally’s already finished eating, if you’d like to go up and see him.”

“Am I here?”

“Pardon me?”

“I mean, uh, yes, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. I think he’s done throwing up. Did I mention it’s his sister’s turn to fix breakfast?”

I nodded, grateful that I’d turned down the invitation.

“Well, go on up, if you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

I headed for the stairway, nervous, frightened, having no idea what would happen … until I reached the top stair and

“R-HOWLLL!”

stepped on our pet cat, Collision, who, as I mentioned,

did not get her name by accident.

Of course, this was followed by the usual

Tumble, Tumble, Tumble

Bounce, Bounce, Bounce

“R-HOWL! R-HOWL! R-HOWL!”

as we rolled down the stairs together until we

K-Thudded

into the bottom wall.

(It’s nice to know some things never change, no matter whose body you’re living in.)

After prying her front claws out of my face (all eight of them) and her teeth out of my shoulder (I lost count after sixteen), I headed back up the stairs to my room.

I arrived at the door, hesitated, then raised my meaty little hand and knocked.

“Who is it?” a familiar voice asked.

I started to open my mouth, but no words came. I guess I was too scared, or confused, or both.

Fortunately, the kid on the other side opened the door and saved me the trouble of answering.

Unfortunately, when he stood in front of me, I was even more scared, or confused, or both… .

“Hey, Opera.”

I couldn’t believe it. This Wally looked and sounded exactly like me. Well, me when I was Wally. Same dorky face, same dorky body, same dorky everything. The poor guy. I didn’t know whether to answer him or go out and buy him a sympathy card.

“Opera, are you okay?” he asked, pushing up his glasses. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” I finally managed to croak.

“What’s worse than you seeing a ghost?”

“Me seeing you.”

“Huh?”

“Actually, you seeing you.”

“Huh?”

“Actually, me seeing you seeing me seeing you.”

“Huh?”

His brilliant vocabulary (is “huh” even a word?) told me he was the real deal. Along with my substandard face and substandard body, he also had my substandard brain.

The good news was, I knew he wasn’t an impostor. The bad news was, it would take a little longer for his tiny brain to understand our big problem.

But after ten or twenty explanations, he finally caught on. “You mean every time you make fun of somebody or judge them, you become them?”

“Yes, exactly,” I said.

“Like Mr. Clyde the school janitor, or Willard Wadabucks—”

“Or our best friend, Opera.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I thought you were Opera.”

“No …”

“Maybe you better run that past me again.”

I nodded. When I’m right, I’m right. So I tried again … and again. Anyway, somewhere around explanation number twenty-nine he finally started to get it.

He frowned. “But if you’re me, who am I?”

“You’re me, too.”

“You’re saying there are two of us?”

I nodded. “It’s like we’re clones or something.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, this is just too weird.”

He obviously needed more convincing, so I quickly asked, “Tell me, how’s that Random Man McDoogle story coming?”

If his jaw dropped any lower, we’d have to go downstairs and search for it in the family room. “You know about the Random Man story I’m writing?” he asked.

“Know it?” I said. “I’m writing it, too. Did you get him out of the baby carriage yet?”

“No, I just got to that part last night.”

“Me, too.”

“Whoa, this is way too weird.”

“No, it’s way too normal … at least for one of our books.”

He looked at me and slowly nodded. “When I’m right, I’m right.”

Suddenly, there was a banging on the door.

“Hey, Wally!” Dad shouted.

“Yes?” we both answered.

He pushed open the door. “Your brother’s headed for football practice, and I’ve got a ton of leaves in the backyard that need raking.”

We both looked at him, trying to play dumb— which wasn’t hard with even twice the Wally brain wattage.

“I want you to get started on it.”

Of course, we both gave the required, “But Dad—”

And, of course, he gave the required, “I don’t want any excuses—just you down in that backyard raking.”

I could only stare at him. Didn’t he know we were having a major meltdown here?

“Now!”

Apparently not.

He slammed the door and headed off.

I tell you, sometimes he can be so mean and unreasonable. It’s like the guy never thinks of anything or anybody but himself—

“No!” I shouted, wrapping my arms around my body.

“What’s going on?” Wally yelled. “What’s that sound?!”

“It happens when I trade places with people!”

“What?”

“I’m judging Dad. I’m becoming Dad!”

“Stop it! You gotta stop it!”

I nodded, quickly forcing the bad stuff out of my mind and thinking of good things—like the day he took me to work with him, or bought me that cool bicycle, or threw me in the pool to teach me to swim … until I sank like a rock and nearly drowned.

(Well, two out of three isn’t bad.)

And by the sound of things, it was enough. Because suddenly:

things were back to normal.

“Whew, that was close,” I said.

“And that just happened by thinking bad stuff about him?” Wally asked.

I nodded. “Yeah, and by judging him.”

He shook his head. “So what do we do?”

“Maybe between the two of us, we’ll think of something.”

He nodded and grabbed his coat. “Well, let’s get started on that yard before Dad gets back. I tell you, sometimes he can be so mean and unreasonable. It’s like he never thinks of anything or anybody but—”

“SHHHH!” I slapped my pudgy hands across his big mouth.

He looked at me, wide-eyed. “Mwatt mid mI mayy?”

“You were judging again,” I said.

He nodded, and I removed my hands. “Man, that’s easy to do, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed as we headed down the stairway.

From the driveway outside, I could hear the

SQUEEEEAL

of tires and the

K-bang, k-boom, K-rash!!

of garbage cans being hit—a sure sign that Dad was letting Burt (or was it Brock?) drive.

I shook my head as we passed my brothers’ pictures on the wall. I tell you, for someone who’s supposed to be older and wiser, my brother is sure a lot dumber and stupider. Really, I don’t know where he was when they were handing out brains, but he’s definitely a—

Uh-oh.

“Stop it!” Wally shouted.

But he was too late. That’s right, speaking of lack of brains, I’d just had a major mind malfunction.

Another Translation: Guess who’s behind the wheel driving Dad’s car now?

Chapter 6

Wally McDoogle:  Super Jock? Super Not!

“Look out!!!”

BEEEP! BEEEP! BEEEP!

“What are you doing?!” Dad shouted. “Hit the brakes!! Hit the brakes!!!”

HOOOOOONK!

“No! That’s the gas! The brakes—hit the brakes!!!”

That, of course, would be my first driving lesson. Besides Dad’s helpful comments, there were plenty of horn honkings from passing drivers. Horn honkings and one

“GET OFF THE ROAD!”

suggestion.

“GET A BRAIN!”

(Make that two suggestions.)

I could tell Dad was pretty steamed, and he definitely wanted to do some more shouting. But at the moment, he was too busy grabbing his chest and trying to restart his heart.

Once he was able to speak, his voice sounded calm and controlled. A bad sign. Whenever Dad’s voice is calm and controlled, you know you’re in trouble. The only thing worse than that is if he calls you “son.”

“Pull over to the curb, son. I’ll take it from here.”

Things did not look good.

Fearing the worst, I turned the wheel toward the curb. Which explains the

SCRAAAPE …

K-dent, K-rinkle, K-rumple,

as well as Dad’s comment when we finally lurched to a stop. “Next time, pick a curb where a car isn’t parked … son.”

I nodded and gratefully traded places with him.

He drove the rest of the way to football practice without saying a word. But he didn’t have to use words to let me know how disappointed he was. I could tell by the way he kept clenching his jaw, sighing, and shaking his head.

Was it possible? Could it be that I wasn’t the only one messing up in my family? Could it be that Dad actually got mad at others, too? But there was something more. You see, whenever Dad gets mad at me, he blows up and it’s over with. But with my brother, it was like his disappointment was a lot longer. And a lot deeper.

In fact, as we drove in silence, I actually began feeling sorry for Burt (or was it Brock?). I mean, it’s one thing to have your folks get mad at you for a moment because they think you can do better. But it’s a whole other thing to know that they’re always disappointed in you … all the time. And that’s definitely what I was getting from Dad as his silence continued its shouting. Because somehow I knew it wasn’t just this mess-up, but all of my brother’s mess-ups. It’s like Dad didn’t yell at him anymore because he figured he wasn’t smart enough to change even if he wanted to. In a sense, I guessed he’d given up on him.

And that made me sad. Real sad. ’Cause if I picked up on that in just the few minutes we were in the car, I’m sure my brother picked up on it all the years he’d been living in our house.

But that wasn’t the only thing that told me how tough my brother’s life was. Next came football practice. And that made me even sadder … and sorer.

“Come on, McDoogle! Move it! Move it! Move it!”

The team and I were doing some of those football practice things. You know, like you see on TV? Stuff like:

—RUNNING THROUGH TIRES.

(Well, everyone else was running, I was doing a lot more …

K-Oaff!

falling and

scamper, scamper, scamper crawling.)

—HITTING SPRING-LOADED

TACKLING DUMMIES.

(Well, everyone else was hitting, I was doing a lot more

K-thunk!

being hit and …

doing-oing-oing

being thrown back a couple of miles across the field.)

—RUNNING COMPLICATED PLAYS.

(Well, everyone else was running plays.

I just stood around and got

“McDoogle, what are you doing?!”

“McDoogle, get a brain!”

“McDoogle, you loser!”)

You’d have thought the coach could tell I wasn’t my brother, but he couldn’t. And no matter how good my brother had been in the past, it only took one bad day for everyone to turn against him. You could tell by the similar encouraging words of his teammates.

“McDoogle, what are you doing?!”

“McDoogle, get a brain!”

“McDoogle, you loser!”

See what I mean?

How sad. It’s like the better you are at something, the more people expect from you. And if you make a mistake, the quicker they’ll attack you.

If I’d felt sorry for the way Dad treated him in the car, I was really feeling bad for the way everyone was treating him now.

And it wasn’t just their words. There were other ways they showed their kindness and respect… .

“Okay, McDoogle,” the coach bellowed. “I want you to help our kicker.”

“How’s that?” I asked, eager to make a good impression for my brother.

“He’s having some problems seeing with his new glasses.”

“Show me what to do, and I’ll do it,” I said.

“You don’t have to do anything,” the coach said. “Just catch the ball when the center snaps it and hold it for the kicker.”

“No problem,” I said, running out onto the field.

And it wasn’t a problem. I’d seen them do it a hundred times. So after everybody lined up, I signaled for the center to snap the ball to me. Then, combining all of my intelligence and all of my brother’s athletic skills, I actually caught it.

So far, so good.

Then I carefully set it in place for the kicker to kick it.

So farrer so gooder.

Now all I had to do was keep holding it as the kicker ran up and

K-WHAM!

“AUGHhhhhhhh!”

The K-WHAM! was the kicker missing the ball and kicking yours truly, the ball holder.

And the “AUGHhhhhhhh!”? What else but the ball holder sailing high through the air toward the goalposts for an extra point … or an extra broken body, whichever came first.

The nice thing about being unconscious is you get to avoid all the little aches and pains— you know, like broken bones, sprained brains, and your everyday pulverized body parts.

Unfortunately—as we all know (at least for me)—good times don’t last forever… .

“Burt, burp, can you hear me? Burp.”

Normally, they use smelling salts to wake you up. But who needs smelling salts when you’ve got Opera’s potato chip breath?

“Burt, burp, Burt, burp, Burt!”

Yes sir, nothing beats the delightful smell of greasy, half-digested potato chips in your face. But Opera wasn’t the only person hovering over me.

“Maybe he’s really Brock,” a familiar voice said. “I can never keep them straight.”

Opera got closer. “Brock, burp, Brock, burp, Brock!”

Talk about air pollution. The way I figured it, I had two choices … die from Opera’s toxic fumes or choose to wake up.

Unfortunately, I chose to wake up.

My eyes fluttered open, and I discovered I was lying on a bench. I saw Opera standing above me in all his P.C.-breath glory. Beside him stood me. Well, not me as the me you last remember me being, but me as the me I was back when I was—look, it was Wally, okay?

(You think it’s confusing reading this, you should try living it!)

Anyway, Wally looked down at me and asked, “Are you okay?”

I let out a quiet groan. “Then it wasn’t a dream?” I asked.

“Sorry.”

“And I haven’t died?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, brother.”

“Better luck next time.”

“Burp,” Opera agreed.

I closed my eyes and muttered, “So where am I now?”

“The boys’ locker room.”

I looked around. Sure enough, there we were, surrounded by rows and rows of lockers. The one nearest me still had its door open. Inside was a poster of the famous heavy-metal rock-’n’-roller Sludgy Scumbucket. I don’t want to be rude, but the guy really creeped me out. In fact, he had a reputation for being one of the worst human beings on the face of the planet. Folks said he took drugs and drank and was the majorest of major losers. It didn’t help that he wore more makeup than a four-year-old gone nuts with Mommy’s makeup case.

But he was the least of my concerns … at least for now.

“Am I still in Burt’s body?” I asked.

“Or Brock’s,” Wally said. “I can never keep them straight.”

I nodded. “Neither can I.”

“But the good news is, we came to, burp, help you,” Opera said.

I gave him a look and wanted to say something clever like, “And that’s good news?” But Wally saved me the trouble when he reached down to help me sit up on the bench. Well, when he tried to reach down and help me sit up.

He might have had more success if his sleeve hadn’t caught on the corner of the bench.

No biggie; it could happen to anyone.

What could not happen to anyone was the way he tugged on his sleeve until it suddenly came loose …

—causing his arm to fly up and hit his chin,

—causing his head to fly back and knock off his glasses,

—causing his glasses to fly off and land under the cart loaded with basketballs.

Still no problem. Until he …

—started toward the basketball cart,

—stumbled and crashed into the basketball cart,

—rolled across the floor (and over his glasses) riding in the basketball cart.

(Now we had a problem.)

Yes sir, it was just like old times. He shot across the floor, waving his arms and giving the required, “AUGH … ,” while we, of course, shouted back the required, “LOOK OUT!”

But now he was on a roll (in more ways than one).

Blindly, he grabbed the side wall, trying to slow himself. But without his glasses he didn’t see the fire extinguisher. So you really couldn’t blame him for pulling it off the wall.

And it really wasn’t his fault that when he grabbed it, he accidentally yanked out the pin, causing it to suddenly

K-WHIIIIIIISH

all over the place.

Luckily, he managed to point it away from himself. Unluckily, it acted like a jet engine, shooting his cart across the room as if he were the Space Shuttle.

Of course, he increased his “AUGH!”ing a few levels louder, and we increased our “LOOK OUT!”ing.

But it did no good. No amount of screaming or shouting would move the row of lockers he was heading for at the back of the room. The row of lockers that he suddenly

K-Blamm!ed

into at just under the speed of sound.

The good news was, they stopped him.

The bad news was, he started them.

That’s right, the impact was so great that the entire row of lockers tilted back and forth and forth and back until they finally

CREEEAKed

fell over and

K-BANGed

into the bench directly in front of them. Here, they leaned precariously. (How’s that for a fancy word? See how intellectual these books are?) The slightest push would cause them to fall the rest of the way and into the next row of lockers.

“Don’t move!” I shouted. “Whatever you do, don’t move!”

“Can somebody get me out?!” Wally’s voice echoed from somewhere deep inside the lockers. Unfortunately, that was just enough to start them

CREEEAKing

again.

“DON’T MOVE!” I shouted. “DON’T EVEN BREATHE!”

Everyone obeyed. We didn’t move a muscle. Not a hair. Unfortunately, muscles and hair aren’t exactly the same as stomachs. Especially Opera’s. Because as we stood in the absolute silence, you could clearly hear the

rumble, rumble, rumble

of his tummy.

I frowned at him, but it didn’t help. The rumbling just kept growing—building and building, then building some more.

“Opera … ,” I whispered.

He nodded his head and slapped his hand over his mouth. But you could see the pressure building up inside him.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.

More head nodding, accompanied by even more

rumble, rumble, rumbling.

Poor guy, he was slowly inflating like the Goodyear Blimp.

“Opera …”

He tried his best, but he just couldn’t hold it in. Finally, he had to let go with the queen mother of all …

“BURP”s.

Talk about loud. The whole room shook.

(Unfortunately, so did the row of lockers.) Not a lot, but enough to cause them to slip off the bench and fall the rest of the way.

No problem, except for the part where they slammed into the next row of lockers, causing them to fall and slam into the next row of lockers, causing them to fall and—well, you get the picture. Suddenly, I was at the end of a giant set of dominoes as row after row of lockers slammed after slammed, until the row right in front of us was hit and started to fall.

Opera looked up at them. “Uh-oh,” was all he said. Well, that and “burp!”

I looked up at them and wanted to add my two cents worth by screaming my head off. But I had no time. Instead, all I could do was look at the open locker falling forward. The one with the poster of Sludgy Scumbucket coming straight at me.

Great, I thought. Just great. Not only do I get smashed to death, but the last thing I ever see is a poster of the biggest jerk of all time—Sludgy Scumbucket, the most vile and pathetic loser that ever walked the face of the—

But that was all I thought before

there was that far-too-familiar sound. And that far-too-familiar switch.

Chapter 7

A Taste of SuperstarDUMB

The good news was, I didn’t feel the lockers hit me.

The gooder news was, I was in the middle of a thousand heavy-metal rock-’n’-roll fans, all screaming their undying love and devotion for me.

Talk about cool!

Actually, it was downright chilly! ’Cause along with all the screaming came all the tearing off of my clothes.

(Well, most of them.)

So there I was in my Fruit of the Looms trying to get off the stage through a gazillion crazed rock-’n’-roll fans … all trying to grab me with their crazed rock-’n’-roll fan hands!

“OPERA!” I shouted. “WALLY!”

But there was no Opera there. Or Wally. Well, actually, there was a me, but not the me as you last remember me being me, but the me as me when—wait a minute, didn’t we already have this conversation?

“Sludgy!” a skin-and-bones woman screamed. “I’m your biggest fan!!”

“No way,” a huge, heavyset one bellowed, “I’m his biggest fan!!” (And at 450 pounds, she might have had a point.)

“AM NOT!”

“AM TOO!”

“AM NOT!”

I would have loved to stick around and listen to the debate, but I was too busy being dragged off the stage by an older guy who was such a giant he made Gary the Gorilla look like Gary a munchkin from the Wizard of Oz. “Let’s go, Mr. Scumbucket!” he hollered.

With great effort (and several bruised bones), Giant Guy dragged me through the mob and into the dressing room, where he tossed some clothes at me. As I dressed, I noticed my ripped skin and ripped-out hair.

But that was nothing compared to my exhaustion. I was tired in a majorly cannot-move-anybody-parts kind of way. I tell you, I must have put on some concert, because I could barely stand.

Some other guy in a fancy suit appeared beside me shouting, “Okay, Sludgy Babe, sweetheart. We got a press conference across town in ten minutes, a TV appearance in thirty, then we’ve got to head to another studio to tape your spot for—”

“Can’t I—” I swallowed, surprised at how raw my throat felt. “Can’t I just rest a minute?”

“No time for rest, babe, we gotta get you to the limo.”

“But just a minute, just let me close my eyes for a—”

“Sorry, Sludge Man, time is money.” He gave a nod to Giant Guy, who picked me up and carried me out the door toward the limo.

“I just need to catch my breath!” I cried. “Just a little sleep!”

“You can sleep next month!” Fancy Suit shouted as we arrived at the limo and Giant Guy dumped me into the back. Fancy Suit slid in on one side of me; Giant Guy slid in on the other. They slammed the doors, and we squealed away—nearly hitting a few fans in the process.

“Just a few minutes!” I pleaded. “I need to sleep!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Fancy Suit said, laughing. “That’s why we have these.” He produced a bottle of pills that didn’t exactly look like vitamins.

My eyes widened. “What’s that?” I cried.

“You know what these are,” he said, opening the bottle and pouring a handful into his hand. “It’s the only way for you to stay awake and meet your demanding schedule. Now, open up.”

“Those are drugs!” I shouted. “I don’t do drugs!!”

“Come on now,” Fancy Suit said with a sigh, “we’ve had this argument a hundred times.” As he spoke he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the minibar.

“I don’t drink!!” I cried.

“It’s how we’ve always washed down your pills. Now open up.”

“No way!” I yelled. I reached for the door, but Giant Guy grabbed me and forced open my mouth.

“NO!” I yelled. “STOP IT! STOP—”

But that was all I got out before they shoved the pills into my mouth and poured in the awful-tasting alcohol.

I coughed and gagged. It was terrible. Worse than terrible. I thought I was going to die. (And was afraid I might.) But as bad as the stuff tasted and as scared as I was … a part of me began to understand how someone even as creepy as Sludgy Scumbucket was a real person, too. Granted, he was a piece of work, and he made majorly wrong choices … but he was still a human being. A human being who struggled and fought with awful and ugly situations every day of his life … terrible things that I could never have imagined.

And maybe, if I made it through this, the next time I thought about him I’d be a little slower to judge him … and a lot quicker to pray for him.

I closed my eyes, but those awful pills wouldn’t let me rest. So I just sat there in the limo, exhausted but unable to sleep. I tell you, if this is what I could count on being a rock star, then you could count me out.

I tried to think of something else, of anything else, to take my mind off it. The best I could come up with was my superhero story. And that was okay with me. Maybe a little time with Random Man would help… .

When we last left our incredibly incurable instigator of insufferable incongruence––(this sentence actually makes sense, really––and these are all real words, reallier … well, not that last one). Anyway, our hero is rolling down a five-thousand-foot hill (complete with a nice lake at the bottom suitable for drowning) using a baby carriage for a skateboard.

Normally, he would have bailed out of the carriage to save his life, but as you may remember, he still has that innocent little passenger with him.

“Goo-goorent, Goo-goorent, Goo-goorent.”

Ah yes, the sound of her little voice brings it all back, doesn’t it?

(And if the sound of her voice doesn’t do it, how ’bout the smell of her diaper?)

So, as much as he wants to save his own hide (and all the bones, muscles, and organs inside that hide), he cannot ditch the little human drooling machine. Actually, it’s not that he can’t ditch her, it’s that he doesn’t want to. If he ditched her, he’d lose his superhero license, which means he’d have to take those tests all over again (which aren’t too bad except for the essay questions, which can really be tough).

So, in a burst of superhero superheroism, Random Man sticks out his foot and

SCRAAAAAAAPE

drags his shoe, which

smoke smoke smoke

“OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!”

wears down, up to his pants, then up to his shirt, then up to his collar. (Looks like Mom’s got some serious mending to do.) But he finally brings them to a stop and leaps into the water to

HIISSSssss …

cool down his smoking clothes (not to mention his smoking body).

The good news is, he has stopped the carriage and Baby Mess-N-Pants before they shot into the lake.

The bad news is, the lake has one very suspicious periscope sticking up out of it.

The badder news is, suspicious periscopes are usually connected to suspicious submarines.

The badderer news is (if you’re still keeping score), suspicious submarines usually have

“Moo-hoo-hoo, Ha-ha-ha-haaaa …”

bad guys lurking inside them. (At least in these books––even if it is one of those new fancy-schmancy hardback editions.)

Anyway, our hero barely has time to slip into the new shoes, pants, and shirt he keeps in his pocket for just such occasions before the submarine surfaces, the hatch opens, and out pops

Ta-Da-Daaaaaaa …

(That’s right, fancy-schmancy hardback editions

still have cornball bad-guy music)

Blendo Boy.

But instead of his usual fancy, bad-dude duds, he’s dressed in gray like everybody else. Not only that, but his face, his hair––and yes, even his fingernail polish––are also the same boring gray.

“Greetings, Random Runt,” he shouts.

“Blendo Boy!? Are you behind all of this?”

“Yes! Isn’t that what the President said back on page 18? Honestly, don’t you read these stories?”

As he speaks, a giant crane appears from the sub and telescopes out and over Random Man’s head. A giant crane holding an even gianter net.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” our hero shouts.

“Because they had a sale on giant cranes and gianter nets.”

“No, no, no. Why are you making everybody in the world the same?”

“Because they were different. And different is wrong!”

“Says who?”

“Says me, just two sentences ago. Man, you really don’t read these stories, do you?”

“No, I mean, why is it wrong that people are different?”

“Because they’re not 100 percent like me.”

“But can’t that be a good thing?”

“Look, I’d love to continue this great debate, but I gotta hurry and drop this net over your head to capture you.”

“Why?”

“So I can bring you onto the sub and have our fight scene.”

“The fight scene? Is that coming up already?”

“In the next section.”

“But––”

“Hold still!”

“But, but––”

“Say cheese… .”

“But, but, but––”

Before our hero continues his motorboat imitation (and his cheesy grin), the cargo net falls on top of him.

Quicker than you can say, “Why was he standing still and smiling? For a superhero, he’s sure not supersmart––”

“Hey, I heard that!”

Sorry. He may not be supersmart, but he still has superhearing.

“I heard that, too!”

See what I mean? Anyway, quicker than you can silently think, For a superhero, he’s sure not supersmart, the net scoops him up and lifts him high into the air like a human piñata.

Oh, no! What will happen next?

Are they really coming up to the fight scene already?

And by the way, who’s looking after the baby during all this action?

These are the types of incredibly intense questions running through our superhero’s intensely empty brain when suddenly––

“Okay, Sludgy Babe, we’re here for the press conference.”

Before I could stop him, Giant Guy did what he does best—dragged me out of the car and carried me into the TV station … while I did what I do best—kicked, screamed, and cried for my mommy.

We headed down a long hall filled with pictures of famous people. Then we entered the makeup room full of lights and mirrors. Giant Guy threw me into what looked like a barber’s chair, and some lady in an apron started redoing all my white makeup. I don’t want to say she overdid it, but when I looked into the mirror I was whiter than Dad gets when he sees Mom’s cell-phone bill.

“I don’t want all this junk on my face!” I cried.

“You have to,” Fancy Suit answered from the door. “It’s what your fans expect. Besides, it’s in your contract.”

I folded my arms and scowled. I tell you, for a guy who’s supposed to be all crazy and free, Sludgy Scumbucket could not have been more trapped and miserable.

I glanced up at the TV monitor in the corner, the one showing highlights from last week’s football game. Everybody and their brother was excited that our very own Middletown Mutants were going to be in the Super Bowl tomorrow. And everybody and their sister was in love with our star quarterback … Hank Heartthrobber.

“Isn’t he dreamy?” the makeup lady asked, sighing as she applied eyeliner so dark I looked like a raccoon with two black eyes.

“Yeah,” I muttered as I watched the interview. “But I hear he doesn’t have many brains.”

“Who cares about brains,” she said, “with all that … dreaminess.”

I sighed heavily. Why wouldn’t he be dreamy? I mean, the guy’s got it made in the shade. A perfect body, a perfect face, perfect athletic ability. The lucky slob probably hadn’t done a day’s worth of work in his whole life.

Talk about him being pampered.

Talk about him being spoiled.

Talk about me judging and …

feeling that awful sensation start again.

But that was okay. I mean, who wouldn’t want to trade places with that guy? Who wouldn’t want his cushy life? So I just sat back and let it happen—thinking the most judgmental thoughts my thinker could think.

Good-bye, Sludgy Scumbucket; hello

Hank Heartthrobber!

Chapter 8

No Pain, No Game

The first thing I noticed was the pain. It was everywhere! I don’t want to exaggerate, but even my hair hurt. Every inch of my body was battered and bruised and battered some more. In lots of ways, it reminded me of the pain Mr. Clyde the janitor had from all his arthritis. Only worse. (You can’t have arthritis in your hair, can you?)

Then there was the screaming. Again, it reminded me of when Mr. Clyde talked. But it was a whole lot louder and a whole lot meaner… .

“COME ON, HEARTTHROBBER! LIFT THOSE WEIGHTS! LIFT THOSE WEIGHTS!”

When I opened my eyes to see, I saw that I was standing at one of those weight machines. And the way my heart hammered, my sweat sweated, and my pain pained, I figured I was working out. Another clue was the two-thousand-pound muscleman hovering over me with the word “TRAINER” printed across his sweatshirt. The guy leaned into my face and shouted:

“NO PAIN, NO GAIN! NO PAIN, NO GAIN!”

I tried to explain, “Too much pain, no life! Too much pain, no life!” But I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

“YOU’RE DOGGIN’ IT, HEARTTHROBBER!”

Before I could stop him, Muscle Man threw another hundred-pound set of weights on the machine. And before I could let go, I felt my arms

STRRRRETCHHHHing

out of their sockets.

The pain I felt when I felt the pain I felt was nothing like this pain I was feeling now when I was feeling… . Well, let me sum it up another way:

“OWWWWWWW!”

I glanced at my arms, which now looked like a Gumby doll after someone tied his hands to two trucks racing in opposite directions. Seriously, they were so long and stringy they reminded me of bubblegum left in the microwave, under a magnifying glass, in the hot sun. I honestly had no idea arms could stretch so loooooooong. I didn’t want to complain, but I was a little worried about how to fit them into my coat when I walked home … or how to walk home without my knuckles wearing out from dragging on the ground.

“Stop being a baby! Don’t you want to win tomorrow?!”

I nodded, though to be honest, I’d be happy just to live through today.

And for good reason …

Next up on my private torturer’s, er, trainer’s list … I’ll save you the boring details. Let’s just say that after running on a treadmill the same distance as from here to Antarctica and back twenty-nine times, I got a little winded. Which would explain my stopping to catch my breath.

—Which might have been okay, except the treadmill kept going.

—Which might have been okay, except it threw me off.

—Which might have been okay, except my shoelace got caught.

—Which might have been okay, except for the …

K-thwap, K-bang, K-thudding

K-thwap, K-bang, K-thudding

of my body being dragged over and under the treadmill for another twenty-nine laps.

“HEARTTHROBBER!?” my trainer shouted as he turned off the treadmill. “THIS IS NO TIME FOR FUN AND GAMES!”

Before I could explain that killing myself wasn’t nearly as much fun as it looked, he dragged me out the door and toward the pool, shouting all the way:

“WE’VE GOT FOUR HUNDRED LAPS TO DO IN THE POOL, FIVE HUNDRED PULL-UPS ON THE BAR—AND, OH YEAH, IF WE’RE LUCKY, WE’LL SQUEEZE IN AT LEAST A COUPLE OF HOURS OF BICYCLING!”

“If we’re lucky?!” I gasped.

“RIGHT, BUT WE’LL HAVE TO HURRY! IT’LL BE GETTING DARK SOON, AND I KNOW HOW YOU LOVE RUNNING THOSE TWELVE MILES TO THE HOTEL TO COOL DOWN!!”

Before I could stop him, he threw me into the

K-SPLASH

pool, where I proceeded to …

glug-glug-glug

sink like a rock. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope. A ray of possibility. The thought that maybe, if I was lucky, I might drown.

Then again, we all know about my luck.

Chapter 9

My Big Break!

…actually several of them

By the time I stumbled back to my hotel room, I was wheezing harder than Darth Vader with a bad case of asthma. I had no idea that famous quarterbacks had to work so hard. In fact, I was actually beginning to wonder who had it worst … Mr. Clyde the janitor, Willard Wadabucks, Opera, Burt (or was it his twin Brock?), Sludgy Scumbucket, or Hank Heartthrobber. Maybe it was a tie.

Really, it seemed like each one of them had a harder life than I ever dreamed possible. Some of their suffering was public; some of it was private. But the point is, there was lots of it. And that made me feel pretty bad for all of them. So bad that, as I dragged myself to bed that night, I promised if I survived this ordeal, I would never judge another person again.

Of course, that was a big IF. Because along with dragging myself to bed that night came dragging myself out of bed the next day. But not just any day. Oh no, that would be too normal. (And if there’s any word missing in my life, it’s “normal.”) Because the next day just happened to be … Super Bowl Sunday!

After a delicious breakfast of four raw eggs (yum), three chalk-flavored protein shakes (double-yum), and more vitamins than a drugstore gone berserk, the team met at the stadium’s locker room to get suited up.

Well, that’s all everyone else had to do. But apparently, I had an extra little job… .

“Okay, men,” the team’s coach, Ike Stu Yellalot, ordered. “Heartthrobber’s going to give us some fantastic words of inspiration.”

I pulled him aside. “Wh-what?”

“It’s your job. You always do that.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t have to be anything special. Just enough to make them risk life and limb to protect you—and, of course, to win the most important game of their lives.”

He gave me a slap on the shoulder, which sent me stumbling into

K-thud

rattle, rattle, rattle

what else but the lockers.

Once I pulled myself out and straightened my uniform, I turned to see them all staring at me and waiting. Yes sir, they were all there, the Middletown Mutants’ biggest and baddest … Will Breakurbod, Mack U. Cryabunch, Riley Hurtubad—all looking to me for the words to lead them to victory.

I took a deep breath and began. “Well, … ,” I cleared my throat, “that is to say … er … uh … ahem …” I paused, letting the words sink in. When I was sure they’d gotten the full meaning, I continued. “Uh … yes, well … um …” Finally, I ended the speech with a rousing series of coughs and more throat clearings.

Yes sir, it was the talk of a lifetime. But before anybody could break into wild applause (or at least a nervous cough of their own), the referee stuck his head into the room and shouted, “Okay, men, game time! Everyone onto the field!”

The team broke into cheers. They yelled, they shouted, they belly-bounced as they grabbed their helmets and raced out of the locker room.

I turned to Coach and shrugged. “Sorry about the speech.”

“What are you talking about? It was the best you’ve given all year.” He patted me on the shoulder with a sad look on his face. That’s when I remembered about Heartthrobber’s intelligence (or lack of it). Apparently, he’d gotten hit in the head one too many times. And from what Coach said, it sounded like that was the best his brain could function. Poor guy. I actually started feeling sorry for how bad he had it.

And if he had to rely on my upcoming athletic ability, he’d be getting a lot badder, a lot faster.

“Well, go on!” Coach yelled. “Get out there!”

I grabbed my helmet, spun around, and

“AUGH!”

K-plop

tripped over the bench.

Yes sir, I thought as I scrambled to my feet and

K-thudded

back into the lockers, a lot badder.

Ten minutes later, I stood on the sidelines with my team and about fifty thousand screaming fans surrounding us. Talk about cool! Talk about exciting! Talk about scared spitless!

“All right, men!” Coach Yellalot shouted over the crowd. “We’ve worked all year for this! Now go out there and show them what sort of men you are!”

I knew that wasn’t such a great idea, at least for me, but I wasn’t sure how to break the news to him. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time. Suddenly, the entire team raced onto the field, shouting and roaring. Well, everyone else was shouting and roaring … I was whimpering and praying: “Please, God, I’ve learned my lesson about judging. Please get me out of this!”

And when that didn’t work, I tried an even braver approach. I dropped to my knees and began begging: “Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please …”

I’m not sure how many pleases I fired off, but apparently it wasn’t quite enough, because the next thing I knew, Will Breakurbod grabbed me by my jersey and pulled me over to the huddle.

The good news was, Coach had told us what the first play would be, so I didn’t have to make something up. The bad news was, I still had no idea what he was talking about. But that didn’t stop us from hollering “BREAK,” leaving the huddle, and lining up to face the opposing team.

I don’t want to say these other guys were monsters, but they definitely put the UG in Ugly … the DEAD in Deadly … and the I-BET—THIS-ISN’T-GOING-TO-FEEL-SO-GOOD in Ouch!

Luckily, I’d seen enough TV to know where the quarterback was supposed to stand … and enough movies to know what he was supposed to say. So, after muttering another hundred “pleases” under my breath, I started playing my part:

“Ready!” I shouted.

My team got ready.

“Set!” I shouted.

My team got set.

I started calling out the numbers: “24 … 35 … 37 … 39 … 41 …”

The players began turning to look at me like I was crazy.

“42 … 53 … 55 …” I knew I’d find the right number eventually. “57 … 157 …”

TWEET!

That, of course, was the loud delay-of-game whistle. Immediately followed by a few thousand fans expressing their heartfelt …

“BOOOOOOOO!”

feelings. This was immediately followed by my own teammates’

“YOU’RE CRAZY!”

“ARE YOU NUTS?!”

“GET A BRAIN CELL!!”

expressing their own.

“You don’t call out numbers,” Will Breakurbod shouted at me. “You call out ‘huts.’”

“Oh,” I said, not entirely sure what makeshift housing had to do with football.

Seeing the lack of intelligence on my face, he tried again. “We’re running play ‘Twenty-seven Jab-gap on THREE,’ remember? That means they snap you the ball when you say ‘hut’ three times!”

“Oh, right,” I said, grateful that we no longer had to deal with the housing issue.

Everyone got back on the line, and I tried again.

“Ready!”

My team got ready.

“Set!”

My team got set.

“Hut … Hut … HUT! ”

And, right on cue, the center snapped me the ball … so hard he broke eleven or twelve of my fingers. (Hey, I’m an athlete, not a math major— okay, maybe I’m not either.) I took a couple of steps back and looked on with amazement. Everyone in the line was screaming, pushing, grunting, and fighting. Honestly, it was as bad as the after-Christmas sale at the mall.

Well, almost.

Finally, a guy from the other team, just slightly larger than a gigantic refrigerator, broke through and raced at me. Now, I’m no fool. I knew exactly what he wanted. In fact, I knew that all of the violence and bloodshed was because they desired one thing and one thing only … the ball.

So, being a man of peace (and wanting to live at least until the next play), I did what any intelligent human coward would do. I offered him the ball.

I tell you, it was a stroke of genius. It completely caught him off guard. In fact, he sort of skidded to a stop and just looked at me.

Though it’s hard to smile through quivering lips, I gave it my best shot, as I held the ball up to him.

He tilted his head one way.

I held it higher.

He tilted his head the other way.

Higher still.

And then, not completely appreciating my gesture, he leaped into the air and

“ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

K-SLAMMed

me hard into the ground.

After they called “Time” and dug me out of the field with a few shovels (and a bulldozer or two), and after the doctor reset most of my bones (at least the ones they could find), Coach strolled on over and, in his most tender and compassionate voice, screamed, “YOU TERRIBLY STUPID, UNSMART PERSON!!!” (Of course, those weren’t his real words; we had to change them so the book could be rated PG.)

“YOU DON’T GIVE THE BALL TO THE OTHER SIDE! IF YOU HAND IT OFF, YOU HAND IT OFF TO OUR SIDE!!”

I nodded. Ashamed of my ignorance. Ashamed of my cowardice. But not ashamed of being alive (well, at least the parts of me that they’d found).

Unfortunately, Coach was about to change all that.

“NOW GET BACK IN THERE AND RUN: ‘TWENTY-NINE TOSS-GO ON TWO! ’”

“M-m-m-me?” I stuttered.

“YES, YOU!”

I wanted to tell him what an honor it was to be given a second chance, to be allowed to prove myself, but I was too busy screaming, crying, and begging for mercy … until he finally pried my hands loose from the bench and threw me back into the game.

Once again we lined up.

Once again I called the signals. “Ready … set … hut, HUT! ”

And once again the ball was snapped, breaking a few dozen more of my fingers.

Sadly, none of the body bruisers on the line had learned anything from my previous gesture of goodwill. Instead, they went right back to their usual screaming, pushing, grunting, and destruction of human life. (I guess old habits are hard to break.)

I dropped back and this time, clearly remembering what Coach had said, I did not hand the ball to the other team. Instead, I shoved it into the hands of my nearest teammate, Riley Hurtubad.

“What are you doing?!!” he shouted.

“Please,” I said, smiling, “look at it as a gift. From me to you.”

Hurtubad glanced up at the players breaking through the line toward us. And, not wanting to be pounded into the turf, he had the good sense to take off running for his life.

But apparently, my spirit of giving was contagious after all. Because as soon as he could, he unloaded the ball onto another teammate, Mack U. Cryabunch. It was a sweet gesture, and I was really touched. I would have been more touched if Cryabunch weren’t running back toward me! Yet he was determined to keep spreading the good cheer. Because no matter how fast I ran away, shouting, “No, no, no, no, no!” he caught up to me. Then, proving that “what goes around really does come around,” he slammed the ball back into my own

“OAFF!”

gut.

But there was no way I was going to be the one to stop the giving. No way I was going to break the chain of pain. Desperate, I looked for another teammate. Unfortunately, everyone else was being hit and stomped into the ground. Well, everyone but my old buddy from the last body-smashing session …

“ARGGHH!”

Refrigerator Man. He headed straight toward me with that ol’ familiar look of destruction in his eyes.

Suddenly, my whole life flashed before me. Well, actually, just the good stuff, which meant it only lasted 1.4 seconds. But I knew it was over. I knew I was taking my last breath. I knew I’d never finish my Random Man story (unless they have laptops in heaven).

Then, in a flash of brain-brilliance, I noticed the referee standing beside me. And in a flash of brain-deadness, I reached over and handed him the ball. “Here you go!” I shouted.

“What?! What are you doing?” He shoved it back at me.

I shoved it back at him. “I insist.”

“It’s your ball!” He shoved it back at me.

“No, please …” I shoved it back at him.

“No way, buddy!” He shoved it back at me.

“No, here!”

It was turning into a game of Hot Potato until we were rudely interrupted by some even louder

“ARGGHH!”ing

I looked up. Refrigerator Man hovered directly over us. The good news was, I no longer had the ball.

The bad news was, the referee was no fool. He shoved it back. “I believe this is yours!”

“OAFF!”

“Thanks … ,” I mumbled.

By the looks of things, our little game of musical football had just come to an end, and I was the lucky winner.

I looked up just as my pulverizing pal leaped into the air.

Great, I thought, just great. My whole life reduced to nothing but a Splatted-Flat Quarter— But that was as far as my thinker thunk before the man-mashing machine did what he did

K-SLAM!

best.

So there I was, once again buried deep in the ground, keeping all the local earthworms company—though I’m afraid I wasn’t much of a talker.

It’s hard to think of things to say when you’re unconscious in a major sort of way.

Chapter 10

Wrapping Up

“Hey, Wally?” It was Opera’s voice. “Are you, burp, okay?”

The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to open my eyes, so of course it was the first thing I had to do. And when I did what I didn’t want to do, I wished I hadn’t done what I had done.

Translation: I was three feet deep in the ground with every major body part battered.

Of course, this was no surprise, except, wait a minute! I wasn’t on the football field! I was on the front lawn of my school! And instead of all the monster men looking down at me, it was all the kids from school.

“Here, Wally.” I looked up to see Wall Street reaching down to help me out of the crater.

“Do you …” I swallowed nervously. “Do you recognize me?”

“Of course I recognize you. Are you okay? Can you get up? Can you stand?”

The moment seemed strangely familiar. “Yeah,” I croaked. “I think so.”

“Good, then let’s hurry and get you back upstairs.”

“Wh-why?”

“I just called America’s Stupidest Home Videos. They said we could maybe win ten thousand dollars if you’d do that again on video.”

Yes sir, very familiar.

“Really, and what’s my split?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“The usual 50/50. Five thousand dollars for me and five thousand dollars for you—minus my four-thousand-dollar fee as your agent and nine hundred ninety-nine dollars for the digital camera.”

Very familiar, indeed.

“LOOK WHAT YOU KIDS HAVE DONE TO MY BEAUTIFUL LAWN!”

I spun around to see Mr. Clyde the janitor. And it really was him! Not me being him. But him! I couldn’t have been happier!

“Oh, Mr. Clyde!” I ran to him and threw my arms around him. “It’s you!”

“OF COURSE IT’S ME. WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE?”

“Are you okay? How’s your arthritis? How are you—”

“LET GO OF ME!” He stepped back. “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!”

“I just, that is to say …”

I took a moment to glance around. It was true, everything was back to normal. There I was in my same dorky body, surrounded by my same dorky friends, ready for another dorky mishap.

I turned back to Mr. Clyde. “Listen, I just want to thank you for all the hard work you do around here.”

“WHAT?”

“I know folks don’t show their appreciation and sometimes we make fun of you. But I have to tell you, I’m really grateful for what you do. I MEAN REALLY, REALLY, REALLY—”

“SON?”

I came to a stop. “Yes, Mr. Clyde?”

“BETTER SEE A DOCTOR. THAT FALL OBVIOUSLY BRUISED YOUR BRAIN.”

Before I could answer, Wall Street grabbed my arm and dragged me back up the steps toward the top floor—where I would no doubt jump out the window again. (I tell you, it felt good to be back at doing what I do best.)

“Come on, Wally!” she urged. “If we hurry, I can get different angles of your fall. Who knows, maybe we can squeeze in three or four more of them before the sun goes down or—”

“Or I lose my life?” I asked.

“Right,” she said, nodding, “or you lose your life, whichever comes first. Now hurry!”

Yes sir, it was great to be back. Despite the abusing, bruising, and breaking of my body … it was great to be me again.

When we last left Random Man McDoogle, he was high in a cargo net about to have the story’s obligatory fight scene. And his opponent? None other than our gruesome gray guy, Blendo Boy––that freaky fiend who wants everybody to look the same.

Nobody’s sure what short-circuited Blendo Boy’s brain to make him do such a thing….

––Some think it’s because he never got the chance to wear school uniforms as a kid. (Some guys have all the bad luck.)

––Others think it’s because he had to shop all day with his mom to choose one of six billion colors for the new hallway carpet. (Some guys have badder than bad luck.)

––Finally, there’s the ever-popular theory that he went crazy when trapped overnight in the “It’s a Small World After All” ride with so many different brightly dressed dolls singing the same song in so many different languages over and over and over some more. (And some more after that.)

Whatever the reason, our hero has to outwit this blandest of bad boys. He has to think up a cool plan to get out of the net and start the fight scene. It has to be smart, it has to be clever, and, most of all, it must go unnoticed.

Suddenly, he has it! In a burst of genuine genius-like geniusness he hollers down to him, “Hey, Blendo Boy, can you help me get out of this net?”

(Talk about clever!)

Our villainous villain looks up and shouts, “What did you say, Random Rodent? What’s up?”

“Me.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“No, listen. If I’m tied up here, we can’t have our fight scene down there.”

“Hmm…I see your point. How very smart, clever, and most of all unnoticed of you.”

“Thanks. It comes with my genuine, genius-like geniusness.”

“Wait a minute. Can we just steal lines from our author like that?”

“Sure, when he’s not paying attention. And he’s so beat up from his last misadventure, he can barely think. So what do you think, Blendo Boy? Are you going to let me down?”

“Actually, I’m not sure how.”

“What about that switch over there? The one labeled

‘WARNING:

Push only to open net and let

good guys fall out.’”

“Oh, you mean this one here?”

“AUGHHHH …”

Ker-plunk

“Yup, that’s the one.”

“Hey, check it out,” Blendo Boy says as he approaches our hero. “Look at all the cool wrinkles and creases in your clothes.”

“Yeah, it comes with being trapped in a cargo net during that entire last football chapter.”

“But I really like the look,” Blendo Boy says as he helps him to his feet. “It makes you somehow, oh, I don’t know, there must be a word for it. It makes you look, uh …”

“Different?” our hero asks.

“Yeah, ‘different.’”

“And that’s not bad?”

“Well, no, like I said, it looks cool because…it’s, uh …”

“‘Different,’” our hero repeats.

“Yeah.”

“And different can be good. You see, everybody doesn’t have to look the same. In fact, it’s more fun enjoying our differences than trying to blend in and be like everybody else.”

“Wow! I think I see your point!”

“Great! So do you think we can go below deck and turn off your dreaded Blendo Beam?”

“Hey, that’s a superswell idea.”

“Thanks,” our hero says, grinning. “Oh, and I guess that means we won’t have to have that obligatory fight scene, either?”

“I guess not.”

“Great, ’cause this book has too much violence in it, anyway.”

“What were you expecting with words like ‘Splatted-Flat’ in the title?”

“True. I see your point. I mean, it’s not like ‘Blundering Ballerina’ or one of those wimpy titles.”

“Exactly.” Blendo Boy chuckles as he throws his arm around our hero’s shoulder. “Well, come on down, and let’s change the Beam so everyone’s clothes are creased and wrinkled exactly like yours.”

“Uh, Blendo Boy?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think that’s exactly the point.”

“You mean we still have to do the fight scene?”

“Not if you let me explain.”

“Please, help me understand.”

“Why, I’d love to.”

And so, with that schmaltzy dialogue, the two head below deck, arm in arm. Soon the world will return to the exciting place it once had been. Soon it will become a place where everyone can enjoy their differences… regardless of the color of their skin, their hair…or the wrinkles in their clothes.

“Or their gray fingernail polish?” the man from the hilltop shouts.

All right…or their gray fingernail polish.

I have to admit, it was one of my more cornball endings. But it was the best I could come up with in the hospital with all the tubes, wires, and life-support systems hooked up to me.

The good news is, we won the America’s Stupidest Home Videos contest … which means Wall Street is a lot closer to making her first million (and I got to keep my dollar). So I guess, all in all, things worked out pretty— “Hey, kid. It’s after eleven o’clock. Turn off that laptop and get some sleep.”

I looked at the door and saw my night nurse.

She was a pretty weird lady. For starters, she was always walking around trying to be tough. And she might have pulled it off if it weren’t for her hair. I don’t want to say it was too red, but if nursing didn’t work out, she could always get a job as a circus clown. Then there was her height. It’s not that she was short, but if the Munchkins ever had a basketball team, she’d probably be too small to qualify.

But you know, it didn’t matter. Because underneath all that gruffness … and redness … and shortness, there was a human being.

“Are you going to turn that off, or do I have to do it for you?”

“No, ma’am, I’ll do it.”

A human being that God had made special. A human being that He loves.

“Sweet dreams, kid.”

“Thanks.”

And definitely a human being whom, like all the others, God never wants me to ever judge.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Just For Starters

Chapter 2

Trading Faces… and body parts

Chapter 3

Stinking Rich

Chapter 4

Grand Ol’ Operaland

Chapter 5

Wally McDoogle,

Chapter 6

Wally McDoogle:Super Jock? Super Not!

Chapter 7

A Taste ofSuperstarDUMB

Chapter 8

No Pain, No Game

Chapter 9

My Big Break!

Chapter 10

Wrapping Up

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Just For Starters

Chapter 2

Trading Faces… and body parts

Chapter 3

Stinking Rich

Chapter 4

Grand Ol’ Operaland

Chapter 5

Wally McDoogle,

Chapter 6

Wally McDoogle:Super Jock? Super Not!

Chapter 7

A Taste ofSuperstarDUMB

Chapter 8

No Pain, No Game

Chapter 9

My Big Break!

Chapter 10

Wrapping Up