Funny Boy Takes on the Chit-Chatting Cheeses from Chattanooga Page 4

  Nothing. Zip. Zero. Not even a smile.

  “You know,” I continued, “when I was little I was so skinny that I had to stand next to my brother to have a shadow.”

  “Your jokes are tiresome!” Mozzarella thundered. “Let the cheesing of America begin!”

  I glanced out the barn door. White flakes had started to fall from the sky.

  “Let’s get out of here!” the President shouted. “Run for your lives!”

  “Cheese it!” yelled Bob Foster.

  Cheesy trivia from Bob Foster: The first cheese factory in the United States was started by a man named Jesse Williams in Rome, New York, in 1851!

  CHAPTER 10

  THINGS START GETTING REALLY SILLY HERE, AND WILL ONLY GET SILLIER. IF YOU HAVE ANY SENSE, YOU’LL TURN BACK AND GRAB ONE OF THOSE NEWBERY BOOKS THAT GROWN-UPS THINK YOU SHOULD BE READING INSTEAD OF THIS JUNK.

  By the time we got to the airport in Appleton, flakes of falling cheese were starting to stick to the ground. The wheels of the limousine were beginning to skid around the corners, and the driver was struggling to see through the cheese-smeared windshield.

  Air Force One, the President’s private plane, was waiting on the runway when we arrived. We ran to it, slipping on the cheese-covered tarmac with every step.

  The air traffic controllers didn’t want to let the plane take off, but the President declared the situation a national emergency and forced them to let us go. Slipping and skidding on the cheesy runway, the plane barely made it off the ground.

  I took a seat next to the President. He was looking out the window thoughtfully, watching the flakes of cheese blanket the state of Wisconsin.

  “I failed you, Mr. President,” I admitted sadly.

  The President turned to me, with sympathy and understanding in his eyes. He put his hand gently on my shoulder.

  “You’re right,” he said. “You screwed up everything. You’re a loser and a dope. Worse than that, you’re not the least bit funny. I can’t believe I entrusted the fate of the nation to a dumb kid with a yellow cape and a fake nose and glasses. What could I have been thinking? Now leave me alone before I start to choke you.”

  Almost in tears, I left the President’s side and moved to the rear of the plane, where Punch and Bob Foster were gazing out their window.

  “I was just thinking,” Punch was telling Bob.

  “About what?” Bob replied.

  “Two things. First, I was thinking about invisible ink. If it’s invisible, how do you know when you’ve run out of it? Second, I was thinking about how many perfectly good trees they had to cut down to print this stupid book. And how many electrons must be wasted for the e-book version?”

  “How can you be worrying about things like that at a time like this?” I complained. “The world is about to end! And it’s all my fault.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Bob Foster consoled me. “You gave it your best shot.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Punch. “It’s not your fault that those jokes were so terrible. Blame it on Milton Berle.”

  Air Force One has a big-screen television set, and the pilot must have turned it on. Bob Foster’s favorite channel—the Weather Channel—was on. A lady was standing in front of a map of the United States. Instead of clouds floating over the country, there were a bunch of cheese wedges.

  “... a forty percent chance of cheese across the Midwest tonight,” she announced, “with accumulations of twelve inches or more in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa. You can expect the cheese storm to taper off after midnight, and then the cheese should start falling across the Northeast and Gulf Coast states. So take along an umbrella, and a cheese grater in case you need to dig out your car. Roads are expected to be slippery, and extremely smelly. Stay tuned for the five-day forecast, in the unlikely event that our planet lasts that long. ...

  I was too depressed to watch the rest of the weather report. I had failed my President, and I had failed my adopted planet. I wasn’t feeling funny at all. It was only a matter of time before Earth would be completely covered in cheese. And there was nothing I could do about it.

  There was a phone built in to the seat in front of me. I picked it up. A White House operator came on and asked me who I wanted to speak with. I gave her the name of the one person I cared about most in this time of need. The love of my life—Tupper Camembert.

  “How did you get my number?” Tupper asked when I told her who I was.

  “Never mind that,” I snapped. “Is anything falling from the sky in Texas yet?”

  “No, why?”

  “Tupper, I’m flying over Wisconsin, and it’s getting cheesed just like New Jersey did yesterday. Soon the whole country and the whole world will be one big cheese ball.”

  “Very funny.”

  “This is serious, Tupper. I’m in Air Force One right now. I was just chatting with the President.”

  “If you think that’s going to impress me, you’re wrong,” Tupper hissed. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to be your girlfriend. I wouldn’t be your girlfriend if the world were going to end tomorrow.”

  “But, Tupper,” I pleaded, “that’s why I’m calling. There’s a good possibility the world is going to end tomorrow. Before that happens, I just wanted to tell you how much I love you.”

  Click. She hung up on me.

  Cheesy trivia from Bob Foster: The first cheese was probably made more than four thousand years ago by nomadic tribes in Asia!

  CHAPTER 11

  THIS CHAPTER IS TOTALLY RIDICULOUS. CLEARLY IT IS THE PRODUCT OF A SICK MIND.

  The cheese hadn’t started falling in Washington yet when we touched down at Ronald Reagan Airport. A limo whisked us all to the White House, where the President had called an emergency press conference to brief the nation on what was happening.

  Bob Foster, Punch, and I gathered in the East Room of the White House. Hundreds of reporters and photographers were already there, anxiously awaiting the President’s opening words.

  “My fellow Americans,” he said somberly, “I come before you with a heavy heart. We are in a time of national emergency.

  “A few short days ago some rather large, malodorous cheeses fell out of the sky and landed behind a post office in Wisconsin. Nobody thought much of it at the time. However, since then we have learned that these cheeses are living, breathing creatures from another planet. And they are angry.

  “The covering of New Jersey and Wisconsin with cheese over the last few days was only the beginning. My fellow Americans, these cheeses intend to coat our entire world with cheese, block out the sun, and set off a new Ice Age that will wipe out all life on planet Earth.”

  A gasp was heard from the reporters and photographers. Hands shot in the air to ask questions, but the President gestured for the reporters to let him finish his statement.

  “I just wanted to let all of America know that our government does not negotiate with terrorists. We are not going to stand idly by and let some cheese push us around. We will not allow ourselves to be intimidated by a snack food. If we could defeat the Nazis in World War II, we can defeat cheese. If we could put a man on the moon, we can defeat cheese. If we could cure the common cold, we can defeat cheese... .”

  “Mr. President,” a reporter chimed. “We haven’t cured the common cold yet, sir.”

  “I knew that,” the President affirmed. “I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. The point is, we will defeat this cheese, if we have to destroy the entire planet to do it. I will take a few questions now. But let me say this. If any of these questions get silly, I’ll end the press conference right there.”

  In the back row next to me, my dog, Punch, immediately raised her paw. I held it down, and the President called on one of the reporters instead.

  “Mr. President, how do you intend to battle this enemy?”

  “That’s top secret at this time. I will disclose that information tomorrow morning, first thing.”

  “What are the aliens’ demands, Mr. President?�
�

  “They demand that we stop eating cheese, we build a museum to cheese, and we change the pledge of allegiance to honor them instead of our flag. But as I have said, the United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

  “What kind of cheese are they, sir?”

  “Apparently there are four kinds. Monterey Jack, Romano, Fontina, and Mozzarella.”

  Punch tried raising her paw again, but I held it down.

  “Mr. President, is this the biggest threat to our civilization since that guy who sang ‘Mambo Number Five’?”

  “I’m not quite sure what that means,” the President replied. “But it sounds like it might be a silly question.”

  “If the world comes to an end, sir, will it help or hurt your approval rating?”

  “That sounds awfully silly!” the President warned. “You know, I could clear this room in a minute.”

  Punch raised her paw before I could hold it down, and the President called on her.

  “If the world does come to an end, will the Funny Boy series continue?”

  “Punch!” I whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked the President.

  “The book you’re in. It’s part of a series for kids,” said Punch.

  “Book? Series? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re a fictional character, Mr. President. In fact, we all are.”

  “That’s it. I’ve had enough of this. No more press conferences. Somebody get that dog out of here!”

  When the press conference broke up, I told Punch and Bob Foster that we should go back to Texas. There was nothing we could do to help in Washington. If Earth was going to be destroyed, we might as well watch the devastation from our adopted home. Besides, I wanted to see the love of my life, Tupper Camembert, one more time before the end of civilization.

  “Nothing doing,” one of the President’s assistants said when Bob Foster asked about a ride to the airport. “The President says he wants you right here in the White House where he can keep an eye on you.”

  The next morning, as soon as the sun came up, Bob Foster, Punch, and I were escorted into the War Room at the White House. There was a big map of the United States in there. It indicated which parts of the country were already covered with cheese and which parts weren’t. Television monitors were positioned around the country so the President could see what was happening everywhere.

  At precisely nine o’clock, Operation Cheese Shield began.

  Hundreds of Navy helicopters arrived in Wisconsin. They were carrying an enormous box of Saran Wrap. It was nearly a mile wide. Carefully, the end of the Saran Wrap was pulled from the box by four helicopters and unrolled. When several miles of the clear wrap had been stretched across the sky, the helicopters lowered it slowly to the cheese-covered ground. It was apparent that they hoped to contain the cheese by wrapping it up in plastic and then disposing of it in some way.

  “It’s working!” one of the generals in the War Room shouted. “It’s going to work!”

  But just before the helicopters touched down, one of the corners of the Saran Wrap came loose. It flopped around in the air currents caused by the propeller blades. Then it flew up and stuck to the middle of the Saran Wrap.

  “It’s clinging to itself!” the President yelled disgustedly. “I hate it when that happens!”

  Soon the rest of the Saran Wrap came loose and the whole thing crumpled together. It was impossible to untangle it. The Navy helicopters dropped the useless wrap to the ground harmlessly. A groan of frustration was heard throughout the War Room.

  Next, the Air Force flew in two of the biggest slices of white bread I had ever seen. Each slice was about the size of a football field.

  “What are they going to do with those?” I asked Bob Foster.

  “It looks like they’re trying to surround the cheese with bread and make an enormous cheese sandwich,” he replied.

  That’s exactly what they were doing. It seemed to be working, too. When the two pieces of bread were in place around the cheese, soldiers carrying flamethrowers shot fire at it.

  “They’re grilling the cheese!” Punch exclaimed excitedly. “They’re making a gigantic grilled-cheese sandwich!”

  Suddenly, the fire from one of the flamethrowers caught on a corner of the bread. It burned quickly, turning black and spitting smoke everywhere. Soon the whole slice of bread was burned and began breaking into pieces. The sandwich was a big, oozing, smoking, stinky mess.

  Next, the Marines brought some huge Saltine crackers strapped to the roof of a tank, but they crumbled when the cheese was shoved on top of them with a bulldozer.

  The mood in the War Room was grim. The cheese was still spreading, and there was no way to contain it. Operation Cheese Shield had failed.

  “Wait!” the President thundered, snapping his fingers excitedly. “I’ve got an idea!”

  The generals gathered around the President, and within minutes, Operation Cheese Storm had begun. Helicopters flew in carrying enormous vats of pickles, lettuce, ketchup, onions, ground beef, and special sauce. They dropped tons and tons of the stuff right on top of the cheese.

  “What are they doing that for?” Punch asked.

  “I think their plan,” Bob Foster explained, “is to dump so much stuff together that you barely notice how terrible it all is.”

  “You mean, like a burger in a fast-food restaurant?”

  “Exactly!”

  Unfortunately, it didn’t work. The pickles, ketchup, and other condiments just settled into the cheese and disappeared.

  “Quick! Release the macaroni!” one of the generals shouted. “It’s our only hope!”

  “Macaroni?” I asked. “Didn’t he invent the wireless?”

  “That was Marconi, you idiot!” Punch told me.

  The macaroni-and-cheese plan, whatever it was, didn’t work either. The cheese just kept spreading wider and wider. Gloom fell over the War Room.

  “It’s just some lousy cheese!” the President exclaimed, pacing the room. “There must be some way we can contain it.”

  “Maybe we could breed some gigantic mice,” one of the President’s advisers suggested. “And they could eat the cheese.”

  “That would take months,” the President replied. “Maybe years. We’re running out of time. Earth will be completely covered by cheese in a matter of days.”

  “What are we going to do, sir?” somebody asked.

  “I don’t know,” the President moaned. “I just don’t know.”

  Cheesy trivia from Bob Foster: The holes in Swiss cheese are created by bacteria that are added to the cheese and produce bubbles of carbon dioxide!

  CHAPTER 12

  IF YOU MADE IT THIS FAR, YOU ARE TRULY A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT. YOU SHOULD GET AN AWARD OR SOMETHING.

  It was a long day. Everything the military had done in their effort to contain the cheese had failed. It kept covering more and more of the country. By the end of the day, the midwestern United States was almost completely covered with cheese. Cheese storms had begun in California and Florida.

  I had the White House operator get Tupper Camembert on the phone again. I wanted to speak with her one last time before the telephone lines in Texas were knocked out by tons and tons of cheese.

  “Tupper, it’s me, Funny Boy.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m at the White House. I just wanted to see if I could comfort you in this time of need. Is there anything I can do to make these last few days on Earth pleasant ones for you?”

  “Yes,” Tupper told me. “Drop dead, dork.”

  I hung up the phone and sat down heavily. There are times in a person’s life when one has to admit a mistake. Bob Foster’s theory about men and women, I finally realized, was all wrong. People are basically honest. When Tupper Camembert had told me to leave her alone and go jump in a lake, it wasn’t her way of telling me how much she loved me. It was her way of telling me to leave her alone and go jump in a lake. Tup
per Camembert had never liked me. I had been a fool.

  I had never been so depressed in my life. The world was coming to an end, and I didn’t have anyone to share it with.

  Sadly, I trudged into the East Room of the White House, where the President was preparing to hold another press conference. He didn’t look so good himself. I took a seat in the back, away from Bob Foster. Away from Punch. Away from everybody. I just wanted to be alone.

  “My fellow Americans,” the President began. “By now, some of our great United States are completely submerged under a thick layer of pungent cheese. The rest of the country, and the world, will soon be in the same situation. My advisers and I have been up all night discussing what we should do. At this point, our only option left is to use nuclear weapons against the cheese. But I can’t do that. It would mean dropping bombs on the United States itself which would kill every man, woman, and child. So this is what I have decided to do. ...

  The President took a deep breath and wiped a tear from his eye before continuing.

  “Effective immediately, the manufacture, distribution, and sale of all cheese is prohibited.”

  A gasp was heard throughout the room.

  “The eating of cheese is punishable by death. The Smithsonian Institution will be turned into the National Museum of Cheese. At this point, I would like everyone to please rise and put your right hand over your heart.”

  Everybody stood up.

  “I pledge allegiance,” he recited, “to the cheese—”

  “Wait!”

  All heads turned around to see who had interrupted the President.

  It was my dog, Punch.

  “You can’t give in yet, Mr. President!” Punch yelped. “We still have one secret weapon at our disposal.”

  “Who said that?” the President asked, peering into all the faces.

  “My name is Punch,” Punch yelped. “I’m just a concerned talking dog who loves her adopted planet.”

  “And what secret weapon do you have in mind?”