My Life As a Tarantula Toe Tickler, page 1
MY LIFE
as a
Tarantula
Toe Tickler
Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers
Series
SAD
. . . 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
MY LIFE
as a
Tarantula
Toe Tickler
BILL MYERS
MY LIFE AS A TARANTULA TOE TICKLER
© 2003 Bill Myers
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Verses marked (TLB) are from The Living Bible. © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Myers, Bill, 1953–
My life as a tarantula toe tickler / Bill Myers.
p. cm. — (The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; 22) Summary: Rather than facing the consequences of breaking his mother's incredibly expensive new vase, disaster-prone Wally McDoogle becomes involved with Junior Whiz Kid's zany experiments and must face a giant flying snail and a tarantula the size of a small house.
ISBN 978-0-8499-5993-6 (pbk.)
[1. Responsibility—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Myers, Bill, 1953– . Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; 22.
PZ7.M98234Mylf 2003
[Fic]—dc22
2003004132
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 QW 13 12 11 10 9
For Sue Holtsnider:
A role model of love and
commitment.
“Admit your faults to one another . . .”
—James 5:16 (TLB)
Contents
1. Just for Starters . . .
2. Let the Failures Begin
3. Junior to the Rescue!
4. Dumbo Jr.
5. Sealed Lips
6. Reunion Time
7. Ride ’em, Snail Boy!
8. Will I Ever Learn?
9. An Itsy-Bitsy . . . MONSTER!
10. Wrapping Up
Chapter 1
Just for Starters . . .
Look, I know it was wrong. I know I should have told my folks. But when a guy gets older, there are some things he likes to work out on his own.
“And some things he should never try!”
(Sorry, didn’t mean to yell. I only yell when things get to me. So . . .)
“And some things he should never try!”
(If you guessed this one got to me, your guesser guessed the right guess.)
It all started innocently enough—which should have been my first clue something was wrong (at least in these stories). Mom had just bought this incredibly expensive vase and put it on this incredibly expensive vase stand.
“Now everyone be careful,” she said. “This is an incredibly expensive vase, and I’ve just put it on this incredibly expensive vase stand.”
(Told you.)
“Yes, Mother dearest,” little sister Carrie sweetly answered. (An obvious clue she was heading to the mall and needed money.)
“Umph,” my twin brothers, Burt and Brock, grunted in unison. (An obvious clue they were watching football on TV.)
“Snork—wheeeeze . . . ,” Dad answered. (An obvious clue he was lying on the sofa examining the inside of his eyelids.)
Then there was my own answer, which I saved until she’d left the room:
“AUGH!”
K-Thud!
For you newbies, that’s the sound I make when stepping on our cat, Collision (who did not get his name by accident). You see, he has this bad habit of sleeping at the top of the stairs, which is no problem, except I have an even worse habit of tripping over him—which led to the rest of my answer
k-bounce, k-bounce, k-bounce
sprain-a-wrist-here, bruise-a-face-there
as I tumbled down the steps, managing to break numerous body parts along the way.
Oh, and there were two other things I included in the answer for good measure. The first, was my world-famous
K-rash!
(which is the sound of an incredibly clumsy human slamming into an incredibly expensive vase stand).
And finally (don’t pretend you didn’t know this was coming), the ever-popular
K-shatter
tinkle, tinkle, tinkle
(which, of course, is the sound of an incredibly expensive vase shattering into a thousand incredibly little pieces).
Now it was time for quick, cool thinking . . . for calm, heroic action . . . for running around like a chicken with my head cut off (actually, crawling around like a chicken with my head cut off, since I’d just broken one or more legs).
The point is, I couldn’t get blamed for breaking the vase! Why should I? It’s not like it was my fault. I mean, who in their right mind would put something breakable within my reach? And so close to the stairs? Didn’t Mom know I specialized in stairway disasters? (Everybody needs a hobby.) Wasn’t she there when Dad built a padded wall at the bottom of the steps to cut down on our trips to the emergency room? . . . And who put the cat at the top of the stairs?
So, instead of admitting that I might be just the tiniest bit responsible, I did what any normal, guilty, afraid-to-get-in-trouble kid would do . . . I tried desperately to cover things up and not get caught!
First, I scampered across the floor, grabbing all the pieces I could find. Then I tried putting them back together by stacking them on top of each other. A great idea if I was trying to stack bricks for a wall—not so great if I was trying to stack pieces for a round and curvy vase.
Obviously, I needed a little glue. No problem. I dashed into the kitchen, yanked open the drawer, and found it. I should have suspected it might have been a little old when the label read:
WARNING. Use in well-ventilated caves.
Keep out of the reach of pet dinosaurs.
But I had more important things on my mind . . . like trying to open it.
Actually, that wasn’t a problem. All I had to do was take the little straight pin and “OW!” poke it into “OW! OW!” the little “OW! OW! OW!” nozzle and not into “OW! OW! OW! OW!” my hand.
As soon as I got my wounds bandaged up and swung by the hospital for a blood transfusion, I returned to the kitchen, squeezed the tube, and out came:
spiff . . .
That’s right. Not “splat,” not “splurt,” not even the ever-popular “squirt.” This tube was so old and dry that instead of glue, it just shot out a little cloud of dust.
Then I heard footsteps approaching the kitchen. I knew this was no time to panic. All I had to do was stay calm and go to Plan B. Except for one minor problem:
“THERE WAS NO PLAN B!”
(I’m shouting again. Sorry. I always get a little nervous when I’m about to die.)
The footsteps grew closer. Then came the voice. “Wally, snap-snap, pop-pop, whatcha doin’?”
I sighed in relief. The footsteps and voice belonged to my little sister Carrie. The snap-snap,
pop-pop belonged to the two packs of gum she always chewed.
“Hey, squirt,” I said as she entered. “What’s up?”
“We’re just, snap-snap, going to the, pop-pop, mall.”
“We?”
Suddenly, a half-dozen of her fellow munchkins trotted in, all heading for the back door—snapping and popping away on their own gum. Oh, and giggling, lots of giggling. Why is it that little sisters are always giggling (I mean, when th ey’re not busy tattling)?
And at the back of the crowd was one Megan Melkner. The poor thing had a major crush on me. (I know, go figure.) It was either my incredible good looks, my marvelous physique . . . or the fact that she desperately needed glasses. Then there was her voice. I don’t want to be mean, but it sounded like fingernails on a blackboard in the middle of a pig-squealing contest (with plenty of microphone feedback).
“Hi, Wallace,” she squeaked as she batted her eyes and flashed a grin so bright that I needed sunglasses to look at her.
“Hi,” I mumbled, trying to stop my face from twitching. My face always twitched when I talked to her—just like it twitches when I see train wrecks on TV or murderers on the nightly news.
“Whatcha doin’?”
More eye batting. More grinning.
“I’m trying to glue something, but this stupid glue doesn’t work.”
“That’s too bad.” More batting, more grinning. “Yeah.” More twitching.
“Hey, why don’t you try this?” Suddenly, she stuck out her tongue. On it sat a huge wad of Chewie Blewie bubblegum. “Hewre.” (Which is as close as anyone can get to “here” with their tongue sticking out with a wad of gum sitting on it.)
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Ooze ma umm.” (Translation: “Use my gum.”)
“What??”
She pulled in her tongue just long enough to speak human-ese. “This gum is way stickier than any glue.” Then she stuck it back out.
I stared at the glistening pink wad on her tongue, then gave the only answer I could think of:
“Eewww!”
(Translation: “Eewww!” )
“No, Wallace, I’m serious,” she said, flashing more teeth and batting more eyes. “ I’d consider it such an honor if you would use my gum.”
The other girls must have thought it was a cool idea, too, because they also surrounded me—each sticking out their tongue, each crying, “Mime, poo! Mime, poo! Ooze ma umm, poo!”
“Wally, what’s going on down there?” Mom called from upstairs.
I froze. If she came down before I fixed the vase, I knew my goose was cooked, my milk spilled, my toast burned—(Hey, I’m in a kitchen; what type of comparisons do you expect me to dream up?)
Luckily, Carrie came to my rescue. “It’s just some of my friends, Mom.”
“Okay,” she called, “but don’t go spilling any milk or burning any toast.”
I whispered to Carrie in astonishment, “How’d she know?”
“And no goose cooking!” Mom finished.
I looked to Carrie, who shrugged. “Got me,” she said.
Meanwhile, Megan Melkner and the rest of her gang continued closing in and begging, “Ooze ma umm, poo! Ooze ma umm, poo!”
Time was running out. And since I could see no other choice, I reluctantly held out my hand to them and
k-spit, k-spit, k-spit
suddenly, I was holding more gum than you find under a school cafeteria table.
And still they continued their selfless contributions:
k-spit, k-spit, k-spit
Haawk-spituwee!
“Hey, just gum!” I shouted.
“Sorry,” a girl with bad allergies and no tissue muttered.
At last they finished and headed out the door for the mall. Not, of course, without Megan Melkner batting her eyes and f lashing her smile one final time. “Good-bye, Wallace.”
Poor kid, she was so hung up on me, and now she was obviously waiting for some caring, thoughtful reply. Unfortunately, the best I could come up with was, “Maybe you should seek professional help.”
But it did the trick. She smiled dreamily and shuffled out the door with the rest of the herd for an evening at the mall.
At last I was alone holding a wad of gum the size of Mount Rushmore. I was also being exposed to more girl germs than the time I accidentally used Mom’s toothbrush (and you thought the gum thing was gross). Anyway, I ran into the hallway, picked up the pieces of the vase, and started gluing (or gumming) them back together as fast as I could.
It was like a giant jigsaw puzzle. But gradually, piece by piece, it started coming together.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I should tell Mom. I knew I should admit what had happened. But right now this gluing thing seemed a lot easier. And it was. Well, except the gum was still so warm and soft and juicy—(repeat after me . . . Eewww! Very good, class)—that the pieces wouldn’t hold and kept collapsing.
No problem, I’d just hang around, uncollapsing them until the gum finally hardened and they stayed put. Of course, that looked like it would be sometime around 3:30 the next morning. But, I figured I could wait.
I’d just grab Ol’ Betsy—my laptop computer— plop down in the hallway, and do some superhero writing. Oh, sure, it might be a little inconvenient, but anything was better than telling the truth and admitting my mistake. Unfortunately, that mistake was no mistake compared to the mistake I was mistakenly making when I mistakenly mistook this mistake as a minor mistake.
Confused?
Of course. But why should your life be any different from mine? (Unless, of course, you actually have one.)
Bottom line? Buckle up, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls . . . ’cause we’re about to hit some major McDoogle turbulence!
Chapter 2
Let the Failures Begin
I parked in the hallway with Ol’ Betsy and started writing, glad to get my mind off the broken vase.
It’s been a superlong day for our stupendously superswell and stunningly striking (not to mention staggeringly stupefying) superhero...
(Insert drum roll here.)
the incredibly intelligent...
the magnificently marvelous...
the outrageously original...
(What, you’re still reading these intros and haven’t skipped ahead?
Don’t you have anything else better to do?) Well, all right...
The one and only...(Here it comes.) . . . the greatest of the great. . . (Are you ready?). . . The best of the best. . . (Are you sure?) . . . Ladies and gentlemen, it’s . . . Burping Boy!
(Insert fanfare music and
wild applause!
No?
Okay, how ’bout polite clapping?
Ah, come on.
All right then, I’ll settle for
quiet breathing and a heartbeat.
Thank you, thank you very much!)
Just hours earlier our middle-aged hero had settled a dispute between Diet Coke and Pepsi One over which created the loudest burps. (Results will be published in the upcoming issue of Belchweek magazine.)
Then there was the Third Annual Baby Burpathon at the baby formula plant. (His baby came in second, but only because the winner cheated by eating a ton of green peppers first.)
And least, but not last, he picked up his older son, who was suspended from school for burping in answer to a teacher’s question.
“But, Dad,” Burping Jr. protested. “He was asking what I had for breakfast.”
“What did you say?”
“BELCHem waffles.”
Now, after a delightful (and somewhat noisy) dinner of radishes and ginger ale (yum), and a belchtime story for Baby Burp, our gaseous good guy is finally ready for bed when, suddenly,
Burpa-burpa!
Burpa-burpa!
(If you guessed that was the Burpa-phone ringing, you guessed correctly.)
Burpa-burpa!
Burpa-burpa!
(If you didn’t, you haven’t been reading enough of these stories.)
“Hello?” our hero answers.
“Burping Boy, is that you?”
“Hello??”
“Burping Boy?”
“Hello?? Who is this??”
“BurpingBoy! You’ve got the phone upside down again!”
“I can’t hear you; I’ve got the phone upside down.”
“Then turn it around!”
“What?”
“Turnit——”
“Hang on just a second, let me turn it around.” In a flash of genius, our hero turns the phone around and hears the President of the United States shouting:
“Burping Boy, we need your help!”
“Someone’s serving flat 7 UP again?”
“It’s worse than that!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, nothing’s worse than flat 7 UP.”
“Yes!” cries the voice. “Giant dust bunnies——crackle-crackle——taking over——hiss-hiss——”
