Funny Boy Meets the Dumbbell Dentist from Deimos (with Dangerous Dental Decay) by Dan Gutman Page B
Authors: Dan Gutman
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so you’ll want to take a bath as soon as it’s over.
“It’s not an earthquake, you dope,” Punch told me. “That’s your stomach rumbling.”
Oh yeah. She was right. I was just hungry. So I went and got some Doritos.
(THIS IS CALLED FORESHADOWING, BY THE WAY. LATER IN THE STORY, FUNNY BOY IS GOING TO FEEL A RUMBLING AGAIN, BUT IT’S GOING TO BE REAL RUMBLING, BECAUSE THE EARTH WILL BE INVADED BY SOME INTERGALACTIC NUTJOBS! ONLY REALLY HIGH-QUALITY LITERATURE HAS STUFF LIKE FORESHADOWING.)
Bob Foster wasn’t home. He had to work over the weekend, inspecting underwear at the factory. Just so you know, Bob inspects underwear as it comes off the assembly line, not underwear that people are wearing. If you try to inspect underwear that people are wearing, they scream and you get thrown in jail.
When Bob inspects underwear, he puts a little slip of paper inside that says INSPECTED BY BOB. So if you ever buy underwear and there’s a slip of paper inside that says INSPECTED BY BOB, that means that Bob inspected it. Inspecting underwear is a tough job, but it’s a lot easier than cutting out those leg holes.
Anyway, Punch said she wanted to go for a walk. Man, she has to go for a walk all the time ! I would think that if a dog was smart enough to talk, it should be smart enough to use a toilet like the rest of us.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll take you out for a walk. Maybe we can catch some bad guys while we’re on the street.”
So after I ate a few more Doritos and watched a cat play Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, I put on my Funny Boy costume and we headed for the great outdoors.
You would think that bad guys would be all over the streets, wouldn’t you? I mean, on TV the streets are filled with robberies, murders, fires, kidnappings, carjackings, and people shooting guns and committing crimes all the time. But when we got out on the street, it was amazingly quiet and peaceful. The only person I saw was some lady pushing a suspicious-looking frilly basket with wheels.
“Halt!” I shouted to the lady.
“Good morning,” she replied. “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
“The weather doesn’t interest me,” I said. “I am Funny Boy, defender of all that is good in the universe! And you’re under arrest!”
“What did I do?” she asked, acting all innocent.
“I have reason to believe you have illegal contraband in that rolly basket,” I said. “Come with me. You have the right to remain silent.”
“But it’s just my baby,” she said, picking it up. “See?”
“Put that thing down!” I shouted. “Are you trying to get us all killed? Run, Punch! Run for your life! It’s a baby bomb!”
Have you heard about baby bombs? They’re bombs made in the shape of babies. Nobody suspects a thing, because babies are so cute. But when you pull the pacifier out of the mouth and you throw the baby bomb at your target, it explodes into a million pieces.
BOOM! A well-made baby bomb can reduce a small building to rubble in seconds.
“It’s not a baby bomb,” she said. “It’s my son, Benjy.”
“Oh, sure it is,” I told her. “Let me see that baby’s driver’s license.”
“He’s a baby !” she replied. “He doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
“Well, I can see that you’re not going to come quietly,” I said, “so I need to question you. Tell me, how do you communicate with a fish?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.
“Just answer the question,” I said. “How do you communicate with a fish?”
“Uh . . . you . . . drop it a line?” she guessed.
“Okay, you got lucky on that one,” I said. “Well, how about this? Why don’t oysters give any of their money to charity?”
“Uh, because they don’t have any money?” she guessed.
“No!” I informed her. “Oysters don’t give any of their money to charity because they’re shellfish. Get it? Shellfish? Selfish?”
“That was worse than the first one,” said the
“It’s not an earthquake, you dope,” Punch told me. “That’s your stomach rumbling.”
Oh yeah. She was right. I was just hungry. So I went and got some Doritos.
(THIS IS CALLED FORESHADOWING, BY THE WAY. LATER IN THE STORY, FUNNY BOY IS GOING TO FEEL A RUMBLING AGAIN, BUT IT’S GOING TO BE REAL RUMBLING, BECAUSE THE EARTH WILL BE INVADED BY SOME INTERGALACTIC NUTJOBS! ONLY REALLY HIGH-QUALITY LITERATURE HAS STUFF LIKE FORESHADOWING.)
Bob Foster wasn’t home. He had to work over the weekend, inspecting underwear at the factory. Just so you know, Bob inspects underwear as it comes off the assembly line, not underwear that people are wearing. If you try to inspect underwear that people are wearing, they scream and you get thrown in jail.
When Bob inspects underwear, he puts a little slip of paper inside that says INSPECTED BY BOB. So if you ever buy underwear and there’s a slip of paper inside that says INSPECTED BY BOB, that means that Bob inspected it. Inspecting underwear is a tough job, but it’s a lot easier than cutting out those leg holes.
Anyway, Punch said she wanted to go for a walk. Man, she has to go for a walk all the time ! I would think that if a dog was smart enough to talk, it should be smart enough to use a toilet like the rest of us.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll take you out for a walk. Maybe we can catch some bad guys while we’re on the street.”
So after I ate a few more Doritos and watched a cat play Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, I put on my Funny Boy costume and we headed for the great outdoors.
You would think that bad guys would be all over the streets, wouldn’t you? I mean, on TV the streets are filled with robberies, murders, fires, kidnappings, carjackings, and people shooting guns and committing crimes all the time. But when we got out on the street, it was amazingly quiet and peaceful. The only person I saw was some lady pushing a suspicious-looking frilly basket with wheels.
“Halt!” I shouted to the lady.
“Good morning,” she replied. “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
“The weather doesn’t interest me,” I said. “I am Funny Boy, defender of all that is good in the universe! And you’re under arrest!”
“What did I do?” she asked, acting all innocent.
“I have reason to believe you have illegal contraband in that rolly basket,” I said. “Come with me. You have the right to remain silent.”
“But it’s just my baby,” she said, picking it up. “See?”
“Put that thing down!” I shouted. “Are you trying to get us all killed? Run, Punch! Run for your life! It’s a baby bomb!”
Have you heard about baby bombs? They’re bombs made in the shape of babies. Nobody suspects a thing, because babies are so cute. But when you pull the pacifier out of the mouth and you throw the baby bomb at your target, it explodes into a million pieces.
BOOM! A well-made baby bomb can reduce a small building to rubble in seconds.
“It’s not a baby bomb,” she said. “It’s my son, Benjy.”
“Oh, sure it is,” I told her. “Let me see that baby’s driver’s license.”
“He’s a baby !” she replied. “He doesn’t have a driver’s license.”
“Well, I can see that you’re not going to come quietly,” I said, “so I need to question you. Tell me, how do you communicate with a fish?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked.
“Just answer the question,” I said. “How do you communicate with a fish?”
“Uh . . . you . . . drop it a line?” she guessed.
“Okay, you got lucky on that one,” I said. “Well, how about this? Why don’t oysters give any of their money to charity?”
“Uh, because they don’t have any money?” she guessed.
“No!” I informed her. “Oysters don’t give any of their money to charity because they’re shellfish. Get it? Shellfish? Selfish?”
“That was worse than the first one,” said the
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