Funny Boy Meets the Dumbbell Dentist from Deimos (with Dangerous Dental Decay)
Read Funny Boy Meets the Dumbbell Dentist from Deimos (with Dangerous Dental Decay) Online
Authors: Dan Gutman
Dedicated to Joseph C. Gayetty,
the inventor of toilet paper.
Look it up if you don’t believe me.
WARNING: IF YOU READ PAGE ONE OF THIS BOOK, YOUR I.Q. WILL DROP ONE POINT. IF YOU READ THE WHOLE BOOK, YOUR I.Q. WILL DROP TO ZERO.
Ah, hahahahahahahahaha!
Prepare yourself, pathetic Earth creatures. For it is I, Funny Boy, the most amusing alien life form in the universe, who has come to save your butts once again. While you sit there on your bloated behinds playing your video games and eating your Frosted Mini-Wheats (which are so much better than both Mini-Wheats that are unfrosted and Frosted Maxi-Wheats), nogoodniks from outer space have been coming to destroy your sad and useless planet. And the only one willing to lift a finger to stop them has been
me
.
But do I get any thanks for saving your world? No. You don’t call. You don’t write. You don’t text. You don’t tweet.
You don’t care.
First, if you recall, came the airsick alien from Andromeda. Then there were those bubble-brained barbers from the Big Bang. After that came a bunch of chitchatting cheeses from Chattanooga. I defeated them all with my incredible arsenal of jokes, puns, wisecracks, toilet humor, and . . . uh . . . umm . . . comic timing.
That’s when it occurred to me . . . A . . . B . . . C . . . yes! The aliens were attacking in alphabetical order! Somewhere, out in the expanding confusion of the universe, alien sleazeballs and dirtbags (or is that sleazebags and dirtballs?) were actually waiting patiently
in line
to attack the Earth!
They may have been mass murderers, but at least they were polite!
Who would be next, I asked myself? They would have to start with the letter D, obviously. The Dominating Doofuses from Denmark? The Devilish Doormen from Delta 8? The Daydreaming Daytona Drivers from DeFuture?
Read on and find out.
Or don’t. You can just read this page over and over again if you want to. It’s a free country. Or you can go see if there’s anything good on TV. (As if!) There are lots of things you could be doing right now that have to be better than reading
this
junk.
But to be honest, you might as well go on reading the book at this point, because we’re not giving you your money back.
CHAPTER 1NOTE TO READER: If you’re looking for a well-written, heartwarming, educational story with a valuable life lesson or a positive message that will help you grow as a person and impress your parents and teachers, guess what? You picked the wrong book! Ha-ha-ha-ha!
If there’s anything in this book that you find personally offensive or in poor taste, consult your doctor immediately and ask about getting a sense of humor transplant.
The story you are about to read has been carefully screened by the Parents Advisory Board to be certain it has no inappropriate language, such as dork, booger, burping, lice, maggots, poop, pee, pus, snot, stupid, vomit, moron, armpit, or fart. If you see any words like those, close your eyes immediately before your brain turns to guacamole. Then alert the authorities, so all copies of this book—digital and otherwise—can be destroyed.
THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE BOOK. THAT’S WHY IT’S NUMBER 1. IT PROBABLY THINKS IT’S THE BEST CHAPTER, AND GOES AROUND TELLING ALL THE OTHER CHAPTERS HOW GOOD IT IS. ARROGANT JERK!
Perhaps I should introduce myself.
“Self, I would like you to meet Funny Boy.”
Oh, wait. Sorry! Maybe instead of introducing myself to myself (which serves no purpose at all) I should introduce myself to
you
. That would make much more sense.
I, Funny Boy, was born on the planet Crouton, which is about the size of Uranus. The planet, that is. Crouton is shaped like a loaf of bread. In fact, my home planet is made of bread, and is quite tasty when toasted, with a little butter and strawberry jam. Yum!
Crouton is 160,000 million light years away in the Magellanic Cloud Galaxy. How far is that? It’s so far away that we don’t even have a McDonald’s on the whole planet. That’s far!
Thank God for Taco Bell!
In case you’re wondering (or even if you’re not) I am nine years old, or 3,287 in Croutonian years. You see, Crouton makes one revolution around the sun every day. My planet spins so fast, the centrifugal force makes it almost impossible to keep anything on a table, which always makes mealtime an adventure. Every time you put a plate on the table, it goes flying off and hits the ceiling. So does the table, for that matter. But we solved that problem. We eat on the ceiling.
But I digress, whatever that means.
When I was a little boy, I made the tragic mistake of shooting a spitball at my brother Bronk. Instead of grounding me, my parents did the opposite—they put me in a rocket ship and sent me to Earth. I considered this a bit of an overreaction, but what do I know about parenting skills?
Fortunately, my parents put my dog Punchline in the rocket with me and aimed it toward the Milky Way, even though I personally prefer Snickers. When Punch and I entered the Earth’s atmosphere, we were amazed to discover that Punch could not only talk, but could also sing all the songs from the classic Broadway show
West Side Story
.
Even more remarkable, my sense of humor, which was already highly developed on Crouton, had become enhanced to the point that it was now a superpower. On Earth, I could effortlessly come up with an endless series of jokes, puns, riddles and one-liners. Like this one . . .