Funny Boy Takes on the Chit-Chatting Cheeses from Chattanooga (8 page)

“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.”

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. Tupper Camembert had
never
liked me. I had been a fool.