Funny Boy Versus the Bubble-Brained Barbers from the Big Bang (7 page)

“Forget about the picture,” Dr. Breznitski said, snatching the card away from me and fumbling for something in her desk drawer. “I’d like you to play with these wooden blocks. I’ll watch. Be creative. Just do whatever you want with them.”

I took one of the wooden blocks, put it in my mouth, and ate it.

“What are you, crazy?!” Dr. Breznitski screamed. “Why did you do that?”

“I’m having a snack,” I said, munching the block.

“Do you have any idea how much those blocks cost?”

“You
told
me to do whatever I want with them,” I said.

“I didn’t think you were going to
eat
them!”

“If you didn’t want me to eat them, you shouldn’t have told me to do whatever I wanted with them.”

Dr. Breznitski pulled out a handkerchief and mopped her forehead with it.

“I’m sorry,” she told me, getting up and walking to the door. “They never prepared me for a situation like this in graduate school.”

“No problem,” I said. “Hey, those blocks are good. Can I have another one?”

She rushed out of the office and came back in, this time with Bob Foster. He said hi and took the seat next to mine.

“Mr. Foster,” the doctor explained, “I’ve done some tests with Funny Boy and come to the conclusion that he suffers from a very rare psychological disorder.”

Bob Foster leaned forward in his seat, a concerned look on his face.

“What is it, doctor?”

“Funnyitis,” Dr. Breznitski explained. “The complete inability to take anything seriously.”

“Will you have to amputate my head?” I asked.

“See what I mean?” Dr. Breznitski said.

“Is there a cure, doctor?” asked Bob Foster.

“Sadly, no,” Dr. Breznitski explained. “But we may be able to keep it under control.”

“How?” Bob Foster asked. “With medication?”

“No,” Dr. Breznitski explained. “The only effective treatment for funnyitis is bombarding the child with very serious and unexciting stimuli. Doing this, we hope to neutralize the part of his brain that responds to humor.”

“So what should I do for him, Doctor?”

“Have him watch golf tournaments on television,” Dr. Breznitski suggested. “Also, try the Food Network. Expose him to foreign films. Newbery Award–winning books. Things like that. Whatever you do, make sure you keep him away from anything that is amusing or entertaining in any way.”

“What about when he grows up?” Bob Foster asked the doctor. “Will he be able to lead a normal life?”

“It’s hard to say,” the doctor replied. “Some sufferers of funnyitis become stand-up comics. More likely he will become one of those annoying adults who makes a dumb joke no matter what you say to them. It’s a sad, pathetic life, but at least he isn’t likely to hurt anyone.”

Dr. Breznitski got up from her chair, which I guess was her signal that we should leave. Bob Foster and I got up, too.

“Begin treatment tonight,” the doctor suggested. “I want him to watch two hours of the Weather Channel. If he finds anything funny, call 911.”

I’d had enough. I was sick of people testing me and asking me questions and deciding what was wrong with me.

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” I shouted. “You’re the crazy ones! I’ve got to save the world!”

“Save the world?” Dr. Breznitski laughed. “From what?”

“Those barbers! They’re going to take everybody’s hair and flush it down the drain, cutting off our water supply!”

“Are you referring to Bo, Barry, and Burly?” Dr. Breznitski said. “That’s my favorite show.”

“Hey, mine, too!” Bob Foster added.

“It’s not a show!” I screamed. “It’s for real!”

Dr. Breznitski shook her head sadly and leaned toward Bob Foster. “One of the most obvious signs of funnyitis,” she whispered, “is that the patient finds humor in everything
except
things that other people consider funny. Baffling, isn’t it?”

I ran all the way home.

HAIR TO THE CHIEF

That night, the Weather Channel was showing a two-hour special on the history of the thermometer. Bob Foster forced me to watch it. After fifteen minutes, I thought I was going to jump out of my skin. Punch was asleep on the floor.

“Turn it off,” I begged Bob Foster. “Please, turn it off!”

“The doctor said you had to watch for two hours.”

Fortunately, at that moment, the phone rang. I jumped up to get it before Bob Foster could. I just wanted to get away from the TV.

“Is this Funny Boy?” a woman asked.

“Yes.”

“Please hold a moment for the President of the United States.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said to the lady. “I told you people to stop calling us! How many times do I have to tell you I don’t buy things from people who call over the phone?”

But she was gone. There was a click on the line, and then ...

“Funny Boy! It’s me, the President. I need to see you right away in Washington.”

The President of the United States! The real President of the United States was calling
me.
It was the most exciting moment of my life. My heart was pounding.

“I’m kinda busy,” I told the President. “How about Wednesday?”

“Earth may be destroyed by Wednesday!”

Wow, I thought. If Earth could be destroyed by Wednesday, I wouldn’t have to take Punch to the vet. That’s great because she hates going to the vet. And if Earth could be destroyed by Wednesday, Bob Foster wouldn’t have to pay his bills. There would be no reason to wash his car either, because if Earth was destroyed, there would be no roads to drive on. And besides, the car wouldn’t exist anymore.

This was terrific news! I wouldn’t have to pick up the newspaper from the front lawn in the morning, because if Earth was going to be destroyed, nobody would read the paper because all life would be destroyed and we’d all be dead and—

“I’ll be on the next plane to Washington,” I told the President.

The first thing in the morning, Bob Foster, Punch, and I went to the airport to catch a plane to Washington. Punch was really angry that we had to put her into one of those dog carriers, but rules are rules.

A limousine picked us up at the Washington airport and whisked us to the White House. A woman with gray hair was waiting at the front gate.

“Who’s the old bag?” I asked as the limousine pulled up.

“Show some respect,” Bob Foster replied. “That’s the first lady.”

“She can’t be
that
old!” I exclaimed. “There must have been at least one lady before her.”

“The first lady is the President’s wife!”

Bob Foster, Punch, and I got out of the limo.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Bob Foster said gracefully. The first lady looked me up and down, like she’d never seen a boy wearing a cape and fake nose and glasses before.

“He’s fictional,” Punch informed her.

The first lady stepped back in surprise.

“Your dog ... she said. “She ... talks?”

“I can also sing the theme song to
Sesame Street,
” Punch told her. “Wanna hear it?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The first lady led us to the Oval Office, where the President works. When she opened the door, he was nervously pacing around the room.

“Funny Boy!” he exclaimed as soon as he saw me. “Finally, you’re here! Remember how you defeated that airsick alien from Andromeda who threatened to eat Earth one continent at a time?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I need your help again.”

The President motioned us to sit. Then he sat behind his desk, put his head in his hands, and started sobbing.

“What’s the matter, Mr. President?” Bob Foster asked.

“I don’t want to lose my hair!” the President whimpered.

“Your hair?” we all asked.

“I’ve always had good hair,” the President exclaimed. “That’s how I got elected in the first place.”

“I thought you got elected because the American people carefully evaluated the issues and decided they agreed with your policies,” I said. “They felt you were the best man to lead the country.”

“No, no, no!” he sobbed. “That had nothing to do with it. It was just my great hair!”

“Are you suggesting that those kooky barbers on TV are for
real
?” Bob Foster asked.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” I said. “They’re going to take our hair, and then they’re going to take over.”

The President began wailing, big tears sliding down his cheeks.

“Get a grip on yourself, sir,” I told him. “It’s just hair.”

“Just hair?” the President said, pulling himself together. “Young man, do you have any idea how important hair is?”

“I guess not.”

“Do you know why Columbus sailed to America?”

“He wanted to reach the New World?” I guessed.

“No,” the President explained. “He couldn’t get a good haircut in Spain.”

“What about the Barber of Seville?” I asked, but the President ignored me.

“Do you know what causes high tide and low tide?” he asked.

“The moon, I think.”

“No,” the President replied. “That’s just what we
tell
everybody. Actually, it’s hair. And do you know what makes the stock market go up and down?”