Funny Kid for President Read online

  Dedication

  For Beck, Bonnie, & Boston.

  No one can make me smile

  the way you three can.

  x

  Contents

  Dedication

  1: This First Chapter Stinks!

  2: This Chapter Is Going to Get Slimy!

  3: If Darth Vader and Voldemort Had a Daughter . . .

  4: Sometimes the Toilet Is the Best Place for a Cuddle!

  5: Sniggles, Unboxed!

  6: The Word “Genius” Gets Thrown Around a Little Too Easily These Days . . .

  7: A List of People Whose Butts I Need to Kick

  8: Slogans Are so Cheesy I Camembert It

  9: This Chapter Is as Horrifying as a Horrible Horror Movie

  10: Hugo’s Going to Be as Dead as a _______! (Insert Your Own Simile – I’m Busy!!!)

  11: Whatever You Do, Don’t Look at the Duck!

  12: Do I Look like an Idiot to You?

  13: Why Do They Call It a Booby Trap?

  14: Things Are Going from Quack to Worse . . .

  15: I’m Having an Epifunny!

  16: Calling All Funny Kids!

  17: Mr. Armstrong Should Leave “Being Funny” to the Experts

  18: In This Chapter, a Tummy Creates a Natural Disaster!

  19: And You Thought Dodging Flying Spew Was Bad!

  20: Look Out! (There’s an Apple Coming at the Bottom of This Page!)

  21: If You Thought He Hated Me Before . . .

  22: Anyone Need a Pep Talk?

  23: See? Sports Are Bad for Your Health

  24: The Greatest Love Story Ever . . . Shut Up!

  25: Time for a Little Spider-Man Action!

  26: Sometimes You Need to Ask for Help

  27: This Is It . . .

  28: This Chapter’s Pretty Important. I Wouldn’t Skip It If I Were You

  29: She Never Goes Away!

  Back Ad

  Thank You!

  About the Author

  Books by Matt Stanton

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Someone has pooped in the storeroom.

  Actually pooped. In the middle of the floor. It’s lying there in the dark, like a lonely, sleeping baby mole.

  That’s my teacher, Mr. Armstrong. He’s standing in the doorway, glaring down at the little poop like he’s going to vaporize it with just the power of his eyes.

  Mr. Armstrong doesn’t look like a normal teacher. He looks like a hairless gorilla who eats puppies for breakfast. Most teachers look a little, you know . . . wimpy. Mr. Armstrong looks like he bends iron bars just to relax.

  That might sound cool to you. It’s not.

  Staring at the poop on the floor, Mr. Armstrong is turning the color of a stressed strawberry. Veins pulse in his neck like slugs trying to get away from his face. Normally this means he’s about to yell, “TWENTY LAPS!,” which means we all have to run around the classroom while he puts “hurdles” in front of us. Take it from someone who’s been there, it hurts to crash into a printer and become a human paper jam.

  Mr. Armstrong is a volcano that’s about to blow. I am seriously considering hiding under my desk. Even on a good day, he explodes at the littlest things – someone forgets their homework (guilty) or forgets their schoolbag (guilty) or forgets their pants (don’t judge me!).

  But this is a whole new level. I’ve never seen a head turn red like that. Then again, I’ve never seen a poop in the storeroom before either.

  I’m Max, by the way.

  I go to Redhill Middle School, and I’m in Mr. Armstrong’s class.

  I didn’t do the poop.

  Mr. Armstrong turns and looks at each of us. For someone with such a big head he has tiny nostrils. They’re flaring in and out as he huffs around the room like a gorilla with gas.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I can tell who is responsible for that . . . atrocity . . . just by looking into each of your teeny little eyes,” Mr. Armstrong says.

  He looks at Emily and Layla, Josh and Ryan. He doesn’t seem to think Kevin did it, although I’m not so sure.

  Kevin does eat a lot of chili.

  Mr. Armstrong stops in front of me.

  This is probably a good time to tell you that Mr. Armstrong doesn’t like me very much. I think it’s because I’m not very good at sports, and to Mr. Armstrong that means there’s not much point to me being alive.

  “You did the . . . in there, the thing in the storeroom. You did that.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I say. I think it’s best to remain calm. After all, I did not do the poop.

  “Yes, you did, Max.” He puts his hands on his hips and seems to squeeze in his waist. I like to imagine that if he squeezes a bit harder, his head will explode off his shoulders like a popped pimple.

  “Really. I didn’t do it, Mr. Armstrong.” He doesn’t seem convinced so I decide to give him a bit more information. “I haven’t done a poop since Monday.”

  And suddenly, the whole class is looking at me in disgust. Too much information?

  “That’s gross, Max,” says the teacher, and he hands me a box of tissues.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “Go get rid of it.”

  (So much for remaining calm.)

  “Do it now, Max. Or THIRTY LAPS.”

  I can’t believe it. This is so disgusting. I take the tissue box and drag myself over to the storeroom door.

  There’s the poop, sitting on the floor all innocent-looking, just waiting for me. I look at the poop. I look at the tissues. I look back at the poop.

  “What am I supposed to put it in?”

  Mr. Armstrong smirks. “I guess you’d better go get your lunch box.”

  He thinks he’s soooo funny.

  I’m walking home from the bus stop with Hugo. I’m Hugo’s best friend.

  Hugo is a bit chubby and a bit tall and a bit blind and a bit dumb. I like having him around, and I’m even happy to be his best friend, but I’ve told him that my best friend position is currently vacant. I’m just waiting for the right person to apply. In the meantime, Hugo is free to fill the role on a temporary basis. He seems happy enough with this.

  “Hey, Max,” Hugo says.

  I’m still fuming about today’s poop incident and trying to think of ways to tie Mr. Armstrong to a rocket launcher and shoot him into outer space. Do I know anyone with a rocket launcher I can borrow?

  “Max, we’re being followed,” Hugo whispers.

  Maybe Mr. Armstrong could be the first person to go to Mars . . . against his will.

  I freeze.

  I turn around and see that Hugo is right. A few paces back a duck is standing on the footpath, looking at me.

  “That’s the same duck, isn’t it, Max? Your duck?”

  I nod. That’s the same duck all right.

  Sorry, sorry. I just realized you have no idea what I’m talking about. Let me explain.

  Most people think all ducks are the same. People think they’re harmless little feathered friends. They think they’re all adorable and sweet– WRONG!

  Here are a few things you need to know about my little quacker:

  “It must have escaped from my backyard. I’ve never seen it out in the street before,” I say.

  “I think it was waiting for you at the corner,” Hugo says.

  This is not good.

  We look at each other. We look at the duck. We look back at each other.

  We make it inside my front door a step ahead of the duck.

  The fact that the duck has escaped the backyard and is now stalking me is a rather alarming problem, but it’s a problem for another time. Right now we need to work out how to get super-mass
ively-red-face-embarrassing revenge on Mr. Armstrong. Hugo and I start a list:

  “We could put a giant spring under his chair,” I say. “Then when he sits down at his desk, he’ll go shooting straight up and get his head stuck in the ceiling and firefighters will have to come and pull him down, but his head will rip off when they get him free and he’ll never be able to teach us again, because he won’t have a head.”

  Hugo looks blankly at me. Brainstorming with Hugo can be a bit one-sided.

  In the end, I come up with the best idea ever.

  My dad has a worm farm around the side of the house. With real worms in it. Hugo and I spend the rest of the afternoon fishing worms out of the tank and filling a plastic container with them.

  Tomorrow, Mr. Armstrong is going to find he has a desk drawer full to the brim with hundreds of juicy, wriggly worms.

  At that moment, I know I am a genius.

  Before we go any further, there’s someone else I need to tell you about. A truly evil villain. More scary than the duck and Mr. Armstrong combined.

  Her name is Abby Purcell.

  Abby Purcell ruins everything.

  Right now Hugo and I are sitting on the bus, going over our plan. I’m whispering because it’s a top secret plan. I’ve seen enough movies that I know that if we were real secret agents, we’d be whispering. Or speaking in code, but I don’t know any codes so whispering will have to do.

  The last thing we need is Abby Purcell interrupting our secret-agent business.

  Which is, of course, exactly what happens.

  “What are you whispering about?” she asks.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” says Hugo.

  “Yes . . . I would. That’s why I asked,” Abby says. “Idiots.”

  “We can’t tell you,” I say. “It’s top secret.”

  Abby raises only one eyebrow. All evil villains have one magical eyebrow.

  “That. Wasn’t. My. Poop.”

  This is exactly why Mr. Armstrong needs a drawer full of worms. Doesn’t he understand how hard it is to be in middle school, let alone if you’re known for all eternity as Poop-Boy?

  “So, I’m right?” Abby says with a crooked smile.

  “It. Wasn’t. My. Poop,” I repeat.

  “Sure, sure. So what are you going to do to Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Max has a box full of worms to put in his desk. Look!” Hugo says, pulling open the top of my backpack before I can stop him. There is the box of beautiful slimy worms for Abby to see.

  “Hugo!”

  “Wow. You’ve actually put some effort into this,” Abby says, looking impressed.

  “Isn’t it awesome?” Hugo says, beside himself with excitement. “When he puts his hand in his drawer to get a pencil, he’s going to stick it right in there. See, feel this –”

  He reaches across to my backpack again.

  “Hugo – no!” I yell, and slap his hand away like he’s trying to steal my cheese balls. “Now listen, both of you. You can’t tell anyone about this, or it won’t work. Understand?”

  Abby squints. “What are you going to give me?” she asks.

  “Huh?”

  “What are you going to give me so that I don’t tell Mr. Armstrong?” Abby repeats, folding her arms.

  Hugo farts a bit. “You wouldn’t!”

  Abby Purcell ruins EVERYTHING.

  It takes us the whole walk from the bus to the classroom to come up with something.

  Neither Hugo nor I like having to negotiate with the enemy, but when they blackmail you there’s not much choice.

  We think of things we can give Abby to buy her silence:

  But by the time the bell rings, I have come up with something better.

  “Okay, what are you offering?” Abby asks, outside the classroom door.

  I take a deep breath. “If you don’t tell Mr. Armstrong my plan, then Hugo will be your personal slave for a whole week.”

  Oops. I forgot to tell Hugo the deal.

  “Don’t worry, Hugo,” I whisper. “Trust me.”

  He looks unsure. Abby smiles.

  “That sounds fun,” she says. “He will need to carry my bag, wait outside the girls’ toilets for me to do my hair, hold my tissues for me when I blow my nose . . .”

  “All that and more,” I say.

  “Maaaaxxx . . .” Hugo is tapping my arm. I shrug him off.

  “But unfortunately I can’t take the deal,” Abby says.

  “Why not?”

  “Max-Max-Max-Max,” Hugo keeps nagging. He always does this.

  Abby smiles again. “Because I already told Mr. Armstrong your plan.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Max! He’s coming!”

  Storming down the corridor toward us like a bull with a bee sting on its butt is Mr. Armstrong himself. His bald head is tomato red again, his little nostrils are flaring, and his eyes are bulging out and glaring at me!

  I turn to Abby in horror. She’s doing that lift-one-eyebrow thing like she’s going to enjoy watching whatever happens next.

  “Why would you do that?” Hugo asks.

  She starts to tell us something about truth, justice, and how she wants to see us get squashed like tiny bugs. But I interrupt her speech to yell: “RUN, Hugo!”

  Hugo and I are cuddling each other on the toilet.

  Well, really I’m cuddling him. He’s more just crying in fear. Hugo cries all the time. He once cried when he realized that chocolate milk did not actually come from brown cows, and that meant that his quest for the mysterious pink cow of strawberry milk fame was a lost cause.

  As for why we’re on the toilet, we’re hiding from Mr. Armstrong of course.

  Slowly we hear the bathroom door creak open. Two heavy footsteps land on the tiles. Hugo looks up at me as if to ask, “When we die, can we keep hanging out in heaven?”

  “I know you’re in here, Max,” the teacher’s voice booms.

  I look back at Hugo. He’s so trusting.

  “I have a hostage!” I call out.

  Hugo’s eyes go wide.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “He’s after me.”

  Hugo starts crying again. I can hear Mr. Armstrong pacing outside the toilet cubicle. Will he break the door down?

  “Let him go, Max!”

  I’m not sure I’ve quite thought this through. I try this:

  “MAX!”

  Bang-bang-bang. He’s pounding on the door now. I can see the metal hinges straining. Is that a crack in the door?

  “MAX!”

  Uh-oh.

  Bang-bang-bang! That door is going to smash! Suddenly:

  Hugo stops crying. Who is that?

  “Oh . . . ah . . . hello, Mrs. Sniggles,” says Mr. Armstrong.

  Mrs. Sniggles is the school principal. She’s here to save us!

  “Why are you scaring the children again, Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Mrs. Sniggles, these children are going to end up in prison if I don’t –”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Armstrong,” says the principal. “All of you, in my office in two minutes. We’re going to discuss this in a civilized fashion. Over a cup of tea.”

  Mrs. Sniggles only started as the principal of Redhill Middle School this year, and this might sound hard to believe, but I’ve never actually seen her before. Only a few people at Redhill ever have. I only know who she is from the sound of her voice because she addresses the school over the speakers every morning.

  There have been many rumors. Some have said that she actually has no body – she’s just a granny head connected to a bunch of wires and a big computer. Cyborg-Sniggles never leaves her science-lab office because she can’t – she has to be plugged into a power source at all times. She runs the school during the day, and after the bell rings she continues work on building her cyborg army to take over the world.

  Another theory is that she’s actually a cat. Cat-Sniggles is a fat feline criminal mastermind who killed the old principal and seized control of the school without anyone e
ver realizing she’s got four legs and a tail. Ricardo in the year above us once saw a whole carton of milk being delivered to her office. He says her signature looks like a paw print. That just about proves this theory, we figure.

  What everyone seems pretty certain about is that as harmless and granny-like as Mrs. Sniggles sounds over the speakers every day, she absolutely has to be a supervillain who is intent on taking over the universe. Either that, or an alien. You decide.

  Hugo, Mr. Armstrong, and I approach her office, and the door swings open as if by magic.

  “Mr. Armstrong, Max – come in. Hugo, you can go,” says the voice from inside. I turn around and look at my friend. He hugs me and bursts into tears again as though he doesn’t want to leave me, but then he runs out of there as fast as his legs will carry him. Traitor.

  I follow Mr. Armstrong into the principal’s lair.

  Only it turns out, it’s less of a lair and more of a zoo. The principal’s office is jam-packed full of stuffed animals! There are pandas on the bookshelves and lions on the desk. There are birds on the lampshade and bugs in a box. There’s a couch with leopard print on it and a pillow with puppies. There’s a painting of the Central Park Zoo in New York City on the wall, a rug that looks like a grizzly bear on the floor, and little tiny figurines of whales on the coffee table.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” says Mrs. Sniggles, only I can’t see her anywhere. Is she a ghost? That could explain a lot.

  Mr. Armstrong and I sit down on the couch, a stuffed giraffe between us, and that’s when the tiniest person I have ever seen steps out from behind the desk in the corner and settles herself into a leopard-print armchair. She has gray curly hair, big glasses, and a walking stick. She’s wearing a safari suit and hat, and she looks like she’s at least a thousand years old.

  “Mrs. Sniggles, it’s like this. I found out that this little creep here was planning a prank –”