Funny Kid #3

  Dedication

  To my good buddies

  Max and Louella.

  I hope this makes you laugh!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: Come on. Humor Me. I Know, I Know. You Thought That Was My Job.

  2: I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! (No Rush Though.)

  3: I’m Not Nervous. I’m Not Nervous. I’m Not Nervous.

  4: Have You Ever Noticed That the Word “hospitality” Has the Word “hospital” in It? Weird.

  5: What Was That?

  6: Hang on a Second!

  7: Operation: Smuggle Duck!

  8: Foolproof Bus Strategy.

  9: Tyson’s Giving Me Travel Sickness.

  10: A Toilet Meeting.

  11: Watch and Learn . . .

  12: Camping Is Going to be Intense. (or Should I Say, in Tents!)

  13: Scary Stories!

  14: There Should Be a Law Against This.

  15: Wakey, Wakey!

  16: I Can Canoe, Can You?

  17: You Are Not Going to Believe This.

  18: I Don’t Want to Talk About It.

  19: Water Beds. That’s All I’m Saying.

  20: Is It Over?

  21: Oh, What Are They Complaining About Now?

  22: Into the Woods . . .

  23: It Can’t Be . . .

  24: This Chapter Isn’t Really Me at My Best. You Can Skip It if You Like.

  25: Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!

  26: Revenge Is a Dish Best Served . . . After You Microwave It.

  27: Video Evidence Is the Worst!

  About the Author

  Books by Matt Stanton

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  This is the super-weirdest way to start a book ever.

  Here’s what we’re going to do. If you’re a girl – yes, you, hello! – please just skip to page fifteen.

  Oh, don’t look at me like that. I just need to say some things privately to the boys that’ll probably make you mad, so I’m being . . . thoughtful!

  As I said, it’s a very weird way to start a book, but don’t worry. You’re not being left out. After this, there’s a section just for girls that the boys aren’t allowed to read either.

  I can trust you to do this, can’t I? You’re not going to tell me that you’ll skip the next bit but then actually read it? Because if you read it, you’ll probably be mad at me, and then if you’re mad at me, I’m going to know you read it. Then I’ll be mad at you because you promised you wouldn’t, but you read it anyway. So we’ll both be mad at each other and we won’t have even started the book yet! No one wants that!

  * * *

  FOR BOYS ONLY!

  Okay, boys. First, have a quick look around and check there aren’t any girls reading this. Did you check? You’re sure? Not your sister? Not your mom? Even if you have a pet cat, and that cat’s a girl, then she shouldn’t be reading this section either. Okay? Good.

  We have to talk about something quickly, before the girls come back.

  Girls are gross. Like, really gross. For a start, they smell funny, right? Like strawberry lollipops or something. They’ll say it’s their lip balm, which in itself is disgusting. Have you ever tried that stuff? It’s like getting grease out of a tube and smearing it on your lips and then never wiping it off! They just walk around with slimy lips like ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IS WRONG WITH THAT!

  But it’s not just the lip balm. It’s the giggling. I mean, do you see us boys giggling like that? They tilt their heads toward each other as though their brains are talking, and they look over at us and giggle. It’s not like we’ve said anything particularly funny either. We haven’t done some awesome trick or told this great joke. It’s just because . . . well, actually, I have no idea why!

  Anyway, I’ve gotten distracted. The reason I wanted to talk to you privately for a minute is because I have a feeling this book may turn into a . . . oh, I can’t even say it. I’m a bit worried that this book is going to be . . . well . . . a love story.

  I know! I’m SO SORRY! It’s disgusting.

  It’s not meant to be a love story, and maybe it won’t turn into one, but I have this horrible feeling . . . that it might. You know, like one of those movies your mom likes that she makes you watch while she says things like, “But it’s so sweet!” and “It’s just the most beautiful film.” And all you want to say is, “I wanted the one with all the lasers . . . and monsters . . . and monsters with lasers . . . who explode.”

  So, I just wanted to start the book by saying I’m really sorry and I hope it doesn’t turn out awful or sweet or anything.

  Okay, thanks, boys, and bye.

  * * *

  All right, are we all back? Good. Thank you, girls, for not reading that last section. It’s your turn now.

  Hey, boys. Do you mind just standing over there for a minute? Yeah, yeah, I know I’m a boy too, but I just need to talk to the girls for a second (mostly to make sure they weren’t listening to our private conversation).

  You had your turn, all right? Can we just be cool about this? Thanks. I’ll buy you all candy.

  * * *

  FOR GIRLS ONLY!

  Okay. Hello, my sisters!

  What? Why are you looking at me like that? Is it because I made you skip the last section? Did you feel left out? I know, I know, I’m sorry . . .

  No? That’s not the reason you’re mad? It’s the candy! I just told all the boys I’d buy them candy and I didn’t feed you anything. I am SO SORRY! I can buy you candy too. Or chocolate. Do you want chocolate instead? Don’t say flowers. I don’t do flowers. I hate flowers.

  Still mad?

  Okay, this is a fun guessing game, isn’t it?

  NOT.

  You’re not mad because you felt left out and it’s not because of the candy. Hang on . . .

  You didn’t . . . did you?

  I can’t believe you did that! What did I tell you? I said I needed to talk to them privately! Don’t you even understand what privately means?

  So, now I have to explain why I said what I said. Look, as you read this book, it could turn into a love story, and if it does, that will be embarrassing for me. Why? Because I’m an eleven-year-old boy with a reputation to protect. School can be a mean place sometimes, right?

  I thought if I told the boys the whole “girls are gross” thing, then it might help me out, because I have no idea what way this story will go. But I didn’t mean it! I don’t think girls are gross. I even love lip balm! Who wouldn’t want their lips to taste like strawberry lollipops? I mean, you and I both know boys are way grosser than girls. Boys pick their noses. Boys fart. Boys fart and pick their noses at the same time. I should know! I am one!

  And we’re not really annoyed about the giggling. We just feel . . . left out.

  You’re not going to forgive me, are you?

  Okay.

  Well, look, I’m sorry.

  This was a terrible idea.

  Let’s bring back the boys and get on with it.

  And you can have candy too.

  . . . Yes, and chocolate.

  . . . And yes, sure. Sure. I can buy you movie tickets as well. And flowers . . .

  NO! Not flowers!

  * * *

  Right, we’re all together again, so we can get started.

  Why are you boys looking at me like that? Oh, you read the girls’ bit too, didn’t you?

  Well, this whole thing is a disaster, isn’t it?

  Look, the point I was trying to make is that boys think girls are gross and girls think boys are gross. I don’t know why we think that. I don’t know where it comes from. Maybe they taught it to us in kindergarten? I don’t r
emember. And each year it gets a little worse. As we got older, us boys refused to invite the girls to our birthday parties and vice versa. Now that we’re in middle school, we play in different parts of the playground, we eat our lunch separately, and we DO NOT sit next to each other on the bus.

  Who keeps making all these rules?

  Boys on one side. Girls on the other.

  Then, at some point, something happens. A kid from one side falls in love with a kid from the other side.

  This ABSOLUTELY DOES NOT HAPPEN to me, by the way.

  But it happens to some people, or so I’ve heard, and that’s when everyone begins to lose their minds.

  A boy might start to think he’d like to hang out with one of the girls. That’s a hard thing to do, though, because someone decided that he is supposed to be standing over here and she’s supposed to be standing over there. They don’t think they can talk to anyone about it, because otherwise their friends might think they’re trying to switch teams. But they’re not trying to switch teams! They just want to hang out with someone on the other team for a bit!

  IS THAT SUCH A BAD THING?

  Anyway, my point is I don’t know what happens next. But something must happen, because somehow, at some stage, boyfriends and girlfriends happen.

  Which is, of course, disgusting!

  As we’ve established, someone made these silly rules where girls are supposed to say that boys are gross and boys are supposed to say that girls are gross.

  And I’m a boy, so all girls are definitely gross.

  “Hey! Is that Max Walburt, the funny kid?”

  It’s Sunday morning and I’m walking down the main street of Redhill. The guy calling out from across the road is from our local fresh food market, Pick-A-Pickle.

  If you’re wondering why they call me the funny kid, this is all you need to know: I’m eleven years old, a stand-up comedian, and probably one of the most famous people in the whole town of Redhill after I starred in the talent quest and became a superstar.

  I’m still getting used to this celebrity life. With all the autographs, the selfies, the strangers telling me they have a tattoo of my face on their bottom, it can be quite overwhelming!

  I won’t lie though. It’s pretty fun being a celebrity. You just need to have boundaries to protect your privacy. For example, I insist on a maximum of twenty selfies per day . . . per person. All right, if you insist. You can have twenty-one.

  I wave back at Mr. Pick-A-Pickle. I should probably know his actual name, but he’s not famous, so there’s not much point bothering to learn it.

  I’m walking with Duck (yes, I have a pet duck) and Hugo (yes, I have a pet friend). Hugo isn’t really paying attention. He’s busy scribbling in a notebook.

  Oh, did I forget to mention? Hugo is writing my biography. All famous people write their life story (or, like me, get someone else to write it for them). You might think I’m too young to publish my life story, but you’re wrong. I’m eleven!

  “What have you got so far?” I ask.

  “Um . . . I’m not sure if I should read it to you as we go along, Max. If it’s going to be a true, hard-hitting account, then I can’t have you looking over my shoulder. What if I need to write something you don’t like? Know what I mean?”

  “Why would you need to write something I don’t like? What’s not to like?”

  “I don’t know, Max. Maybe you do something embarrassing, but it’s an important part of your journey as the funny kid and so it should be in the book?”

  Hugo doesn’t seem to understand how this works. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s the best person to write my life story. I look down at my feathered friend. Maybe Duck should do it?

  Of course that’s a ridiculous idea. Duck is way too busy.

  I turn back to Hugo. “All you need to do is write down the amazing adventures I have in my life.”

  “It’s not that easy, Max,” Hugo replies, shaking his head.

  “Sure it is. Take right now, for example. You can write: One beautiful Sunday morning, Max and Duck stroll down the main street of Redhill.”

  “What about me?” Hugo asks.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m here too!”

  “Oh, sure, but you’re the author, so you have to be invisible. You can’t be a character in the book too, otherwise it’ll be a book about you! And no one will want to read that!”

  Hugo grumbles something, but I continue.

  “So, one beautiful Sunday morning, Max and Duck stroll down the main street of Redhill, and everywhere people call out of shop windows, ‘Hey! Funny kid!’ As he walks by the pet store, all the fish in the window stop swimming and say, ‘I wish I was that kid’s fish. He’s really famous.’ Even the mayor of Redhill calls out, ‘Hey, Max! You’re the funniest kid I’ve ever met!’”

  “Yeah, but it totally could’ve.”

  Hugo looks very confused. “Where are we walking to anyway?”

  “We’re going to Pip’s house.”

  “Who’s Pip?”

  “The new girl,” I reply.

  Pip has just moved to Redhill and she’ll be coming on our school camping trip tomorrow. I don’t like her or anything, because she’s a girl, but I just thought I’d ask her if she wanted to hang out with the funny kid for a bit.

  “We’re going to see if she wants to come to the park with us,” I say.

  “Why would she want to do that?” Hugo asks.

  I don’t think Hugo quite understands just how famous I am.

  Okay, so it turns out Pip must be a rich kid. Mom told me she thought the new family was pretty well-off, but this house is massive!

  I count the levels of windows . . . two, three . . . five? I can’t even tell. There’s a small balcony jutting out above the front door held up by pillars. Pillars! A pathway goes up from the footpath to the front steps and on each step is a sculpture of a different animal. A lion, an eagle, a . . .

  “What sort of animal is that last one?” Hugo asks.

  “I think it’s a . . . a pear,” I answer. “The body of a bear and the head of a pig.”

  “A pear? I’ve never heard of that before.”

  “Most people haven’t,” I reply. “Okay, Hugo, Duck, you wait here.”

  Duck quacks and raises an eyebrow at me as if to clear his throat and beg my pardon.

  “What? You guys can just hang here . . . behind this tree . . . where no one can see you. Pip and I will come and meet you in a second!”

  Hugo and Duck sulk. I don’t have time for this sort of negativity.

  As I walk up the path toward the grand front steps, I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say. I suddenly start to feel a little nervous. That’s weird. I’m super famous. Famous people aren’t supposed to get nervous. I’m not quite sure what’s going on, but either I’m nervous or there’s a war between worms and butterflies happening behind my belly button.

  I pass the lion, the eagle, and the . . . pear and look up at the door. There’s a giant knocker in the center that I have no hope of reaching. When God was making me, he did an awesome job on my face, but got lazy by the time he got down to my legs. There’s not much to them.

  On second thought, maybe I’ll give this a miss today. I’ll just see Pip tomorrow on the way to camp.

  I’m about to walk back to Hugo and Duck when I notice a curtain move in one of the windows. Oh, no. What if Pip’s already seen me? It would be pretty strange if she then watched me walk away back down the path.

  I’m stuck. Okay, well, here goes.

  I jump and try to reach the knocker, which of course I can’t, thanks to my sausage-dog legs. I hope Pip wasn’t watching that. Why don’t people have kid-friendly knockers anyway?

  Bang-bang-bang. I just knock straight on the door.

  I turn and check on Hugo and Duck. I wave my hand to try to get them to hide behind the tree. Hugo just waves back. Ugh.

  Suddenly the door opens.

  “Hi, Pip, I –”

>   But it’s not Pip. It’s a man in a dressing gown.

  “I’m, um, Max,” I say. “I think . . . maybe I have the wrong house?”

  “You’re not looking for me?” the man asks. I can’t take my eyes off his very shiny, boofy black hair. That can’t be real, can it?

  “Um, no. I was looking for . . .”

  “That’s so disappointing.” The man frowns.

  “What is?”

  “That you’re not looking for me. We’ve just moved in and I heard the door knock and I got really excited thinking you were my first visitor.”

  “Well, I mean, I am sort of,” I say.

  The man screws up his nose a little. He’s not buying it.

  “Do you play chess, Max?”

  “Um. No. Not really.”

  “Because I love chess. Unfortunately I never have anyone to play it with, because my family hates it. Well, that’s not entirely fair – Pip sometimes humors me.”

  My ears prick up at that. “Pip?”

  “Yes, Pip. My daughter,” the man replies.

  “Ah . . .” I say. It’s all making a bit more sense.

  “You’re a friend of Pip’s?” he asks.

  “Well . . . not really.”

  “Well, yes, I mean, no, um . . .”

  Pip’s dad holds out his hand to save me the trouble of trying to work out my words and suddenly calls into the house, “Pip! Max your not-friend is here to see you!” Then he turns back to me. “I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to be friends with Pip?”

  “She doesn’t like you?” he asks.

  “No, ah, well, I don’t know.” This is going terribly!

  “I can’t understand why she wouldn’t like you. I mean, you’re so good with words.” Pip’s dad grins. “I’ll go get her.”

  He turns and walks back into the house. That’s when I realize two things: