by Bill Myers

The next time I think of being mean to somebody, do me a favor: Tell me to wise up and do smarter things like, oh, I don’t know, jump in a canoe without a paddle or eat my little sister’s mud pies.

Anything, just as long as you . . .

STOP ME FROM BEING A JERK TO OTHERS!

(Sorry. Didn’t mean to yell. But as you’ll see, it’s a touchy subject.)

It started out innocently enough (just like all my other Wally-the-human-disaster-area stories). The night before Valentine’s Day, Wall Street (my best friend—even if she is a girl) and I were sitting around, figuring out how she was going to make her first million dollars by the time she turns 13.

Some girls like to play house; others like to play dolls. Wall Street likes to play the stock market. But these days the stock market isn’t doing so hot, so she’s been trying to make that million off me.

“I’ve got it!” she cried.

“You’re not going to sign me up as a crash test dummy again, are you?”

“I thought you had fun.”

“It wasn’t bad. Except for that stay in the hospital.”

“Didn’t you like the food?”

“After three years it got a little boring.”

“Well,” she said, “this one’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Good, ‘cause I can’t look another stewed prune in the face.”

“Let’s produce one of those reality TV shows,” she said. “Only instead of having people fall in love or survive on an island, let’s make them look stupid and embarrass them forever.”

“Looking stupid and total embarrassment?” I said. “Sounds like the perfect TV show to me.”

Even though I’m a Christian and a big part of me knew God wouldn’t be thrilled, another part of me definitely liked the idea. Unfortunately,

THAT’S THE PART I LISTENED TO!

(Oops, I’m yelling again. Sorry.)

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

“Who’s the prettiest girl in school?”

“Marjorie Whipplesnorter,” I said.

“Correct. And who’s the biggest loser?”

“Hey! I thought you were leaving me out of this.”

“Right. Who’s the second biggest loser?”

We both knew that was my other best friend, Opera. We call him that ‘cause he listens to Pavarotti, Tortellini and all those Italian opera guys. I wouldn’t say he’s a fanatic, but he has looked into surgically attaching a Walkman to his ears.

Wall Street explained her plan. “We create the world’s biggest chocolate valentine. We send it to Opera tomorrow morning with Marjorie’s name on it. Then when he tries to thank her, I’ll videotape him making a total fool of himself.”

Suddenly, I saw a way out. “Too bad there’s no way to make that valentine,” I said, a little pleased that we couldn’t go through with it.

“You forget my uncle owns a chocolate factory,” she said, very pleased that we could go through with it.

I looked at her and gulped.

She looked at me and grinned.

Cherry Catastrophe

A few hours later we were alone in the chocolate factory.

“You sure this is OK?” I yelled over the rattling conveyor belt.

“Sure,” she shouted. “My uncle lets me do it all the time. I have a key.”

I still wasn’t sure, but next thing I knew I was standing on the conveyor belt, trying to push a giant heart-shaped tray under a huge vat of cherry goop.

“OK, get ready!” Wall Street shouted. “When I give the signal, press that button.”

“This button here?” I yelled, pressing it.

“NOT YET, WALLY! NOT WHILE YOU’RE STANDING UNDERNEATH THE—”

K-woosh!

The good news was, the cherry goop didn’t taste half bad.

The bad news was, when I tried to stand, I . . .

“Whoa!” slip—K-rash!-ed.

That’s right, the cherry sauce was slipperier than a banana peel on an oil slick. Translation: I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Whoa!” slip—K-rash!

No problem. I’d just lie here, until . . .

“WALLY, LOOK OUT!”

I looked up just in time to see a vat of marshmallow goo . . .

glug…. glug …. glug.

The good news was, I was no longer slipping and sliding.

The bad news was, I was permanently stuck to the conveyor belt.

“HANG ON WALLY, I’LL SAVE YOU!”

Unfortunately, Wall Street’s version of “saving me” meant hitting the reverse button. Now I was traveling backwards, which meant

glug….glug….glug

and

K-woosh!

again.

Getting bored with those sound effects, I threw in another one, just for fun.

“AUGHHH!”

(the sound of one gunky, goopy kid yelling his head off.)

“Sorry!” Wall Street shouted. She hit the forward button.

Nice idea, but one that resulted in

K-woosh,

glug, glug, glug, glug,

and

“AUGHHH!”

This time, I ended with a

K-splat!

That, of course, is the sound a cherry-gunked and marshmallow-gooed kid makes when he lands in a giant tub of chocolate.

The good news was, I didn’t drown.

The bad news was, I passed out.

Ever have one of those days?

Unfortunately, I have one of those lives.

Fortunately, that life wasn’t quite over. . . .

On a Roll

When I came to, I noticed Wall Street hadn’t exactly rushed to my rescue.

The fact that I was stuck inside a giant chocolate heart, wrapped up to my neck in red cellophane and rattling around in the back of a delivery van was my first clue.

But this was no time to panic. No, sir! This was time to exercise that famous McDoogle courage. This was time to be calm, cool and collected. This was the time to yell, cry and scream for MY MOMMY!

When that didn’t work, I went to “plan B.” I began rolling and crinkling around, slamming into the back door of the van, trying to get it open.

The good news was, I succeeded. (Insert applause here.) “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

The bad news was, I flew out of the van right at the top of a hill and I began

roll, roll, roll-ing

faster and faster and faster.

Unfortunately, hearts aren’t exactly round, which means they do a lot of

bounce, bounce, bounce-ing,

which, of course, meant I also did a lot more

“AUGHHH! AUGHHH! AUGHHH!”-ing.

Thankfully Opera was just stepping out of his house and heading for school when I rolled past.

“Wally, now what are you doing?” he sighed.

“AUGHHH!” I screamed.

“You don’t look so good. Is everything all right?”

“AUGHHH! AUGHHH!”

“Can I give you a hand?”

“AUGHHH! AUGHHH! AUGHHH!”

Realizing there might be a slight problem, Opera did what anyone trying to save his best friend trapped inside a chocolate valentine would do. He leapt on top of me as I bounced passed.

Now we were both bouncing and rolling down the street. But not for long. As a triple-A, world-class junk food junkie, Opera went to work. He ripped aside the cellophane and started

MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH-ing.

“Hey, this is pretty good!” he shouted between bites.

“AUGHHH!” I screamed.

He continued his chocolate chow-fest. In a matter of seconds, the valentine was gone, and we rolled to a stop.

“Thanks,” I gasped.

“No problem,” he burped.

“Oh, Opera! That was sooo heroic!”

We both looked up to see Marjorie Whipplesnorter smiling at him.

“It, burp, was?” Opera asked “Oh, yes!” she said. “Would you like to sit at my lunch table today?”

Opera wiped his mouth and shook his head. “Nah, me and Wally always eat together. Maybe some other time.”

“Well, all right. But if you change your mind . . .”

“Thanks.” Burp. Opera gave me a grin, showing teeth majorly covered in chocolate.

Bittersweet Lesson

I gave him a nod, majorly filled with guilt. How could I have been so wrong and done such stupid things? (I know, lots of practice.) But how could I have been so mean?

I didn’t know. But I did know I had learned my lesson. So the two of us turned, and, arm in arm, headed off into the sunset (or at least to first period English). Me feeling like a real jerk for being, well, a real jerk; Opera, feeling real cool (and happily stuffed) for being real cool (and happily stuffed). And Wall Street? Well, Wall Street was trying a new way to make her first million.

I definitely learned I should treat others the way I would want to be treated. And, just as importantly, I survived yet another day in (insert end credits music here) The Incredible (not to mention gunky and goopy) Worlds of Wally McDoogle.

	Q: Why did the dog lay on its back with its feet sticking in the air? A: It was trying to trip birds. Amy S., 11, Illinois Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe