My Life as Dinosaur Dental Floss Read online

  My Life As

  Dinosaur Floss

  Tommy Nelson® Books by Bill Myers

  Series

  SECRET AGENT DINGLEDORF

  . . . and his trusty dog, SPLAT

  The Case of the . . .

  Giggling Geeks • Chewable Worms

  • Flying Toenails • Drooling Dinosaurs •

  Hiccupping Ears • Yodeling Turtles

  The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle

  My Life As . . .

  a Smashed Burrito with Extra Hot Sauce • Alien Monster Bait

  • a Broken Bungee Cord • Crocodile Junk Food •

  Dinosaur Dental Floss • a Torpedo Test Target

  • a Human Hockey Puck • an Afterthought Astronaut •

  Reindeer Road Kill • a Toasted Time Traveler

  • Polluted Pond Scum • a Bigfoot Breath Mint •

  a Blundering Ballerina • a Screaming Skydiver

  • a Human Hairball • a Walrus Whoopee Cushion •

  a Computer Cockroach (Mixed-Up Millennium Bug)

  • a Beat-Up Basketball Backboard • a Cowboy Cowpie •

  Invisible Intestines with Intense Indigestion

  • a Skysurfing Skateboarder • a Tarantula Toe Tickler •

  a Prickly Porcupine from Pluto • a Splatted-Flat Quarterback

  • a Belching Baboon • a Stupendously Stomped Soccer Star •

  The Portal • The Experiment • The Whirlwind • The Tablet

  Picture Book

  Baseball for Breakfast

  www.Billmyers.com

  the incredible worlds of

  WallyMcDoogle

  BILL MYERS

  MY LIFE AS DINOSAUR DENTAL FLOSS

  Copyright © 1994 by Bill Myers.

  Cover illustrations by Jeff Mangiat.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts in reviews.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Tommy Nelson® , a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc. Visit us on the Web at www.tommynelson.com.

  Tommy Nelson® books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail:

  [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are from the International Children’s Bible®, New Century Version®, copyright © 1986, 1988, 1999 by Tommy Nelson®, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Myers, Bill, 1953–

  My life as dinosaur dental floss / Bill Myers.

  p. cm.—(The incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #5)

  Summary: Bumbling but brilliant Wally mcDoogle learns that honesty is the best policy after a practical joke snowballs into near disaster involving terrorists, tourists, television news, and the President.

  ISBN 0-8499-3537-7 (trade paper)

  [1. Honesty—Fiction. 2. Christian life—Fiction.

  3. Humorous stories.] I. Title. II. Series : Myers, Bill, 1953– .

  Incredible worlds of Wally McDoogle ; #5.

  PZ7.M9822My 1994

  [Fic]—dc20 93–47257

  CIP

  AC

  Printed in the United States of America

  06 07 08 09 10 RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Paul Anderson—

  A man of truth and integrity.

  “Whoever is careful about what he says protects his life But anyone who speaks without thinking will be ruined.”

  —Proverbs 13:3

  Contents

  1. Just for Starters

  2. News at Eleven

  3. On the Lam

  4. The Plot Sickens

  5. So Much for Luck

  6. Catching a Train

  7. A Little House Call

  8. Photo Opportunities

  9. News Conference

  10. Wrapping Up

  Chapter 1

  Just for

  Starters

  If you think this book is about dinosaurs, forget it. Put it back on the shelf. Send it back to the bookstore. Tell Mom or Grandma or whoever gave it to you, “Thanks, but no thanks!”

  Believe me, after this, my latest adventure in the land of Me-And-My-Big-Mouth, the last thing in the world I want to do is tell anymore lies.

  The truth is . . .

  —I’ve never known any real dinosaurs.

  —I’ve never even seen a real dinosaur . . . although I am grateful to a certain Tyrannosaurus Rex for saving my life.

  Confused?

  Me, too. But I’m Wally McDoogle, and that’s normal for me. Let’s see if I can help straighten things out for you. . . .

  It all started last Tuesday. We were on a class field trip at the Middletown Museum of Natural History. Our tour guide was rattling off a bunch of brain-numbing facts while our science teacher, Mr. Reptenson (better known as Reptile Man), kept acting like this information would save the world.

  Of course, everyone was bored out of their skulls. Not bored like having-to-sit-at-the-dinner-table-and-wait-until-everyone-else-is-finished-eating bored. No sir, we’re talking out-of-your-mind, I’d-rather-be-home-emptying-the-dishwasher-or-even-watching-Barney&Friends-reruns kind of bored.

  Everyone was bored, that is, except me and my best friend and fellow Dorkoid, Opera. We weren’t bored because we’d found a powerful new secret weapon. . . .

  LYING

  That’s right. Forget about having to work; forget about having to study; forget about all that stuff. Just make it up.

  Don’t want to go to school?

  How ’bout: “Mom, I’ve got the flu.”

  Want to impress that new girl?

  How ’bout: “My dad is Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  And let’s not forget the ever-popular:

  “I don’t have my homework ’cause my pet aardvark ate it.”

  See how simple it is?

  Simple, yes. Smart? Well, you tell me. . . .

  In the beginning our lying spree had helped us talk the bus driver into letting us sit up front because we got “bus sick.” Next, we convinced the new kid that we were outer-space visitors from the planet Ursodumb. And after that we almost convinced Reptile Man that his watch was an hour behind. (That was Opera’s idea— he was hoping for an early lunch. He has a little thing about eating—actually a big thing. But he hates anything healthy—it’s junk food or nothing. In fact, he’s the only kid I know who gets convulsions over the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables. He’s also the only kid I know who chews potato-chip-flavored bubble gum.)

  Anyway, things were going pretty well at the museum, except that the Tyrannosaurus Rex room was closed for repairs. Too bad. The giant dinosaur display was the main reason we had come. But I wasn’t worried. With a few wellplaced lies, I was sure I could get in to see it . . . no sweat.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the guard sitting near the closed doors. I held out my lunch sack. “This is for my dad.”

  “Your dad?” the guard asked.

  “Yeah, he’s working inside there on the dinosaur display.”

  The guard gave me a careful look over.

  I blinked at him, pushed up my glasses, and gave him my best innocent-puppy-dog stare.

  Finally, he nodded. Opera started to follow, but the guard held out his hand. “Not you, son— just him.”

  “But, I, uh, I have the napkins,” Opera stammered as he pulled out a wad of used tissues. “We packed his dad a fresh peach, and if I don’t get him this napkin, the juice will drip all down his wrist and arm and make a terrible . . .”

  Opera came to a stop. It was a nice try, but obviously not
working. The man just looked at him.

  I shrugged at Opera. It wasn’t my fault he wasn’t as good a liar as I was. I walked to the doors, pushed them open, and stepped inside.

  Wow! It was huge—like something out of Jurassic Park! Only by the looks of things, this particular dinosaur needed to put on a bit more weight. You’ve heard of people being skin and bones? Well, ol’ Tyrannosaurus Rex here was bones and bones. That’s right, from her tail all the way to her pointy fangs, she was just your basic dinosaur skeleton. But even at that, I’d still hate to meet her in a dark, prehistoric alley.

  There were five or six guys in overalls working on her. Most were up on ladders, so no one really noticed when I sneaked up to the towering giant . . . Mistake Number One. (Well, actually Number Two, if you count the lying I did to get inside.)

  Next, I reached out and touched the critter’s right leg bone. (Mistake Number Three, if you’re still keeping score.) But the touching wasn’t the problem. It was the letting go. I couldn’t. They had coated the whole thing in some sort of liquid plastic—a liquid plastic that hadn’t dried yet. A liquid plastic that was great for protecting the skeleton, but bad for me—unless I wanted to be a permanent part of the display. In short, I was stuck big time.

  I tried pulling my hand away. Nothing. I pulled harder. Still nothing. I set down my lunch sack and tugged with everything I had.

  “Oooo . . . Ahhh . . . Eeee . . .”

  At last, something gave. Unfortunately, it wasn’t my hand. It was the leg bone. The entire thing popped out of its socket.

  “Uh-oh! . . .”

  The skeleton started to creak. Everyone stopped working. They looked around until they spotted me. I tried to hide the bone behind my back—a little tricky since it’s about five-and-a-half-feet long, and I’m about five-and-no-half-feet tall.

  I flashed them my famous McDoogle-the-Idiot grin.

  No one smiled back.

  The skeleton continued to groan and creak. It was beginning to tilt.

  “SHE’S COMING DOWN!” someone cried.

  That someone was right. Thanks to the little leg amputation I’d just performed, Ol’ Rexy girl thought it was time to lie down—fast! Suddenly, it started raining. But not water. It was raining dinosaur bones! That’s right—teeth, vertebrae, arms, you name it. It was coming down like cats and dogs . . . well, actually, like tibias and fibulas (that’s bone talk in case any of you want to be doctors).

  The workers leaped off their ladders and ran for the doors screaming, “LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!”

  Wanting to participate in the fun and games, I joined in with a little running and screaming of my own.

  “AUGH! . . .”

  Actually, a lot of screaming.

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! . . .”

  Suddenly, Rexy gave me a hand—literally. Her right paw crashed down on my shoulder like a huge prehistoric pat on the back and sent me sprawling to the ground.

  “OOAAAFFFF! . . .”

  It was then I noticed my lunch sack near the door. Funny. It was a dozen yards from where I had set it down. I dragged myself toward it. I didn’t do this because I was hungry; I did it because I was planning ahead. I figured they’d probably execute me at dawn, and I knew even condemned prisoners got a decent meal before dying. (I just hoped that my lunch had been packed by Mom and not by my little sister.)

  At last, I reached my sack. I scooped it up, jumped to my feet, and raced for the door just as . . .

  K-BOOM! . . .

  I looked over my shoulder. Ol’ Rexy had finished “going to pieces.” Instead of a noble dinosaur, she looked like a giant pile of pickup-sticks. I didn’t know it then, but within thirty-two hours this giant bone yard would be reassembled and would save my life. . . .

  And that’s no lie.

  Maybe it was the lecture by the head museum guy or his call to my parents. Or maybe it was Mom’s promise that when I got home she’d ground me for the rest of my life (and longer if they’d let her continue it in heaven). The point is, as we rode home on the bus, I began to wonder if this lying business was such a good idea after all. Oh sure, I know we’re always taught not to do it in Sunday school and stuff, but I guess there are some things a guy’s got to find out on his own.

  CRUNCH! MUSH-MUSH-MUSH . . . CRUNCH! MUSH-MUSH-MUSH.

  I looked over at Opera. He was starting in on his lunch . . . three bags of extra-crispy, salt-saturated, deep-fried fat . . . with a little bit of potato thrown in the middle so they could call them “potato chips.” That’s what all the CRUNCHing was about. The MUSH-MUSH-MUSHing was the sound made by the chips after he dipped them into his ketchup.

  “That’s gross,” I groaned.

  “I know,” he yelled over his Walkman headphones as he stuffed another handful of the chips into his mouth. “But I couldn’t find my special mixture of maple syrup and mustard.”

  I shuddered and reached for my own lunch sack. It was a little worn from all the kicking around in the dinosaur room, and for some reason it seemed a little bigger than I remembered. When I reached inside I found an even greater surprise.

  “What in the world?” I said as I pulled out a giant jar of reddish-pink gunk. It was thick and gooey and so bright it might have glowed in the dark.

  “Looks like your sister’s been busy in the kitchen again,” Opera shouted over his music.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered as I carefully turned the jar over in my hands. I’d never seen anything like it. I looked back in the bag. “I think I’ve got the wrong sack here. This isn’t my lunch.”

  “I’ll sell you mine.” Wall Street turned around in the seat in front of us. As my other best friend, Wall Street was determined to make her first million by the time she was fourteen. And by the way she was always ripping me off, I knew she’d owe much of her success to me.

  “You want to sell me your lunch?” I asked. “How much?”

  “Normally . . .” she scrunched up her eyebrows to think. “Normally $3.95 . . . but since we’re best friends, I’ll let you have it for five bucks even.”

  “Sold,” I said. (I told you she was good.)

  “What do you think that stuff is?” Wall Street asked as she handed over her lunch and took my money.

  “Got me,” I said. “Just your basic nuclear toxic waste.”

  “You’re kidding!” she exclaimed.

  For a business tycoon, Wall Street was still pretty gullible. I looked over at Opera. If she believed that big of a whopper, we could really have fun with her. Fortunately, Opera and I had both had enough lying for now.

  Unfortunately, “for now” isn’t exactly the same as “forever.”

  Chapter 2

  News at Eleven

  Opera spent the night at my place—not because Mom and Dad were passing out rewards for my “Destroy the Dinosaur” routine, but because Opera’s folks were out of town at a convention. We were up in my room so bored that we were actually watching the news. Cindy Cho was rambling on about some nuclear power plant being broken into. Nobody knew if anything was missing or who was responsible, but some folks were afraid it might be terrorists.

  For the last half-hour Opera had been trying to open the container of reddish-pink gunk, but no luck. “What did you tell Wall Street this stuff was?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember . . . nuclear something. Why?”

  He glanced at Cindy on the TV and then broke into a devious smile. Without a word, he reached for the telephone and started dialing.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Opera.

  He held out his hand for me to be quiet. There was no missing the gleam in his eye. Finally, he spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Wall Street? Yeah, it’s me. Listen, the weirdest thing just happened. Remember that pink stuff Wally found? Well, some terrorist guys just called and said we better hand it over or there would be big trouble.”

  I had to smile. Opera’s “tall tales” were getting taller.

  “Why do they want it?” he said, repeating her
question and looking at me for help. “Well, uh, because, uh . . .” The guy was a definite amateur. He was already in trouble.

  I bailed him out by whispering, “Because it’s the makings of a nuclear bomb?” (Hey, if you’re going to tell a whopper, go for the big ones.)

  Opera grinned and spoke into the phone. “Because they’re using it to make a bomb to blow something up. What?” Again he looked at me for help. “Well, I don’t know what they wanted to blow up . . . uh . . . maybe . . . er . . .”

  “The museum,” I whispered. “Tell her it was supposed to be the museum.”

  “Yeah, it was supposed to be the museum,” he gratefully repeated.

  Now, like I said, I had been wondering about all this lying stuff. But Opera definitely needed some help. And, since Pastor Swenson always says, “Use your God-given gifts to help others,” I did just that. I gave Opera everything I had.

  I raced to the door and began banging on it. “OPEN UP!” I shouted in my best bad-guy voice. “WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE . . . OPEN UP!”

  Opera started to giggle. “Oh no,” he managed to choke out, “they’re at our door!”

  I banged some more and shouted, “IF YOU DON’T OPEN UP, WE’RE GOING TO BLOW YOU TO KINGDOM COME!”

  “Oh, no!” Opera repeated, motioning for me to keep knocking and shouting. “What do we do? What do we do?!”

  I banged and shouted even louder.

  “OH NO!” Opera repeated. “OH, NO . . . DON’T—GET AWAY . . . GET AWAY . . . GET—” And then he hung up. Just like that. Right in the middle of his sentence. I tell you, for an amateur, he was learning quickly.

  We exploded in laughter. “I can just see the look on her face,” I cried, trying to catch my breath.

  “You think we really had her fooled?” Opera gasped.

  “You know Wall Street,” I said. “She’ll believe anything. And the way you hung up—perfect.”

  “Your sound effects were great!”

  Suddenly, the phone rang.

  “That’s her!” Opera giggled. “I know it’s her.”