My Life as a Bigfoot Breath Mint by Bill Myers

Author:Bill Myers
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“Hey, Wally!” Uncle Max shouted. “Shut that thing off. If you’re doing the show with me tomorrow, you’ll need your rest.”

All right! The show. With all that had happened, I’d almost forgotten.

If I had known what was in store for me, I’d wished I had.

Chapter 6

Breakfast Acrobatics

Breakfast was interesting, to say the least.

Actually it was interesting, to say the most too.

First there were Burt and Brock, the human eating machines. Uncle Max hadn’t come downstairs yet, but yesterday he’d said they could eat as much as they could hold. Right now it looked like they were going for some sort of world’s record.

“Would you BELCH pass that fifth plate of BURP French toast BELCH?” Burt asked.

“If you’ll BURP pass that sixth platter of BELCH eggs BURP,” Brock answered.

Then of course there was little Carrie, who went into fits every time a piece of food on her plate touched another piece.

“The syrup’s touching my eggs! The syrup’s touching my eggs!”

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” Mom said, “but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Towel them off! Get the hair dryer!”

Then of course there was Dad, still reading and studying our great aunt’s paperwork.

“Herb,” Mom said while pouring him another cup of coffee. (Well, it was supposed to be coffee. But since it was the cook’s day off and since Uncle Max’s coffee maker was kind of new to Mom, it looked more like melted tar.) “You’ve been up all night working on that, why don’t you give it a rest?”

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’d love to,” he sighed, “but if I don’t do this, who will?”

“She was Max’s aunt too. Why won’t he help?”

“Since when has Max helped with anything?” Dad asked.

“Uncle Max is busy,” I said, coming to his defense. “He doesn’t have time for little things like that.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Dad sighed as he returned to his paperwork. “Uncle Max doesn’t have time for anybody but Uncle Max.”

The comment bugged me. I mean it was obvious Dad was just jealous. But before I could say anything, the French doors in the dining room exploded into a zillion pieces.

Mom screamed.

Burt and Brock belched.

Carrie complained about the flying splinters of wood touching her bacon.

And two men of the thug variety burst in.

“Where is he?” Thug One shouted.

“Now see here,” Dad said, rising to his feet. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t come bursting in here and—”

That was as far as he got before Thug Two shoved a small revolver in his face. (It’s hard to talk with your mouth wrapped around the barrel of a small revolver.)

“That ain’t him,” Thug One shouted. “Where is he? Where’s Max McDoogle?”

But before any of us could turn informer, Uncle Max appeared in his robe on the balcony above us.

“What’s all the noise down—uh, oh.” Without another word, he spun around and sprinted back down the hall.

Now, the way I figured it, he was either going to jump into the shower to freshen up for our breakfast guests . . . or he was running for his life.

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