My Life and Other Stuff I Made Up Read online

  About the Book

  A nail-biting – no, make that toe-biting – thrill ride through one boy’s life.

  Have you ever been kissed by a dog? Ever had to eat Vegemite off your sister’s big toe? Have you had a job delivering teeth? Has a bloodthirsty magpie ever been out to get you? Ever woken up to discover that everything hovers? And have you eaten 67 hot dogs in ten minutes?

  I have. I’m Tom Weekly. This book is full of my stories, jokes, cartoon characters, ideas for theme park rides and other stuff I’ve made up. It’s where I pour out whatever’s inside my head. It gets a bit weird sometimes but that’s how I roll.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Introduction

  The Dog Kisser

  Hot Dog Eat

  Teleporter

  My Nan’s Tougher

  Toe

  Scab

  Swoop

  Tooth Job

  Hover Everything

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Also by Tristan Bancks

  Copyright Notice

  Loved the book?

  Hey.

  This book is a bunch of stories I’ve written, ideas I’ve had and drawings I’ve done. The stories are all true. Well, they’re based on stuff that’s true. Sometimes I make things up. The best thing about having a book like this is that I get to be the hero – even though sometimes things kind of go wrong.

  If you want to send me a message or a story or a joke or a paper plane design or other stuff you’ve made up, I’m at [email protected]. Maybe I can stick it in my next book?

  Anyway, hope you like it. If you don’t like it, sell it on eBay. (Unless it’s a library book. Librarians get kind of upset about that. Believe me.)

  Tom

  My dog was licking the guy’s face like it was gelato. When he was done with the nose and eyes he started in on the dude’s ears.

  ‘Attaboy,’ said the guy. ‘Who’s my schnooky? Who’s da-puppy-dog, huh? Who’s da one?’

  This sent Bando, my lab retriever, into a frenzy and he licked even faster. Saliva trickled down the man’s face. His eyelashes hung with dog spit. His ears were glazed with goo.

  I knew him simply as The Dog Kisser. Every day I took Bando for a walk on the beach a couple of blocks from my house and every day, no matter what time, we stumbled upon The Dog Kisser.

  ‘C’mon, boy. C’mon, Ban,’ I called, but he pretended not to hear. See, I refused to even let Bando lick my toe, let alone my face. I was a doggy love-free zone but, finally, he’d discovered somebody with no lick-limits. I couldn’t watch any longer. It was wrong.

  ‘Bando, NOW! Come!’ I took him by the collar and hauled him away from the guy. ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said, even though I wasn’t. ‘We’ve got to go. I’ve got … stuff to do.’

  I threw the chewed-up pink frisbee down the beach, towards the water. Bando bolted after it. I took one last look over my shoulder and saw Dog Kisser kneeling there on all fours in the dune. His short, dark, spiky hair was thick with dog dribble gel. He looked heartbroken as Ban scampered out of his life for another day. I shuddered and ran, finding Bando lying in the shallows, jawing on his frisbee.

  That night I complained again at dinner.

  ‘He’s just being friendly,’ Mum said. ‘It’s nice that somebody loves him. You barely go near Bando. Sometimes I wonder why we even have a dog.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen this dude go for it. It’s unnatural to let a dog lick you like that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Yet again!’ said Tanya, my older sister, her only words for the entire meal.

  But I wasn’t exaggerating; if I’d had a tiny, button-sized video camera I’d have recorded it and put the horror show up on our new plasma while they were eating dinner. Then we’d see who was ‘just being friendly’.

  Next afternoon, four o’clock, after a two-minute noodle session (I was digging this prawn flavour that tasted like chicken), I put Bando on his lead and headed out the gate. I checked both ways. No sign of The Kisser. I took a right and Ban reefed the lead out of my hand, darting off to roll in a cane toad pancake on the road. Then he sprinted up the street and gobbled a browny-grey lump on the grass near the telegraph pole. Poo of some kind.

  ‘Bando, come!’ I yelled. He snaffled one last morsel and ran after me, top speed, slamming on the brakes to sniff the Give Way sign and relieve himself. At the cricket ground we cut through the sandy bush track, the fastest way to the beach. I was nervous because there was no way out if you met The Dog Kisser on the track. You could try going cross-country through the bush, but I’d done it once and been cut up pretty bad by lantana. I broke into a jog and Bando followed, overtaking me halfway up the trail.

  By the time I’d caught up with him at the beach park he was giving a pit bull terrier’s bottom a fairly serious inspection.

  ‘Sorry!’ I said to the owner. ‘Ban, c’mon man. Gimme a break.’

  I threw his mangled frisbee over the sand dune and he ran off down the path to the beach. When I arrived at the crest of the dune I scanned the beach for The DK.

  Nothing.

  Good.

  I continued down the path and tackled Bando at the bottom, eating a face full of sand.

  And then I heard it.

  ‘Whooza bootiful one, huh?’

  I wiped sand from my eyes and somehow, out of nowhere, The Dog Kisser had appeared. Did he have some kind of underground lair down here? Was he a ghost? How did he always just show up?

  As I stood, Bando ran over and began tucking in, really going for it. And then The Dog Kisser did something I’d never seen before. He opened his mouth and Bando licked right inside. Everything went slo-mo as their tongues touched. Then my mind cut to rapid flashes of the cane toad that Ban had rolled in, the poo he’d eaten, the pit bull terrier’s bottom, then back to him pashing The DK right there on the sand. This was a new low.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Dog Kisser tried to say, muffled by Bando’s tongue.

  ‘No, it’s not okay,’ I said. ‘It’s seriously not okay!’

  I pulled Bando off the dude and he gave a high-pitched whine. Dog Kisser looked as though he was about to start blubbering too, his arms outstretched. I dragged Bando until we were a safe distance away and flung the frisbee back up the dune. Bando gave chase and I followed. I didn’t look back to the Kisser. I’d made a decision. My dog-walking days were over.

  For a week, Bando was in lockdown. He never left the yard. He was miserable and kept staring at me with these creepy, sad eyes. Then, one afternoon, I was watching dodgy afternoon game shows when Mum came home from work.

  ‘Have you still not taken that dog for a walk?’ she said as she dropped her bags on the dining table.

  ‘Hi, Ma. Nice to see you, too.’

  ‘He’s dug another crater in the middle of the lawn. Say goodbye to your pocket money if you don’t start walking him,’ she said.

  ‘But the –’ I said.

  ‘I know – the big, terrifying Dog Kisser’s out there. Boo-hoo. Get over it. Start walking him or no allowance.’

  I sat there for a minute, depressed. Then I had an idea. I jumped up and made a beeline for the pile of newspapers in the box beside the bin. I found the Echo and flicked to the classifieds. I knew I’d seen a dog walking service in there – a cheap one run by the church or something.

  Bingo. There it was. Page 32. Salvation Army dog walking services. Three bucks an hour. I could shell out for that twice a week and still have four bucks pocket money left. I grabbed the phone and punched digits.

>   Next afternoon at five the doorbell rang. Bando scarpered up the hall. I came out of the lounge room, smiling, and grabbed his lead off the hallstand. I looked down towards the open front door. My jaw sagged. Kneeling on the floor, being smathered with fetid doggy love, was somebody I recognised.

  ‘Izza puppy dog, hey. It’s you, is it? Thassalovelyoneofadoggy, huh? Gunna go for walks, hey?’ he said.

  I could not believe it. Was I going to have to pay this guy to kiss my dog? I slowly shuffled up the hall to the open door and The DK grabbed the lead from my hand, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘See you in an hour!’ he said, all chipper. ‘C’mon, boy!’

  They ran down the steps. He had seven other dogs tied up at our front gate – a sausage dog, a schnauzer, two chihuahuas, a great dane, a dalmatian and a doberman. He bent down and all eight dogs licked him from the tips of his fingers to the top of his head. Saliva flew everywhere, showering our front path and, just for a second, I felt jealous. Those dogs loved him. It didn’t feel like anybody loved me as much as they loved him. Not my mum, my sister. Nobody. I suddenly felt cold and alone. And yet here he was, a lowly dog kisser, being adored by hounds of every shape, colour and breed.

  Without thinking I started walking down the steps. I didn’t really know what I was doing but something was drawing me towards them. A second or two later I kneeled on the path and Bando and a couple of other dogs bounded over and started licking me. Their pink tongues tickled my ears and nose. At first I pulled away but, I had to admit, it kind of felt good. And with each coat of saliva on my neck and face I felt more loved. I felt like one of them, like part of the pack. And, in that moment, my life had changed forever. I’d crossed the line. I, Tom Weekly, was a dog kisser.

  ‘Beat Mad Dog. Whatever it takes. Do it for me. Do it for the family.’

  These were my pop’s dying words as he handed me a small, flat, brown jar of paste. He pressed it into my palm and closed my fingers around it. I knew exactly what was inside. I held his hand. I had no idea how I was going to pull this off.

  The sign across the front of the grand white tent read, ‘Fast Eddie’s 27th Annual Dog Eat’. Groups of people drifted across the grassy beachfront park towards the tent, all hoping to get a seat for the biggest event of the year.

  I ran my finger over the jar in my pocket, walked into the tent and up three steps onto the stage. Half the competitors were already seated at the long row of tables covered in clean, white tablecloths. The people in the crowd were sweating and fanning themselves with their programs. There wasn’t a breath of breeze. I took my seat, looking down at the audience. Behind them, through the back of the tent, I could see blue sky and ocean. On the table in front of me there were six or seven tall paper cups filled with water for dipping hot dog buns into. It made them easier to swallow. There were 12 volunteers in yellow T-shirts in front of the stage. They were ready to plate up the dogs and keep count of how many each competitor had eaten.

  A couple of little kids in the crowd pointed at me and laughed. I didn’t blame them. I looked across at the other contestants. I was the youngest and skinniest on the stage. I looked nothing like a champion dog eater. But then Pop had been wiry, too, and he was almost a legend.

  ‘Hey, Tom.’

  I looked down in front of the stage. It was Jack, my best friend, in among all the volunteers.

  ‘Stilton’s been taking bets all morning,’ he said. ‘You’re a 200 to one shot. I just put a dollar on you. That means I get 200 bucks if you win.’

  ‘A dollar?’ I said. ‘Aren’t I worth more than that?’

  ‘You’re at 200 to one. I’m probably the only person who has put a dollar on you.’

  The crowd suddenly went wild. The stage shook violently. I turned and quickly realised that this was no earthquake. It was Mad Dog Morgan. Red beard. Blue overalls. Bushy eyebrows, like small brush fires above his eyes.

  He stopped, looked out at the audience and shoved his gigantic fist into his mouth. He shook his head from side to side like a dog with a bone. The audience went nuts. A bunch of guys in the front row tried to jam their fists into their mouths, too. It felt like we were at a wrestling match.

  Last year Mad Dog punched out 56 dogs in ten minutes, beating his own record. My grandad did 54. Pop had come second place every year for 26 years, since the competition began. Mad Dog was just 13 dogs shy of the world title, and he was telling everybody that this was his year. Pop had been thinking that it was his year, too. Right up until he died.

  Mad Dog sat down next to me, casting a long shadow. It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud. The metal legs of the chair strained under his weight. Someone rushed in from behind and squeezed a second chair under his other enormous butt cheek.

  He looked across at me and started to laugh. Then he began to howl. He opened his mouth wide and threw back his head. Stalactites of spit hung from his top lip.

  ‘You!’ he said. Then he laughed some more. ‘He sent you! Bahahahahaha …’

  A chant went up from the crowd: ‘Mad Dog, Mad Dog, he’s our man. If he can’t eat it, no one can!’ Mad Dog thrust both fists into the air and his supporters went mental. I looked at him – his nine unshaven chins, the fat hanging down from his forehead almost covering his eyes, those fiery red brows. I listened to his heavy breathing. It was like a vacuum cleaner with a golf ball stuck in the tube. The guy was a physical mess. But today, one day a year, Mad Dog was royalty in this town. Could I really take that away from him? Didn’t a guy like him deserve a single day of glory out of 365?

  ‘Win!’ I heard a raspy voice say.

  I looked over my shoulder. Standing behind me, leaning close to my ear, was the ghostly figure of my pop. I wasn’t scared of him. I felt calm, but his eyes looked desperate, like he needed this badly. So he could rest in peace.

  ‘Okay,’ I whispered.

  His image faded. I looked around and he was gone.

  I had to win this thing. For him. No choice. No mercy. I felt in my pocket for the jar. I took it out and looked at it, keeping it below table-level. I turned it over in my fingers. I had to admit, I was still worried that the paste might have had something to do with Pop dying. He had been out in his back shed for months, just him and the cat. He stirred and mixed all day, trying millions of weird and wacky ingredients for his magical paste, something that would give him the edge in the Dog Eat. Then, one day, about a month ago, he called me. ‘I’ve done it,’ he said in an excited whisper. ‘It’s perfect. It’s called BLAM.’

  I hadn’t even tried the paste yet. I wanted to when I was training but I was too scared. I pushed the jar back into my pocket. I looked along the row of 11 losers who had turned out to compete. Surely I could beat these guys. Maybe I could win this without the paste? I thought. If I just put my mind to it.

  ‘Ladies annnnnd gentlemen,’ said a commanding voice. Everybody turned to the left-hand end of the table where Eddie Holmes, founder of the comp and owner of Fast Eddie’s Dogs, had picked up the microphone. ‘Welcome to Fast Eddie’s Famous Dog Eat on the beachfront, right here in Kings Bay.’

  People cheered and fanned themselves madly.

  ‘I know it’s hot in here but I believe we’re in for a real treat.’

  The crowd was alive, buzzing.

  ‘Who here thinks Australia’s very own, our very own Maaaad Dog Morgan has what it takes to beat the world record – 68 dogs in ten minutes – set at Coney Island, New York?’

  ‘Whooooooooo!’ Whistling and screaming. People going nuts, standing up, fists in their mouths, shaking their heads.

  ‘Good, good. And who thinks our other contenders here have a chance?’ he asked.

  ‘Boo!’ A few kids in the second row threw their screwed-up programs. One of them hit me in the forehead.

  ‘Okay,’ Holmes said, pleased with the reaction. ‘Let’s get this dog-fest started. Our contestants look hunnnnnngry!’

  The loudest cheer yet. The crowd were like animals.

  ‘Audien
ce ready?’

  They roared.

  ‘Dog eaters ready?’

  Screams and howls.

  ‘Let’s eat!’ He rang the famous Fast Eddie’s Dog Eat bell and we were away.

  The volunteers placed plates piled high with hot dogs in front of each of us.

  I jumped to my feet. I was the only challenger to stand, but this was one of my secret weapons to help the dogs go down easier. I grabbed a dog, snapped it in half and jammed both ends into my open mouth. As I chewed I took a bun, dipped it in water, swallowed the dogs in lumps then ‘drank’ the bun, just like Pop used to. I reached for more dogs.

  We were only 20 seconds into the competition. I was trying to stay calm, not get panicky. I glanced across at Mad Dog.

  ‘Morgan reaches for dog number four,’ Fast Eddie called.

  I jammed dog two in and barked it down with a big gulp of water. I would have preferred butter, sauce and mustard, but Pop always said that those things made you sick after 40 or 50 hot dogs.

  As I shoved in dog three the commentator screamed, ‘Nummmber six for Maaaaaad Doooooog.’

  He was already three dogs ahead.

  I jumped and moved around, helping the dogs go down, but Mad Dog just sat there. The only things moving were his jaw and his dog hand.

  ‘Threeee minutes,’ was the call on the mic. ‘It’s like ballet watching these contestants eat, isn’t it folks?’

  As I wolfed another bun I turned to see half a frankfurt falling from Mad Dog’s mouth and a squished bun slopping around in his jaws. There’s no way ballet could be this gross.

  I grabbed dogs 23 and 24. I snapped them, jammed them in together, chewed twice and slammed them down with a soggy double-bun chaser. I was struggling. I looked out into the crowd and saw my mum standing at the back of the tent. Nan was sitting in front of her. They both looked nervous. Mum hadn’t wanted me to enter the competition at all, but now she had this look on her face like it really mattered to her that I won. She gripped her hands together under her chin, like she was praying for me to do this for her dad. Nan covered her eyes. Maybe I reminded her too much of Pop?