Comin’ at Ya!
Ladies and Gentlemen...A dangerous meteor, roughly the size of a mutated honeydew melon, is headed toward our planet as we speak! Scientists have tried to stop it with laser beams, nuclear weapons, and harsh language, but they’ve had no effect. The President advises that you all crawl into your underground bunkers and make sure they’re stocked with medical supplies, wide-screen TVs, and, of course, plenty of delicious pork cracklins....
There’s the meteor now! It’s headed straight for us, bringing certain destruction and doom!
No, wait! That’s not a meteor—it’s just one of Merle’s world-famous hair balls. And that’s Dr. Nate Farkles, Gingham County’s best veterinarian, helping him cough it up. That’s me, Wiley, watching the disgusting procedure with my grampa and gramma.
“Ooh! That reminds me,” said Gramma, “we’re having Swedish meatballs with brown gravy tonight. I’ve gotta stop by the grocery store.”
But the streets of Gingham County were in chaos.
“Is it Mardi Gras again?” asked Grampa.
“No!” screamed a crazy screaming person. “Haven’t you heard? There’s a meteor headed this way. We have only a few minutes left!”
“Oooh!” said Gramma. “Then I’d better get to the grocery store, quick!”
“Stay calm!” yelled Officer Puckett. “Don’t worry, folks. We have a team of top scientists and military leaders, and they have all assured me that there is nothing we can do and we’re all gonna die!”
“I’m not gonna die!” yelled Grampa. “Not on Swedish meatball night!”
Grampa borrowed a grappling hook from the local sporting-goods store and flung it over a giant tennis racket on the roof.
“Pull it tight, Wiley,” said Grampa. “We’re gonna send that meteor back where it came from!”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” I yelled back.
We pulled the rope as hard as we could.
Then Gramma used Merle to gnaw through the rope, just as the meteor was about to hit.
The racket snapped back and smacked the you-know-what out of that meteor, sending it hurtling over a busload of nuns only to bounce off the Devil’s Rump and crash into the wilderness.
That night, Grampa and I were a big hit on the nightly news. Blue Norther even did a special report on us.
“So that’s it, folks! That’s how my amazingly accurate meteor prediction allowed these two guys to save the town. Now, let’s go live to the scene of the impact....”
“After close examination with probes and beepy things,” said Dr. Fred Yepsir, “we have concluded that the meteor is actually made of hair. That’s right, it’s a giant hair ball. Scientists are trying to determine if the hair is human or alien. We will also be giving it a shampoo and blow-dry.”
“Hair!” yelled Gramma. “That reminds me. Tomorrow is haircut day. I made appointments for all of us!”
“Ohhh!” I moaned. The only thing I hate more than getting a haircut is a good tooth drilling.
