The Nerdiest Wimpiest Dorkiest I Funny Ever Page 2

  “No,” I say, “I’m Jamie.”

  The tour guide does a quick translation.

  A dozen of my Japanese fans crack up.

  So I pop a wheelie and pull a funny face.

  Now they’re doubled over with laughter. It’s true. Laughter is the universal language. It’s something everybody everywhere does the same. And if you do something physically funny, you don’t even need a translator. That’s probably why Charlie Chaplin, the silent movie comedian, was the biggest movie star the world has ever known.

  I pose for selfies, sign a bunch of autographs, do one more funny face, and then head into my dressing room to (finally) wipe off all those smooch marks.

  Uncle Frankie is waiting for me. (The real one who twirls yo-yos, not the British actor who plays him on TV.) He sees my lipstick-plastered face and whistles.

  “Wow, Jamie. Exactly how many times did Donna Dinkle smooch you when you two were offstage in that tunnel?”

  “Just once,” I say. “The makeup crew gave me all the other ones.”

  He nods. “They have the hots for you, too, huh?”

  I shake my head and laugh. I know he’s joking.

  “Say, speaking of love,” Uncle Frankie says, kind of randomly, since, technically, we were speaking of kisses, not love. “I have some big news, kiddo.”

  “You’re entering another yo-yo contest?” (When he was younger, Uncle Frankie was a world-class yo-yo champion. Now he calls yo-yos “the original fidget spinners.”)

  “Nope,” he says. “This is even bigger.”

  “You’re adding a triple-decker burger to the diner menu?”

  “Bigger still.”

  “Quadruple-decker? Four meat patties with cheese in between?”

  “Nope. Flora and I are getting married! Next weekend!”

  FLORA DENNING IS the librarian at Long Beach Middle School, where I go when I’m not taping TV shows. She’s smart and nice, and I liked her right away.

  Not too long ago, my friends and I (with a little nudge from Uncle Frankie) helped Ms. Denning save her library from the scheming principal, who had diabolical plans to turn the heart of the school (that’s what a library is) into a sweat room for his wrestling team. He’s the ex-principal now because of all that scheming and diabolical planning.

  “Jamie,” says Uncle Frankie, fixing me with a superserious look. “I want you to be my best man.”

  “B-b-best man? But I’m just a kid. I’m not sure I can, officially, be a man, especially not the best one. Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “Rules, schmules. I want you to stand up for me, Jamie.”

  I can’t resist the comedic softball Uncle Frankie just lobbed my way. “And I’d love to stand up for you, too. Heck, I’d love to stand up for anybody. I’d even love to stand in line at the post office, but the docs tell me it would take a medical miracle.”

  “You know what I mean, kiddo.” Uncle Frankie puts his hand on my shoulder. “This is going to be one of the happiest days of my life. I need you there by my side. Flora wants you to be my best man, too. If it weren’t for you … for what you guys did … Flora and I …”

  Now he’s stammering. His eyes are getting kind of moist. Mine, too.

  “I’m in,” I say as quickly as I can so neither one of us starts blubbering. “Are you guys going to exchange yo-yos instead of rings?”

  “We might, kiddo,” Uncle Frankie says with a wink and a smile. “We just might.”

  Uncle Frankie and Flora are going to make such a happy couple. At the risk of sounding too schmaltzy, they’re lucky to have found someone they want to spend the rest of their life with. I wonder if I’ll ever get to be that lucky one day.

  Eager to spread the happy news, I hurry home to Smileyville, which is what I call my aunt and uncle Kosgrov’s place. I call the Kosgrov house Smileyville because none of them ever smile. Not even the dog.

  You know how I said laughter was the universal language? The Smileys never got the memo.

  I’ve been living with the Smileys ever since I moved to Long Beach on Long Island not so long ago. I sleep in the garage, which, by the way, is awesome. There are no steps. I don’t even need a ramp. I can just roll up the doors with my remote and roll on in.

  Also, I’ve turned the place into my kid cave, which is kind of like a man cave, only better—with more video game gear, a flat-screen TV, tons of joke books, and a nacho cheese dispenser.

  Smileyville is also where my cousin Stevie lives.

  Stevie Kosgrov.

  Maybe you’ve heard of him. Or seen his face on a wanted poster.

  Because Stevie Kosgrov holds the record for being Long Beach Middle School’s biggest bully.

  And I hold the record for being his biggest target.

  THE GOOD NEWS?

  My cousin the bully has changed his ways. Ever since we did a comedy team act together at the Hope Trust Children’s Rehabilitation Center, he’s channeled all his pent-up aggression into protecting me. He’s like my live-in bodyguard. The only people he threatens these days are the ones who don’t laugh at my jokes.

  “Yo, Jamie,” he says after politely knocking on the door that connects my garage to the rest of the house.

  “What’s up, Stevie?”

  “Security alert. Mom’s making green bean casserole for dinner.” He pounds his fist into the palm of his open hand. “You want I should go have a word with her? Maybe discuss your menu options?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t mind your mom’s green bean casserole.”

  “It’s the one with the cream of mushroom soup and burnt cornflake crumbs on top.”

  “It’s fine, Stevie.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Stevie pulls out a little notebook and licks the tip of a stubby pencil. “Anybody give you grief on the set today?”

  “Nope. No problems on the set.”

  “How about that Donna Dingle? She can be a real pain in the patootie.”

  “She was fine.”

  “And Joe Amodio, your big-shot producer?”

  “He’s fine, too,” I tell Stevie. “In fact, our final episode is in the can. We wrapped for the season.”

  “You guys did a rap? In the can? Was there toilets involved?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Because it’s easier.

  That night, over dinner, I tell the Smileys what I know about Uncle Frankie’s upcoming wedding.

  “The service will be next Saturday at the church. The reception will be at the diner with a full burger and meat loaf buffet. Instead of gifts, they want everybody to donate a book to the middle school library.”

  The Smileys nod. They do not smile.

  “I’m sure it will be a very emotional wedding,” I say. “I bet even the cake will be in tiers.”

  Silence. Guess they forgot that tiers are what you call the layers in a layer cake.

  So I try a few more wedding zingers.

  “When the TV repairman got married, I hear the reception was amazing. Hey, do you know what they call a melon that’s not allowed to marry? A cantaloupe.”

  I tug at my collar. I’m bombing. Again.

  Stevie squints at his family.

  “Laugh, people!” he bellows.

  “Why?” asks his little brother. “Did somebody fart?”

  Nobody chuckles. Except, of course, me.

  Stevie sighs and shakes his head. “Sorry, Jamie. These people are impossible.”

  “Nah,” I say. “These people are my family.”

  When I say that, Aunt Smiley doesn’t laugh.

  But she does smile.

  Me too.

  THAT WEEKEND, I head to Radio City Music Hall in New York City to host the Second Annual Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition.

  That’s the contest I won last year. That means I’ll be turning over my crown to a new kid comic tonight.

  Uncle Frankie and his fiancée come into the city with me. We arrive in the souped-up limo-van that Joe Amodio sent out to Long Island to pick us up. It’s very wheelchair-accessible. We’re talking hydraulic lifts.

  “Will this year’s winner get their own TV show, too?” asks Ms. Denning.

  Gulp. Did not think of that.

  Is Joe Amodio, the producer of the Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Contest and Jamie Funnie, looking to replace me?

  “If they do get their own show,” says Uncle Frankie, “it’ll never be as funny as Jamie’s.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Uncle Frankie shrugs. “Hey, how could it be? Their show wouldn’t have an Uncle Frankie in it.”

  He sees the look on my face. I’m giving him my sad puppy dog eyes.

  “I’m kidding, Jamie. What the new kid’s show would be missing is you!”

  He claps me on the back and we head through the stage door. Jacky Hart, from Saturday Night Live, is in the hallway with her daughters, Tina and Grace. Jacky Ha-Ha (that’s what everybody called her when she was my age) is going to be my cohost for the live broadcast of the kid comedy competition.

  “Hiya, Jamie,” she says.

  Her daughters squeal. “Jamie!”

  What can I say? They’re big fans. Grace wants me to autograph her forehead. Tina wants me to sign her shoe. I do.

  Joe Amodio, the big-time TV producer, strolls up the hallway.

  “There they are! My two favorite funny people!”

  “You mean Grace and Tina?” I say. They giggle. Mr. Amodio slaps me on the back.

  “Kid, you still crack me up. Seriously, Jamie. You do. But this year’s competition? Tonight’s just the start.”

  “I thought these were the finals,” says Jacky.

  “They are,” says Mr. Amodio.

  Then he winks.

  “For the US
A competition. Whoever wins tonight? They’re moving on to the brand-new, superexciting international round. And guess what, Jamie?”

  “What?”

  “You’re going with them!”

  An international competition where nobody understands a single word I’m saying? Sheesh. Welcome back to my United Nations nightmare.

  MR. AMODIO FLICKS his wrist to check his watch. It’s one of those sleek ones that count your steps. That’s why I’ll never own one.

  “We’ll talk, bubelah,” he says with a grin. “But the big international competition won’t start for a few weeks. Right now, I need you to focus on being funny and hosting this new crop of kids.”

  “B-b-but …” I stammer.

  “Is that your new Porky Pig impersonation?” asks Mr. Amodio. “I love it, Jamie. Love. It. But don’t use it in the show, capisce? Copyright issues. Jacky? You ready to rock?”

  “Tartar sauce!” she says. “Barnacles!”

  “No SpongeBob catchphrases, either!” shouts Mr. Amodio. “You two jokers. You slay me. Seriously. You do.” He walks away, chuckling and shaking his head. “Comedians. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t lock ’em in a bathroom.”

  “See you out there, Jamie,” says Jacky, ducking into her dressing room. “Come on, guys. Mom has to put on her clown suit.”

  “You’re wearing a clown suit?” asks Grace.

  “Will you give us balloons?” asks Tina.

  “It’s just an expression,” I hear Jacky say as the dressing room door closes.

  When they’re gone, Ms. Denning looks at me with a goofy grin. Then she starts clapping her hands together. “This is so exciting, Jamie. You might be in another competition! You might get to travel to another country!”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about it.”

  “I’ll try to buttonhole Mr. Amodio,” says Uncle Frankie. “Find out what the heck he’s talking about.”

  “I don’t want to compete again,” I say, feeling the butterflies dancing the cha-cha in my stomach.

  “Don’t worry, Jamie,” says Uncle Frankie, placing his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Keep calm and carry on.”

  “That’s what the British say.”

  “I know. Nigel Bigglebottom taught it to me. Now go out there, have fun, and host the best show you’ve ever hosted.”

  I nod. I’m going to try.

  “And,” says Ms. Denning, “if you do get nervous, just think about how petrified all the kids in the competition must feel.”

  She’s right. I’ve been there, done that, have the sweat-soaked T-shirt to prove it. I am sooooo glad I’m not one of the dozen kid comics vying to be this year’s funniest kid on the planet.

  A production assistant comes over and hands me a stack of note cards.

  “Hiya, Jamie,” she says. “Here’s the info on the kids you’ll be introducing. You’ll do these six, Jacky will do the other six. Feel free to ad-lib if you don’t love the jokes the writers came up with.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  I look down at the cards and see the names of all the kids who want to take my place as the funniest kid on the planet.

  And if Mr. Amodio is thinking what I think he’s thinking, one of them might get a chance to defeat me, too.

  THE PLANET’S FUNNIEST Kid Comic Finals is a live TV show.

  That means I need to stay focused. I should be used to performing for an audience, but even after filming Jamie Funnie for months in front of people, I still get nervous. Every. Single. Time. So I try to forget whatever Mr. Amodio might’ve said about me competing in some kind of new international contest.

  The jokes the staff writers whipped up for my contestant intros are probably pretty good. But I can’t read the note cards. My flop sweat has now dribbled down from my forehead and into my eyeballs.

  Jacky and I improvise a quick bit to open the show.

  “Well, Jamie,” says Jacky, “tonight’s the big night. One of these twelve contestants will be crowned the new funniest kid on this planet.”

  “Yes,” I say. “My reign as champion of the planet is nearing an end.”

  Jacky nods. “I think that means you have to move to Mars.”

  The audience laughs.

  “Is Mars one of those planets with zero gravity?” I ask, looking up from my wheelchair. “Because floating would be a whole lot easier than pumping rubber all day!”

  Another laugh.

  Jacky introduces our first comic, who calls himself Don Pickles. I think it’s a stage name. He’s a scowling fifth grader in a shiny leopard-print jacket doing a furious version of the legendary insult comedian Don Rickles’s schtick. He starts prowling the stage, working the audience.

  “That’s a nice jacket you’re wearing, sir,” he says to a man in a plaid sport coat. “Go pick up some cotton candy on your way home and join the circus.” He moves down the first row of seats. “I don’t know this gentleman in the beard. Good luck in Bethlehem, sir. I have a friend who said an onion is the only food that can make you cry. So I threw a coconut at his face. At school, they taught us that light travels faster than sound. That’s why some people seem bright until you hear them speak.”

  Don Pickles is a little, um, angry for my taste. In my act, I try to have fun without making fun of other people. Even if I’m competing against them in some kind of new international contest that Joe Amodio just dreamed up.

  Ooops.

  I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that, was I?

  Guess that’s why I just missed my entrance cue!

  “PSSST! JAMIE?”

  The stage manager snaps me out of my sweat-soaked, panic-streaked trance.

  “You’re on!”

  I wipe my forehead with a polka-dotted hand-kerchief and roll onstage to my microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “our next comedian needs no introduction. So what am I doing out here? Well, the brake on my chair doesn’t work so I just sort of rolled onstage. I’m kidding. I wouldn’t miss this next comedian’s set for all the cheese at Chuck E.’s. I give you the one, the only … Conor Cronin!”

  The audience cheers. Conor Cronin cradles the microphone at center stage and sort of mumbles into it.

  “I went to a customer information booth at the mall,” drones Conor Cronin in a deadpan monotone as he recycles some of Steven Wright’s best lines. “I asked them to tell me about some of the people who shopped there last week. There was a power outage at the mall while I was there. At least two dozen people were trapped on the escalators. Just remember—everywhere is walking distance if you have the time, but on the other hand … you have different fingers.”

  Jacky introduces the next comic, a guy named Mick Shaffer, who makes jokes while juggling stuff—including toasters and Pop Tarts. Then there’s Tom Carrozza, a ventriloquist, and Kim Sykes, who does celebrity impersonations.

  We work our way through half a dozen more comics, all of them very funny. I introduce the final act: ten-year-old Grace Garner from Cedar Falls, Iowa. She’s extremely cute and calls herself the Corn Queen—and not just because she’s from Iowa. She has some of the corniest two-liners I’ve ever heard. But she tells them with such conviction and such incredible timing (not to mention a dimpled grin) that she’s hysterical and unbelievably adorable!

  “Do you know where bees go to the bathroom? The nearest BP station. What’s brown and has a head and tail but no legs? A penny! You know why the banana went to the hospital? It wasn’t peeling very well.”

  She reels them off, one after another, with the rat-a-tat-tat speed of a laser cannon in a Star Wars video game.

  When all the votes are tallied, we have a winner.

  Yep. Grace Garner. America loves its corn. Especially when it’s popped up hot and fast and sweet.

  “Perfect!” says Joe Amodio when we’re off the air. “You and Grace are gonna be great together.”

  “Um, when?”

  “We’ll talk.”

  And I thought that was what we were doing.

  “Swing by the office tomorrow with Frankie, kid. We’ll do lunch. And, Jamie?”