The Nerdiest Wimpiest Dorkiest I Funny Ever Read online

  “Yes, sir?”

  “This is going to be huge! The hugest thing we’ve ever done together!”

  SINCE SCHOOL AND Jamie Funnie are both on hiatus for the summer, I head down the boardwalk to Uncle Frankie’s diner to grab breakfast.

  Good Eats by the Sea is a strange name for a place that serves breakfast, because we Americans don’t eat much seafood early in the morning. Nobody ever goes into Burger King and orders an egg and shrimp Croissan’wich. Nobody pulls up to the drive-thru at McDonald’s and orders an Egg McMackerel with a side of seaweed.

  But according to Uncle Frankie, who studies food (and yo-yos) the way I study comedy, people do eat fish for breakfast all the time in Japan. Sweden, too. Probably because neither country has discovered bacon yet.

  Ms. Denning and Uncle Frankie are sitting in a booth when I roll through the front door. They’re reading some kind of book, which they immediately hide when they see me coming. Because that’s not suspicious at all.

  “Jamie!” says Uncle Frankie. “Pull up a chair.”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I’ll stick with this one. Better padding.”

  I park my wheelchair perpendicular to the booth.

  “You want pancakes?” asks Uncle Frankie.

  “French toast?” asks Ms. Denning. “How about a waffle?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “You want me to make a smiley face on the pancakes with bananas and chocolate chips?”

  “Um, I’m not six, Uncle Frankie ….”

  “Right. So, you don’t want the chocolate chips?”

  “Of course I do. I just wanted to remind you guys that I graduated kindergarten years ago.”

  Uncle Frankie whips up a huge platter of pancakes, French toast, waffles, eggs, bacon, and sausage—all of it decorated to the max with sliced fruit, chocolate chips, and Reese’s Pieces.

  “So, uh, what’s going on?” I ask.

  Uncle Frankie and Ms. Denning look at each other. He nods.

  “Well, Jamie, as you know, your uncle and I are going to get married on Saturday,” says Ms. Denning.

  I hold my knife to the stack of pancakes. But I can’t cut them. Not with Uncle Frankie and Ms. Denning smiling at me like that. I put down my silverware and say, “Right.”

  Ms. Denning takes Uncle Frankie’s hand.

  “We’re going to be a family,” she says.

  “Flora and Frankie,” says Uncle Frankie. “Frankie and Flora.”

  Wow. He sounds like he’s more nervous than I was right before I rolled onstage at my very first comedy competition in Ronkonkoma.

  “You tell him, Frankie,” says Ms. Denning.

  “You sure, hon?”

  “I can’t. It makes me too happy.”

  She’s all choked up and dabbing at her eyes with a paper napkin.

  Okay now. What is going on?

  “Well, Jamie,” says Frankie. “As you know, you’ve been my nephew for a long time. Ever since you were born. And I’ve been your uncle. Which is why you call me Uncle Frankie.”

  I’m pretty sure he’ll get to the point. Eventually.

  Now Uncle Frankie honks his nose in a napkin and sniffles back some tears.

  “Jamie, I know I can’t ever replace your dad … my baby brother …”

  “And I’ll never replace your mother,” says Ms. Denning. “Nobody can.”

  “But,” says Uncle Frankie, “now that Flora and I are, like we said, going to be a family and all, we think it would be an even better family if you came along for the ride.”

  I nod slowly. I’m not exactly sure what he’s talking about.

  Then I look down at the booth bench and see the book they hid when I first rolled into the diner:

  WHOA!

  It’s like Uncle Frankie and Ms. Denning are proposing to me. They want to become my adoptive parents.

  “Could I still live in a garage?” I ask.

  “Whatever you want, kiddo!” says Uncle Frankie.

  “We just want to share the rest of our lives with you,” says his bride-to-be.

  “Officially,” adds Uncle Frankie.

  “Do you think the Smileys will mind?” I say. “They’ve been awfully good to me.”

  (Except for the part about having a psycho-bully son named Stevie, but even that’s sort of worked itself out.)

  “I talked to your aunt and uncle,” says Frankie. “The Kosgrovs think it would be a wonderful idea.”

  “Well, then,” I say with a smile wider than the one on my waffle, “so do I!”

  And then we all hug. And sniffle. And sob.

  Like Uncle Frankie and Flora said, no one could ever replace my mom and dad and sister, but this is the next-best thing. I’ll have my own family again.

  There’s nothing more important than that.

  After we talk about a few details, I devour my breakfast platter because Uncle Frankie and I have to hurry into New York City for that lunch meeting with Joe Amodio. (Yes, I might gain fifteen pounds in one day.) Gilda joins us.

  If it has anything to do with Jamie Funnie or just Jamie Grimm, I definitely want Gilda in my corner!

  “Jamie! Frankie! Gilda!”

  Mr. Amodio is all open arms and smiles when we enter his office on the forty-third floor of the BNC Tower in midtown Manhattan. The guy has a great view of the city. And a telescope parked near the windows.

  “So glad you guys could join us today,” he says.

  “Us?” says Uncle Frankie, arching an eyebrow.

  “I think he’s using the royal we,” says Gilda.

  “I could,” says Mr. Amodio, puffing up his chest. “And I usually do. But not today. Come on. The gang’s waiting for us in my conference room.”

  “The gang?” I say.

  “A consortium of TV producers from around the world. We’ve got folks from Germany, Brazil, Australia, Kenya, Russia, the United Arab Emirates, Sweden, Japan …”

  “Did they eat fish for breakfast this morning?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Mr. Amodio chuckles. “You crack me up, kid. Seriously, you do. Even when I don’t know what the heck you’re talking about, you make me laugh. Come on. Let’s go meet our new international partners!”

  He opens the sliding doors and we enter the conference room. Very serious men and women in business suits are gathered around a huge table. Uncle Frankie is tugging at the untucked tails of his Hawaiian-print shirt, probably wishing he’d worn something different or at least put on a tie.

  I have the feeling that, unlike the meeting I had with Uncle Frankie and Aunt Flora, this one isn’t going to end in big hugs.

  “JAMIE, BABY,” SAYS Mr. Amodio. “Let me cut to the chase. The Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic competition has been a huge success here in the good old US of A. Well, now it’s time to share the wealth with the rest of the world. Because, hey—how can you be the funniest kid on the planet if most of that planet wasn’t even represented in the competition, am I right?”

  “This is true!” says a businessman who sounds a lot like Mr. Burdzecki, a customer at Uncle Frankie’s diner who came from Russia when it used to be the Soviet Union.

  The Russian guy growls at me. “We wish to challenge you, the so-called number one funny boy of the world. We have funny boy. His name is Vasily. He will bury you.”

  “But, um, Grace Garner is the new American champion, not me,” I say as sweat trickles down my spine. I hate when it does that.

  “True,” says Mr. Amodio. “That’s why Grace Garner is going to join you on Team USA at the finals.”

  “Uh, what finals are we talking about here?”

  “Zee finals for zee new worldwide competition!” says a man with a thick accent.

  “These are going to be the Olympics of Comedy, Jamie,” says Mr. Amodio. “First, you host a series of regional competitions. The Americas. Australia. Africa. Asia. The Middle East. Europe.”

  Uncle Frankie whistles. “You’re gonna rack up a ton of frequent flyer miles, kiddo.”

  “You’re gonna need a bigger suitcase,” adds Gilda.

  I’m also gonna need better antiperspirant.

  “Jamie,” says Mr. Amodio, “my colleagues have flown in from all over the world …”

  “And boy, are their arms tired,” I say. It’s a reflex. Toss me a classic setup, I’ll counter with its punch line. But nobody laughs. Instead, everybody stares, glares, and glowers. And then they explode.

  I don’t understand a word they’re screaming. Except for the Australian dude. He speaks English. Sort of.

  When they’re done screaming at me, they start screaming at one another.

  “Germans have no sense of humor!” shouts the Russian.

  “Oh, yes we do!” hollers the German. “We laugh at Russia all the time!”

  “You people eat yeast!” the Brazilian yells at the Australian.

  “It’s called Vegemite, mate. And it’s a ripper. Makes us funnier than a kangaroo playin’ a didgeridoo!”

  Uncle Frankie stands up and grabs hold of my chair’s handles. “We’re outta here,” he says. “Come on, Gilda. Give me a call, Joe, when you knuckleheads stop screaming at each other and hash this thing out.”

  And then he pushes me out of the room.

  Usually, I don’t like it when somebody drives me around like a suitcase with wheels.

  But right now? I love it. Because Uncle Frankie can shove me out of that room faster than I could’ve shoved myself.

  LOOKING FOR A little normalcy, I work the dinner rush at Uncle Frankie’s diner.

  It’s kind of where my whole comedy career got started. Before I ever entered my first young comedian contest, Uncle Frankie let me man the cash register at Good Eats by the Sea and ring up a classic joke for any customer who requested one.

  With time, it’s turned into a bit like the “Stump the Band” routine that the late, great Johnny Carson used to do when he hosted The Tonight Show (they had all his DVDs at the Hope Trust Children’s Rehabilitation Center).

  Some of Uncle Frankie’s regulars even try to trip me up by asking for comics they think nobody my age has ever heard of. But I have yet to be thrown. I’ve heard of and studied them all.

  “Phyllis Diller,” says Mrs. Mankowitz with a sly “gotcha” grin as she hands me her dinner check and a twenty-dollar bill. Phyllis Diller was big back in the 1960s, waaaay before I was born. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know her jokes.

  “We spend the first twelve months of our children’s lives teaching them to walk and talk,” I say, firing off one of Diller’s best one-liners, “and the next twelve years teaching them to sit down and shut up.”

  I give myself a BADA-BING with the cash register keys and hand Mrs. Mankowitz her change.

  Next up is a guy who loves George Carlin jokes. I give him a daily double. “If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled? Remember—don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.”

  “Here’s one you won’t know,” says a lady with a very proper British accent. “Peter Kay!”

  Ooh. I’m impressed. Peter Kay is high on the obscure-comic scale. At least here in America. He’s actually very big around the world. In fact, this English comedian’s 2010–2011 stand-up tour made it into Guinness World Records as the most successful of all time, playing to more than 1.2 million people!

  And yes, I’ve memorized a few of his best jokes, including the one I tell the lady with the English accent.

  “My dad used to say ‘always fight fire with fire.’ Which is probably why he got thrown out of the fire brigade.”

  From the early-bird specials to the late dinner crowd, I keep it up. Nobody stumps me.

  When things finally calm down, Uncle Frankie gestures for me to join him in the kitchen. This is where we’ve had a lot of our very important uncle-to-nephew chats. He sits on a pickle barrel. I park near a stack of canned corn.

  “I’ve got some big news,” says Uncle Frankie.

  Suddenly, I feel like the corn. I’m all ears.

  “MR. AMODIO JUST called,” says Uncle Frankie.

  He pulls a wrinkled sheet of paper out of his pocket. On one side is a grocery list. On the other, notes from his telephone conversation with Mr. Amodio.

  “He and the rest of those assorted international knuckleheads finally hashed out the details for this international Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic dealio. You’d be the host for a series of televised regional finals we’d do in South America, Asia, Australia, Africa, the Middle East, and Europe.”

  “How do the comics make it to the finals?” I ask.

  “Video submissions over the internet. Folks would vote for their favorites online. The shows you’d be hosting would feature the best of the best and would shoot in Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Sydney, Nairobi, Dubai, and Berlin. One right after the other.”

  “So I’d be going around the world in eighty days?”

  “More like three weeks. I’m getting jet lag just thinking about it.”

  Uncle Frankie checks his notes.

  “Get this. The official rules state that all the jokes in the regional finals must be delivered in English.”

  “Really?” I say. “That sounds extremely unfair.”

  “I know. But Mr. Amodio says it’s the only way to sell the show to an American television audience. We don’t know as many foreign languages as they do over in Europe, where everybody knows two or three different ones.”

  I gulp a little. Because every chance to steal the show is also an opportunity to fall flat on my face, which in my case usually involves some wheelchair tipping.

  “So these regional shows will be broadcast here at home?” I ask.

  Uncle Frankie nods. “The big finals in London, too. Those will be like the Olympics. The top kid comics from each region will compete for the title of Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic Worldwide. That’s the round you’re supposed to compete in, kiddo. You and Grace Garner, the cornball from Iowa.”

  Uncle Frankie stands up and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “I know you’re not keen on competing again, but, well, it might be fun. Plus, you’d get to see the world. Sleep on it. Mr. Amodio needs an answer by Monday morning. We’ll talk more about it after the thing tomorrow.”

  I nod.

  But then I have to ask.

  “What thing tomorrow?”

  Uncle Frankie gives me a funny look. “Nothing too important. Only my wedding, Mr. Best Man.”

  I actually slap my forehead and say, “Doh!”

  Uncle Frankie laughs. “You know, Jamie, not for nothing, but the best man’s most important job is to make sure the groom gets to the church on time. Remembering when the wedding is taking place might be a good start.”

  “Gotcha. So, uh, what’s my second-most-important job?”

  “Making a toast and giving a speech at the reception.”

  I have to make a speech?

  Guess I’m going to have to change my underwear again. Because all of a sudden, flop sweat is trickling down my spine like crazy!

  UNCLE FRANKIE AND New Aunt Flora’s wedding is beautiful.

  And yes, we make it to the church on time. I even wear a tuxedo. I’m also in charge of hanging on to the official ring Uncle Frankie slips on Ms. Denning’s finger. He keeps the unofficial yo-yo hidden in his tux pocket. It’s a Duncan Pulse. The kind that lights up when it twirls. Ms. Denning surprises Uncle Frankie by giving him a yo-yo, too! Hers whistles when it unwinds.

  Like I said, the wedding is beautiful and just a little wacky.

  After Uncle Frankie and Ms. Denning are officially pronounced “husband and wife” (which, if you ask me, is a funny way to pronounce their names), we all hurry back to the diner for the reception.

  The Smileys headed up the decoration committee, and the place looks spectacular. There’s all sorts of curling white crepe-paper streamers and a ton of those fold-out honeycomb wedding bells hanging off the ceiling. The delicious aromas of hamburgers and meat loaf waft in the air.

  I’ve worked on my best man toast and have it tucked inside my tuxedo jacket.

  Gilda is sort of my date for the wedding. Not that we’re on a date. We’re just both wearing fancy clothes and we arrived together in the same vehicle so, yeah, I can see how people might think it was a date.

  “Nervous about making your toast?” she asks.

  “A little bit,” I confess.

  “Don’t worry,” she says, combing a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. “You’re a pro, Jamie. Saying witty stuff in front of a whole bunch of people is what you do.”

  “But this is special.”

  “I agree,” says Gilda. Then she looks at me with what can only be described as goo-goo eyes. “You know, Jamie, I think it’s awesome when two people who were meant to be together forever find each other.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Gilda’s eyes widen. Then they start blinking. Repeatedly.

  “And,” says Gilda, “I think it’s even more awesome when those two people find each other early in life. Maybe even when they’re in middle school.”

  I think I know where she’s going with this, so I do what I usually do when I panic. I crack a joke. “I guess that’s why they say the early bird gets the worm. But the second mouse gets the cheese!”

  Gilda quits making goo-goo eyes so she can roll them at me.

  I’m saved by the bell. Actually, it’s somebody dinging a fork against the side of a glass, but it sounds like a bell. It’s time for the toasts.

  I’m on!

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” I say, holding up my glass of lemon-lime soda. “As best man, or in my case, best kid, I’d like to say a few words.”

  “Hear, hear!” shouts one of Frankie’s regulars.

  “Yes, sir. Right here is where I plan on doing it. As you guys know, I’ve studied a lot of classic comedians. Many of them had a lot to say about love and marriage. For instance, Rodney Dangerfield. He said, ‘My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met.’”