The Quirky, Nerdy, and Entirely Original Elementary School Adventures of Derpy Dirk:
Derpy Dirk and the Fight With the School Bully By the Flagpole At Lunch
A Derp Sandwich chapter book by Jack Thomas
Published at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Jack Thomas
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Chapter 1:
Yeah, I Don’t Know Why a Journal Would Have Chapters Either. Shut Up.
My name is Dirk. In case you couldn’t tell by my ridiculously-oversized and thick black-rimmed glasses that I wear despite the fact that there are a plethora of better looking styles that I could have chosen from, I’m a nerd. Geek, if you will. Or even dork, or dweeb, or spoobag. The fact of the matter is, I’m not very popular in school—or even the rest of my life. Not a lot of people like me because I’m such a nerd.
Nobody likes nerds. Nerdiness isn’t supported by any facet of popular media, the clothing styles associated with it are massively unpopular, and those unlucky few that fall under its evil umbrella are no matter what, one-hundred percent doomed to a life without love or happiness. But I guess that’s just how things are when you’re me.
This is my personal journal, because kids totally have the attention spans to keep personal journals when they’re in the fourth grade. In it I will write oddly-episodic tales about my suspiciously interesting life, in perfect prose and with correct spelling and punctuation. But don’t call it a diary, because diaries are for girls, and my dad says that every time you do something that’s for girls your soul gets a tiny crack in it, and if it gets too many cracks it breaks and you don’t have a soul, and you turn gay. Dad says that’s what a gay person is—a person with no soul, and that God hates them. I don’t know if that’s true, but my dad likes to remind me that he has access to all of my meals before I get them, so I usually listen to what he says.
Chapter 2:
Obligatory Character Introductions
I woke up on Tuesday with a huuuge booger stuck to my forehead. It was really gross, and I didn’t even see it until I put on my retarded glasses and looked in the bathroom mirror, and I was all, “D’awww!” and it was really funny. But I guess you had to be there. If they ever made a movie out of this journal, that part would probably be a lot more significant.
I knew it was my little brother who did it, so I went to his room, which is down the hall.
I opened the door and yelled, “You turd burglar!”
My brother’s name is Boogerfartstinkpoop, but I just call him Boogerpoop, because I hate him. He’s a stinky little butt monster, and he’s super gross and farting all the time. He’s six, too, so he’s super annoying and dumb. And whenever someone new comes over I go, “That’s Boogerpoop…” and I say it all sourly and roll my eyes. I think that’s how he would be introduced if this journal was a movie, except it would be a voiceover saying it, and maybe he would freeze-frame while doing something gross.
When I opened the door Boogerpoop was sitting in the middle of his floor, shoveling canned dog food into his mouth from a bucket. Plunked down on the rug, face smeared with dog food, just cramming the stuff into his mouth. He was laughing, too, and farting. The room smelled like a dog food monster died and farted a bunch, like how things do when they die.
“Awww, Boogerpoooop!” I said, waving my hand in front of my nose. “You’re such a disgusting little puke-fat!”
Boogerpoop laughed, and farted again, and said, “Come on in, Dirk, the dog food water’s delicious!” Then he burped really loud. It was like his signature burp, too; for some reason every single burp of his sounds exactly the same. Almost like it’s a recording of a burp more than an actual burp. I don’t know why. His farts are pretty much like that, too.
I slammed the door and went to the kitchen to get some breakfast.
I put some Sugar-Possessed Kablama-Blams in a bowl and poured milk over them, and then I took them to the table to eat. Our kitchen table has a red and white polka-dotted tablecloth. We’re such a wacky family.
Mom was doing mom stuff or whatever, and after a minute my stupid sister came into the kitchen. Her name is Brittnica, and she’s a stupid bitchy bitch face, just like EVERY SINGLE female on Earth from the ages of eleven to twenty eight. (Amirite?) She was talking on her phone super loud about how horrible some other girl was, and she was probably right about what she was saying.
“Uh-muh-gud, Katy, she is such a skankasaurus-rhino!” she was saying as she walked in. “She was all like, ‘Sup,’ and I was all, ‘I’m gonna poison your hotdog, betch!’ and I totally did, too.” She went over to the counter while she talked and grabbed a knife from the drawer. Then she walked over to me and stabbed me in the shoulder.
“Move it, you little dweeeeeb!” she said, and then she left the room.
The knife only went in like an inch, but it hurt pretty bad. It bled some, too, but my mom apparently didn’t notice. Sisters are jerks.
After I wrapped up my shoulder in band-aids the bus pulled up outside. I grabbed my backpack and ran out to it. The door opened with a hiss, and sitting in the driver’s seat was Mrs. Schmirtzelburgerbooper, whose entire face was one enormous mole. I’m not kidding, either. She had no eyes or nose or mouth—just one huge mole, with lots of little hairs coming from it that we all had names for. Bonkers the Big-David looked at me real close on this particular day, and Mrs. Schmirtzelburgerbooper stuck her massive, flaming cigar into an arbitrary groove of her mole and took a huge drag, spewing the smoke directly into my face immediately after. When I coughed, she punched me right in my cut shoulder. Then she farted. The whole coughing-punching thing is sort of like a game with her, and I always lose. My dad says he likes Mrs. Schmirtzelburgerbooper.
Kids between the ages of six and ten totally have a very clearly established and rigidly enforced social order, so as a nerd I made my way to the back of the bus, lest I should literally be killed. Sitting in the very back seat was my best friend, Melvin Schmelvin. He has glasses that are even bigger and stupider than mine, and he’s monstrously ugly. He’s only nine, but somehow his whole face is completely covered in a perfect layer of zits, and his buck teeth are actually so large that they can’t even be contained in his mouth. He’s an even bigger nerd than I am, and I’m convinced that quite literally no one in the world loves him. He’s always talking about how he’s watched Star Trek four times. Gosh, but that’s us, though; we’re such big nerds, and everyone hates us. Derp.
“Hey Dirk,” he said as I walked up and sat down beside him. His speech was slurred by his huge buck teeth, and he drooled and went “duuuuhhhh” after he said it. What a nerd.
“Hey Melvin,” I said.
“Did you see the new episode of ‘Space Kaboom Adventure Lasers Aliens Kaboom Star Adventures Zzzzzap’ last night?”
“No, but don’t tell me how it ends, I captured its data on my digital video recorder.”
Then some kid sitting in front of us leaned over the back of his seat and said, “In English pleeeaaase?” then sat back down. People are always saying stuff like that around us.
Chapter 3:
Dirk Is Issued a Challenge
Eventually the bus arrived at school and a few minutes before the bell rang me and Melvin were putting our stuff in our lockers. We were talking about the book we were reading in class.
“It’s so good, isn’t it?” Melvin exclaimed exclaimedly. “Easily the best bridge-to-a-magical-world book at this reading level.”
“Yeah, and hands down the best one-of-the-characters-dies-at-the-end-and-you-wonder-what-the-point-of-the-whole-thing-was-anyway books, period.”
Suddenly, a voice called from behind me.
“Hey! Derpy Dirk!”
Yeah, that’s what they call me. Derpy Dirk. It’s what everyone calls me—even my teachers and parents. In fact, I’m pretty sure my dad made it up, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how it was written on my birth certificate. On my first day of kindergarten he even came inside when he dropped me off just to tell all the other kids to call me that. Parents. So Kooky.
They call me Derpy Dirk because of my glasses, I think, and also because I’m such a huge nerd. That, and the fact that I’ve got a horrifically bulbous face and my bulging eyes point in completely opposite directions. I think it’s a stupid name, though. I’d rather be called Dart Frog Dirk. Dart frogs are cool.
I turned around and saw a towering figure standing down the hall. My bowels turned to water when I saw who it was.
Bulge McShivy VonPummel Fitzpatrick. Fitzpatrick for short. He’s the meanest, nastiest, most heavily abused kid at school. He’s only in the fifth grade, but he stands six-foot-three and weighs three hundred and ten pounds. He is the true bully of the playground, The Lord In Steel-Toed Boots, and I’m pretty sure he’s killed some people.
Fitzpatrick has two crony-toadies who follow him everywhere. The one standing on his left was Finger, who’s even bigger than he is, and twice as round. (And again, only in the fifth grade.) No one knows exactly why his name is Finger, but there’s a rumor that it’s because of his special, rarely-employed bullying tactic of the same name, which is equally shrouded in mystery. (The only theory as to its nature is that it has something to do with a finger, an orifice, and the act of putting things into other things where they might fit, but beyond that no one has any idea.)
And on Fitzpatrick’s right was Ratty Pearson, a tiny, mouse-like kid who likes to scurry around and nibble on things. Ratty is his real name, but no one knows why his parents called him that. He’s not much like a rat at all.
Every kid in the hallway froze when Fiztpatrick spoke, and I’m more than certain that all of their bowels turned to water too. After a moment he came walking down the hall, Finger lumbering and Ratty mousing along beside him. I found myself unable to move like a moose, or some other ungulate disoriented by the panic that would surely set in whilst confronted by a car’s bright high beams on a dark night, and soon they were standing in front of me.
Fitzpatrick stayed his goony-cronies with a series of hand gestures that took ten or fifteen seconds to complete, then stepped forward. He walked right up to me and slammed me against my locker, then lifted me up by my shirt.
(Might I add at this point that I sweat an awful lot, but only because I wear really thick shirts. I had to buy extra thick, strong shirts because every time Fitzpatrick lifted me up my shirt would rip, and I would get in trouble and sent home for not having a shirt, and whenever my dad sees me without a shirt he goes, “Environmental catastrophe survival check!” and sprays me with his high-pressure hose or dumps a bucket of ice on me or chases me with his battery-powered heat lamp for hours. He assures me that disaster movies like “The Day After Tomorrow” aren’t fiction, but an inevitability, and that I always have to be prepared for a massive climate shift. I guess he thinks shirts are pretty important. I have to be extra extra careful to remember to bring my clothes with me into the bathroom when I take a shower.)
Anyway, he lifted me up by my hot, itchy shirt, and if it were a movie, there would have been a really clear shot of my feet lifting off from the ground and dangling below me, just so you really knew it was happening. From the corner of my eye I could see Mrs. Fleniman walking by, and I heard her laugh. She’s got a really good sense of humor.
Fitzpatrick looked right into my eyes (or at least one of them, as it’s probably not possible to look into both at once) and said, “Hey, loser! Tomorrow at lunch, you and me, under the flag pole. I’m gonna cream you, dweeb!”
“Gross,” Melvin said from somewhere behind me.
“So you better prepare yourself, dork!” Fitzpatrick said. “Because I’m gonna beat you up, nerd!”
“You hear that, dork?” Ratty said in a decidedly mousey fashion. “He’s gonna beat the snot out of you, dweeb!”
Then Fitzpatrick dropped me, and I fell to the ground in a sweaty little pile like a wet, freshly-dead cat. With another series of hand gestures his toady-croanal-goonoids were following him back down the hall. Melvin helped me up, and all the other kids went back to what they were doing.
“Man, that crummy old Fitzpatrick,” he said. “What’s a jerk-poop like that even want with you?”
“I don’t know, Melvin,” I said as I dusted myself off, “but I’m in Big Trouble Little China minus the ‘Little China’ part.”
Chapter 4:
Jaime
By the time lunch came around, I was a nervous wreck. Fitzpatrick never ate the whole period—just sat at the other side of the room punching his palm with his fist and making finger-across-the-throat gestures whenever I looked up. He quite literally never moved from that position or stopped making those gestures.
I vomited six times throughout the course of the meal, and after a while I wondered why I was even bothering to eat at all. I had been eating a cheese sandwich with cheese, and Melvin was eating a bologna sandwich on bologna. I’m pretty sure cheese and bologna are the only two lunch foods that our grocery store stocks. It’s weird.
“So what are you gonna do?” Melvin asked as he mashed his food to a pulp in his hands. He always has to do that to food before eating it. It’s one of his quirky tendencies. Another is smelling the girls’ bathroom’s door handle. I don’t really get that one, but I guess I don’t get the food one, either.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just curl up and die, I guess.” That’s what a lot of people have told me to do over the years. Maybe it’s a good idea.
“Well you can’t just give up! You gotta fight back! Derrrrrr!” Then he drooled a little. It’s what nerds do.
“But I don’t know how to fight! I’m small and limp! It’s one of the few endearing qualities I’m convinced I have.”
“Well, we’ll just have to think of something,” Melvin said, still mashing his sandwich, which was now little more than a wet pile of meat-mush. “Let’s get to the playground so that we can devise a strategy.”
A kid leaned over from the next table down and said, “Whatever that meeeaannns…” Then he went back to his meal.
“I guess so,” I said, then vomited again.
Melvin hastily slurped up his sandwich with a puckered mouth, then we headed outside.
I attend Jermimaville Elementary/Middle School. We don’t actually live in Jermimaville though, and I’m not even sure if that’s a real place, as I’m not really certain what a jermima is. In fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s only called that because the custodian painted it over the real sign one day and no one bothered to change it back. I’d ask him myself it this was true, but whenever you talk to him he just starts asking if you want to see a dead body or telling you about how he could score you some “crazy eight”.
The elementary school is home of the Racist Beavers. I don’t know who came up with that name, but I heard it started out as sort of a nickname. We were originally called the Ballin’ Beavers, but I guess the old coach didn’t like a whole lot of different races of people very much, and everyone eventually dropped the “Ballin” part. Again, someone painted the new name on the school sign and the big mural, and no one bothered to change it back. Now it’s sort of like a tradition we have to uphold. That’s why Melvin couldn’t join the basketball team; he’s quarter Swedish. That, and he’s ugly and horrible.
The school’s flagpole is next to the playground, and for reasons completely unknown to anybody, flies a white flag with one large, red dot in the center—the Japanese flag. I guess we just don’t have a very motivated staff here at Jermimaville Elementary/Middle School.
We sat down next to the flagpole.
“Okay, so what do we know about fighting?” I asked. “How do you fight?”
“Well,” Melvin said, “my dad says one time he fought a guy with a sock full of batteries. Why don’t you try that?”
I thought about it for a moment.
“Nah, I don’t have any money to buy batteries. Plus, if I go home without one of my socks, my dad will probably start throwing glass everywhere or something.” (Yeah, he would probably notice. He’s got a strangely keen eye.)
“Hm…” Melvin paused for a moment, rubbing his buck teeth thoughtfully. “Well, speaking of glass, he said you could also use a grocery bag full of glass.”
“That would just break the glass. Then you’d have a bunch of broken glass everywhere.”
“Yeah… How about some pantyhose full of Scrabble pieces?”
“My mom would kill me.”
“What about a leather sack full of old cassette tapes?”
“We only have CD’s, and leather is expensive.”
“A paper bag full of oranges?”
“That might get messy.”
“A stack of books wrapped in a blanket?”
“That might mess up the books.”
“Yeah, he says it’s hard to hold the edges together anyway…”
“I’ve just got to face it, Melvin,” I said, slumping into a sad little pile. I’m really good at making little piles. “Tomorrow I’m going to die.”
“Well, if you do, can I have all of your ‘Space Adventure Planet Kaboom Space’ cards?”
“Space Adventure Planet Kaboom Space” cards is our favorite HCIRCCG (Heavy and Continuing Investment Required Collectible Card Game). It’s unrelated to “Space Kaboom Adventure Lasers Aliens Kaboom Star Adventures Zzzzzap”. It’s got a bunch of weirdo aliens in it, like “Muck Monster from Planet Gork”, and “Lord Zorgulon from Planet Slime-Ooze III”. Twenty-first century kids are totally into that stuff, you know. We certainly don’t like ridiculous Japanese monsters and robots, or flashy, colorful, quick-witted superheroes, or complicated card games that you actually play rather than just collect, or anything like that. Nope, we just want our 1950’s-style space adventures, and we want ‘em full to the brim with slime monsters. In fact, I’m pretty sure that “Space Adventure Planet Kaboom Space” is just a big collection of slime monsters—most of them somehow from our own solar system, too.
“No,” I said.
Chapter 5:
Mashed Potato Adventure
I spent the rest of the day worrying about the big fight. Kids in the halls whispered behind my back as though I were on death row. (Not that that was much different than usual, but this time it was extra whispery.) People would just randomly come up to me and go, “Oooooooooh!” (Teachers and students alike.) I worried through the rest of my classes and during the whole walk home, only stopping briefly to enjoy a Nutty Creamsticle McPopper from my neighborhood iced treat vendor.
When I got home my dad asked me what I did in school today, and I told him that I was challenged to a fight tomorrow and would probably die, upon which he agreed. I asked him if he knew how to fight, and he said he did, so I asked if he could teach me how. He brought me to the living room, pulled the soundtrack from “Rocky III” from the CD shelf, put it in my hands and told me to listen to the first track, and that if that didn’t teach me all I needed to know, I wasn’t a man.
Later that night I sat down to dinner with my quirky family. My dad was off doing whatever dads do during dinnertime, but the rest of us were there. My mom was sitting there, or whatever. I don’t know, whatever moms do. She’s always dressed in tacky 1950’s housewife clothing that often matches the kooky retro tablecloth. Sometimes I think my house would make a good indie album cover. Or maybe an indie movie. Whatever, man; the point is that we’re really quirky and goofy, if you haven’t figured it out yet.
My stupid sister was talking on her phone really loudly, and I think Boogerpoop was busy pooping his pants.
“I think I’m going to die tomorrow,” I said to the table at large.
I waited for a response, but none came. Brittnica just gabbed into her phone, sometimes just saying “Uh-muh-gud-betch” in a rapid loop. Boogerpoop looked like he was concentrating.
“So I just wanted to say ‘bye,” I continued. “You’ll probably never see me again.”
Brittnica grabbed the steak knife from her plate and lunged at me.
“Shut up, dweeeeb!” she yelled.” I only narrowly avoided being stabbed in the face. Wouldn’t be the first time. Sisters.
“Mom, Brittnica keeps trying to stab me!” I yelled.
“You know what the rules, no elbows at the table!” she said.
That was when Boogerpoop ripped a huge, ridiculously elongated stock audio fart. He laughed an annoying, nasally laugh afterward.
“Boogerstiiiiink!” I yelled.
“Ha ha, I pooped inside of my pants! Now I’m going to put fooood up my nose!” Then he started to shove his meal into his nostrils. He broke up all of the food on his plate and crammed each bit into his nose in rapid succession. He just kept shoving it all in, piece by piece, fiercely and without any pause. He laughed the whole time, also in succession, only ever two “ha”s at a time. When literally every ounce of food was in his nose he ripped another fart, then burped.
“Mom, Boogerpoop’s being grooooosss!” I yelled.
“Eat those vegetables, or you’ll get penile cancer!” she said. “Clean your plate or you won’t any clean your plate!”
Then Boogerpoop started to expel all the food from his red, veiny, bulging face and eat it, so I excused myself from the dinner table.
Chapter 6:
Obligatory Dream Sequence
That night I had a weird dream. It was full of bizarre and completely obvious and transparent reflections of my current feelings, yet it all flowed together perfectly and it was really imaginative and vivid. It even had a menacing soundtrack to it that built up until the end, when I was on Fitzpatrick’s giant tongue as it was being drawn into his gargantuan clown-mouth. (Everyone’s bad dreams end like that, right?)
Well, technically the end of the dream was me sitting in a bucket out in the forest while my kindergarten teacher massaged my back with lotion, but… that made me feel weird, so I don’t really want to talk about it.
Chapter 7:
The Big. Effing. Fight.
Lunch was upon me quickly the next day. Literally the entire student body was gathered around the flagpole, though none of the teachers seemed to notice or care. They had all gathered there several hours earlier, in fact, and had been chanting “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” the whole time. Class before lunch was very quiet and awkward, as it was just me in an empty classroom with my teacher. I could hear the chanting outside, and I grew more and more sweaty with each passing moment. (Part of it was because I was so nervous, but it was mostly because that day I wore the thickest, heaviest shirt I could find. It was more of a sweater with short sleeves than a shirt, really.) When the lunch bell finally rang, a considerable puddle had formed underneath my chair.
“Dirk, you peed your pants,” my teacher said. “Go clean the pee out of your pants.”
So I gathered up my stuff and headed out into the hall, a stream of sweat trailing behind me. I put my backpack in my locker and went outside. I walked to the crowd of people around the flagpole, which was chanting louder than ever now. I even saw some of the teachers there.
Some kids and the custodian grabbed me and shoved me into the circle and I stumbled to the middle. Fitzpatrick was already waiting on the other side.
“Hey, Derpy Dirk! You ready to get pummeled, dork?” He was punching the palm of his hand with his fist again. “I’m gonna beat you until bruises form all over your body, nerd!”
“Yeah, kill that dweeb!” Ratty said from off to the side whilst nibbling on a piece of stale bread. Finger stood silently beside him, and I thought I could see his finger twitching slightly.
“Any last words, loser?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“Boobies,” I said. It was the best I could come up with.
Then he walked up to me and socked me right in the face with all of his strength. I didn’t even flinch or try to dodge it, either; I just took it right in the face. I yelled, “Ouch!” and fell to the ground. Then I got back up again without a bruise or anything. Because that’s how fighting works.
He hit me again, and again I didn’t make even the slightest attempt to move out of the way even though I could clearly see it coming. This time I literally flew twenty feet through the air and came crashing down onto the ground. I got back up again, though. Still no bruises or blood. A whole lot of sweat, though.
That was when I ran up to him and said, “The bigger they are, the harder they faaalll!” I meant to run around behind him, jump on his back and give him a Star Trek double-fister, but when I was a foot away from him he just slugged me in the top of the head. I slumped to the ground in a neat little pile and he jumped on top of me, crushing my seventy-pound frame with all three-hundred and ten pounds of his throbbing, bulging musculocity. At that moment I think I heard Boogerpoop fart from somewhere in the crowd.
He got up and after a moment I stumbled to my feet. We stood in front of each other for several moments, staring each other down.
“Had enough yet, dork?” Fitzpatrick said, punching his hardened and callused palm yet again. The crowd was still chanting.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Why do you want to beat me up?”
“Because for my birthday my dad took me into a room with a table that had a kitten, a puppy, and a gun with one bullet on it and said, ‘Choose.’”
I was silent for a few moments, then I said, “Oh.”
“So now you’re gonna get it, spoobag!” Fitzpatrick said, and he advanced, presumably to make the final punch.
“STOP!” Melvin yelled from somewhere in the crowd.
Fitzpatrick halted and we both turned toward Melvin, who was walking out into the center of the ring.
“Don’t you see what’s happening?” he said to everyone. The crowd was temporarily silenced. “Why do we have to fight each other? Sure, we’re all different, duuuhhhh,” (he drooled here) “but that’s what makes us unique! Dirk is a nerd, and Fitzpatrick has a dad who abuses him psychologically. Are they really so different? Baby Jesus made us all special, and just because we have different lives doesn’t mean that we—now, Dirk!”
I turned and kicked Fitzpatrick squarely in his gargantuan balls. There was an audible boxing bell sound and he went, “D’ohhhhhh!” and fell to the ground. Melvin tossed me a diaper full of marbles, and I pushed the guy onto his back, jumped on top him, and started beating him in the face. The crowd continued its chanting, and I sat there whaling on his face for what must have been at least twenty minutes.
Chapter 8:
The Book Just Kind of Ends
When I was just beating on a bloody, pulpy mess, I stopped. I stood up, covered in blood, and everyone just stared at me. For a second I thought they were going to cheer and carry me on their shoulders, but eventually they just kind of walked away. It’s okay, though; I think they only carry you on their shoulders if you win a baseball game for them or something, so I don’t feel bad.
When I got home that day my dad asked how the fight went, and why I was completely covered in blood. I told him that I think I killed the guy, and he just gave a “hm” and went on reading his newspaper.
Later that day Melvin came over and we sat on the floor trading “Space Adventure Planet Kaboom Space” cards.
“You know, Melvin… I think this is the start of a really really long series of adventures for us,” I said. “The majority of them will be rather oddball, and I get the feeling that quirkiness will abound. And you know what? I think I learned something today.”
“Really?” Melvin asked.
“No.”
Yes, it certainly was quite a day. I had an adventure, almost learned a lesson, and wound up covered in someone else’s blood. But that’s just what it’s like to be me, I guess.
What a life.
END
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About the author:
(From derpsandwich.com)
Jack Thomas is a whole lotta woman, and he knows where the action is. When he's not contributing to his blomic, he enjoys watching birds chase squirrels. He currently lives in California with his wife, Wife, and his fourteen children, thirteen of which are named after the dwarves from J. R. R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit," and the last of which is named I Ruin Everything Always.
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