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Who Cut the Cheese? (Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder Series #3)
     

Who Cut the Cheese? (Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder Series #3)

3.6 36
by Jo Nesbo, Mike Lowery (Illustrator), Tara F. Chace (Translator)
 

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“Large helpings of whimsy, humorous black-and-white illustrations, and the occasional fart joke provide plenty of silliness” (Booklist) in the third Doctor Proctor adventure from New York Times bestselling author Jo NesbØ.

Nilly, Lisa, and Doctor Proctor are too busy inventing things to watch TV, and everyone says

Overview

“Large helpings of whimsy, humorous black-and-white illustrations, and the occasional fart joke provide plenty of silliness” (Booklist) in the third Doctor Proctor adventure from New York Times bestselling author Jo NesbØ.

Nilly, Lisa, and Doctor Proctor are too busy inventing things to watch TV, and everyone says they’re missing out on the hot singing competition. But then Nilly and Lisa notice that their friends and family are acting really weird. And the only people acting weird…are the ones watching TV.

What’s going on is WAY bigger than a singing competition. It could mean the end of the world.

Or a silent but deadly could save everything!

Let ’er rip.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Large helpings of whimsy, humerous black-and-white illustrations, and the occasional fart joke, provide plenty of silliness."

-Booklist, January 2012

School Library Journal
Gr 4–6—When Lisa and her friend Nilly notice suspicious tracks by their school, they look to oddball inventor Doctor Proctor for help and learn that sock-stealing space chameleons have taken over Norway and are threatening war with Denmark. Lisa, Nilly, and Doctor Proctor enlist some help and embark on a mission to find the exiled Norwegian king, hopeful that he can regain control of the population. A blanket of ridiculousness coats every character, description, and situation in the story. Potty humor mixes with sheer goofiness, making for a number of immature laughs. The story is fairly well paced, but many kids will predict what's going to happen, which might cause interest to wane. Occasional black-and-white illustrations add a nice visual element. This is a lighthearted romp with humor, mystery, and a bit of adventure. Fans of farce should take note.—Travis Jonker, Wayland Union Schools, MI
Kirkus Reviews
With help from friends, an eccentric inventor and his two young associates save both Norway and the world from Swedish-speaking alien chameleons with hypnotic powers. Having clouded the minds of everyone who watched him compete in the NoroVision Choral Throwdown on television, a mysterious figure disguising himself as singing chiropractor Hallvard Tenorsen moves into the royal palace, sends the king into exile and declares war on Denmark (planning to open his campaign by bombing Legoland, the fiend) as a first step in chowing down on all humanity. What can the motley crew of non–TV watchers ranged against him, led by sensible young Lisa and her short but extravagantly imaginative classmate Nilly, do? Plenty, as it turns out, thanks to timely help from Nilly's pet Peruvian sucking spider, the titular "Fartonaut Powder" (which induces consumers to odorlessly but explosively "cut the cheese with the strength and noise of a flock of three hundred thousand wildebeests and eighteen water buffaloes all farting in unison"), a giant sewer dwelling anaconda and other aids. Though a bit windy himself, Nesbø, author of numerous adult bestsellers, tucks enough silly antics, oddball adults and sly digs at his country's culture and foibles into his third Doctor Proctor epic to keep even non-Scandinavians amused. Hefty but lightweight, with occasional pokerfaced line drawings to reinforce the tongue-in-cheek tone. (Satiric fantasy. 10-12)

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781442433083
Publisher:
Aladdin
Publication date:
11/27/2012
Series:
Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder Series , #3
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
464
Sales rank:
331,645
Product dimensions:
5.34(w) x 7.50(h) x 1.24(d)
Age Range:
8 - 12 Years

Read an Excerpt


World War and Hiccups

IT WAS NIGHTTIME in Oslo, Norway, and it was snowing. Big, seemingly innocent snowflakes wafted down from the sky to land on the city’s roofs, streets, and parks. A weatherperson would surely have explained to you that the snowflakes were just frozen rain, which came from the clouds, but the fact is that no one really knows for sure. Snowflakes could, for example, come from the moon, which was visible through gaps in the cloud cover and cast a magical light down over the sleeping city. The snow crystals that hit the asphalt in front of Town Hall melted immediately and ran off as water into the nearest manhole cover, dripping through its openings down into a pipe that led directly into the sewer network that crisscrossed back and forth down there, deep below Oslo.

No one was really sure what was actually down there in that sewer world, but if you were so dumb and brave as to climb down there on this December night, remain completely still, and hold your breath, you would hear a few strange things. Water dripping, sewage gurgling, rats rustling, a frog croaking. And—if you were really unlucky—the sound of a couple of massive jaws that creaked open into a mouth the size of an inflatable swim ring, the sound of anaconda saliva dripping, and then an ear-splitting snap as the orifice slammed shut. After that, it was guaranteed to be complete silence for you, my unlucky friend. But seeing as you weren’t so unlucky, you would have heard other sounds on this night, sounds that would amaze you. The sound of a waffle iron closing, of butter sizzling, voices murmuring softly, a waffle iron opening. And then: quiet chewing.

EVENTUALLY THE SNOW stopped falling, the chewing ceased, and the people of Oslo started waking up to a new day, heading off through the winter darkness and slush to work and school. And just as Mrs. Strobe started telling her students about World War II, a pale winter sun that had overslept once again cautiously peeped over the hilltop.

Lisa was sitting at her desk, looking at the board. Mrs. Strobe had written the words WORLD WAR TOO up there. She had misspelled “two.” And this was bothering Lisa—who liked things to be spelled correctly—so much that she wasn’t quite able to concentrate on Mrs. Strobe, who was talking about how the Germans had attacked Norway in 1940 and how a handful of heroes had squared things away with those Germans, so that the Norwegians had won the war and could sing, “Victory is ours, we won the war, victory is ours.”

“Well, what was everyone else doing, then, huh?”

“We raise our hands when we want to ask a question, Nilly!” Mrs. Strobe said sternly.

“Yes, I bet you do,” Nilly said. “But I don’t see how that would result in answers that were any better. My method, Mrs. Strobe, is just to plunge right in and . . .” The tiny little red-haired and very freckled boy named Nilly raised a tiny little hand up in the air as if he were picking invisible apples. “Boom! Grab hold of the conversation, hang on to it, keep it under my control, give wings to my words and let them fly toward you . . .”

Mrs. Strobe bent her head and stared, her eyes bulging over the tops of her glasses, which slipped yet another inch farther down her long nose. And to her alarm, Lisa saw that Mrs. Strobe had raised her hand in preparation for one of her infamous desk slaps. The sound of the flesh on Mrs. Strobe’s hand striking wood was terrifying. It was said that it had been known to make grown men sob and mothers cry for their mommies. Although, now that Lisa thought about it, Nilly was the one who had told her that; so she wasn’t a hundred percent sure that it was a hundred percent true.

“What were the people who weren’t heroes doing?” Nilly repeated. “Answer, my dear teacher, whose beauty is exceeded only by your wisdom. Answer and let us drink from the font of your knowledge.”

Mrs. Strobe lowered her hand and sighed. And Lisa thought she could see the corners of the woman’s mouth twitching despite all her strictness. Mrs. Strobe was not a lady given to overdoing smiling or any of the other sunnier facial expressions.

“The Norwegians who weren’t heroes during the war,” Mrs. Strobe began. “They . . . uh, rooted.”

“Rooted?” Nilly asked.

“They rooted for the heroes. And for the king, who had escaped to London.”

“So, they did nothing,” Nilly said.

“It’s not that simple,” Mrs. Strobe replied. “Not everyone can be a hero.”

“Why not?” Nilly asked.

“Why not what?” Mrs. Strobe asked.

“Why can’t everyone be a hero?” Nilly asked, flipping his red bangs, which because of his stature were only just slightly visible above the edge of his desk.

In the silence that followed, Lisa could hear yelling and hiccuping from the classroom next door to theirs. And she knew it was the new crafts teacher, whose name was Gregory Galvanius but whom they just called Mr. Hiccup because he started hiccuping whenever he was feeling stressed out.

“Truls!” Gregory Galvanius screeched in a desperate falsetto. “Hiccup! Trym! Hiccup!

Lisa heard the mean laugh of Truls and the almost equally mean laugh of his twin brother Trym, then footsteps running, and a door being flung open.

“Not everyone has it in them to be heroes,” Mrs. Strobe continued. “Most people just want peace and quiet so they can go on about their business without being bothered too much by other people.”

By now most of the class had stopped paying attention and were staring out the windows instead. Because they could see Truls and Trym Thrane running around out there on the snow-covered playground. It was not a pretty sight, because Truls and Trym were two very fat children, and the thighs of their pants rubbed together as they ran. But the person chasing them wasn’t any more elegant. Mr. Hiccup was struggling along in the morning sunlight in a bent-over, knock-kneed trot, like a clumsy moose in fuzzy slippers. The reason he was struggling and bent over was that his desk chair appeared to have become stuck to the seat of Mr. Hiccup’s pants, and he was awkwardly lugging it around with him.

Mrs. Strobe looked out the window and sighed heavily. “Nilly, I’m afraid some people quite simply are just very normal people without a speck of anything heroic in them.”

“What’s with that chair?” Nilly asked softly.

“Looks like someone sewed it onto his pants,” Lisa said with a yawn. “And uh-oh, he’s almost to the icy parts. . . .”

The fuzzy slippers that belonged to Gregory Galvanius, a.k.a. Mr. Hiccup, started spinning underneath him. And then he lost his balance and tipped backward. Right onto his butt. And since his rear end was sewn to the chair, and the chair had wheels, and the wheels were nicely lubricated, and the schoolyard sloped gently downward toward Cannon Creek, Mr. Hiccup suddenly found himself an unwilling passenger on a desk chair that was rolling downhill with ever increasing speed.

“Good God!” Mrs. Strobe exclaimed in alarm as she discovered her colleague’s rapid journey toward the end of the world—or at least the end of school grounds.

For several seconds, it was so quiet that the only thing that could be heard was the rumbling of the chair wheels over the ice, the brushing sound of slippery slippers desperately trying to brake, plus a frenetic hiccuping. Then the chair and the crafts teacher hit the snowdrift at the edge of the schoolyard. And the drift sort of exploded with a poof, and the next instant the air was filled with powdery snow. The chair and Gregory Galvanius had disappeared without a trace!

“Man overboard!” bellowed Nilly, who leaped up and hopped from desk to desk over to the door. And everyone else followed, even Mrs. Strobe, and as fast as you could count “one, two, three,” everyone was outside, except for Lisa. Lisa was standing by the chalk board with a piece of chalk in her hand, and with her finger she erased the first O in TOO and wrote a W in its place: WORLD WAR TWO. There. Then she ran outside too.

OVER BY THE snowdrift, Mrs. Strobe and another teacher were already hauling Gregory Galvanius, who was still stuck to his chair, out of the snow.

“Are you okay, Gregory?” Mrs. Strobe asked.

“Hiccup!” Gregory said. “I’m blind!”

“No you’re not,” Mrs. Strobe said, using her finger to brush away the snow that was packed inside his glasses. “There.”

Galvanius blinked in confusion and then blushed when he saw her. “Oh, hi, Rosemary—I mean, Mrs. Strobe! Hiccup!

“What a commotion,” Lisa said to Nilly, who had been the first one on the scene, moving so fast he had been coated by the cloud of powdery white snow Galvanius had kicked up. Nilly didn’t respond, just stared down at Cannon Creek.

“Is something wrong?” Lisa asked.

“I saw something down there when I got here. The snow cloud covered it.”

“Covered what?” Lisa asked.

“That’s what I don’t know,” Nilly said. “Then the snow melted, and it was gone.”

Lisa sighed. “Soon we’re going to have to do something about your overactive imagination, Nilly. Maybe Doctor Proctor can invent some kind of imagination muffler.”

Nilly blinked the snow out of his eyelashes and grabbed her hand. “Come on!” he said.

“Nilly . . . ,” Lisa protested.

“Come on,” Nilly said, zipping up his down jacket.

“We’re in the middle of a class!” Lisa protested.

But that didn’t sway Nilly. He just dove into the deep snow and was now sliding on his stomach down the steep slope that led to the iced-over creek.

“Nilly!” Lisa cried, wading after him. “We’re not allowed to go down to the creek!”

Nilly, who was already back up on his feet again, pointed triumphantly to something in the snow.

“What is it?” Lisa asked, moving closer.

“Tracks,” Nilly said. “Footprints.”

Lisa looked down at what were, sure enough, deep footprints in the snow. They continued out onto the ice, where there was only a thin layer of snow.

“Someone walked across the creek,” Lisa said. “So what?”

“But look at those tracks,” Nilly said. “They’re not from an animal, right?”

Lisa thought about all the animal tracks they had studied in science classes over the years. Paws, claws, chicken scratch. This didn’t look like any of them. So she nodded in agreement.

“And they’re not from shoes or boots,” Nilly said. “Mysterious . . .”

He started shuffling along, following the tracks out onto the ice.

“Wait!” Lisa cried. “What if the ice isn’t . . .”

But Nilly wasn’t listening. And once he made it safely to the other side, he turned around and said, “Well, are you coming or what?”

“Just because the ice held for you, it could still be too thin to hold me,” Lisa whispered, scared that Mrs. Strobe would see them from the schoolyard.

“Huh?” Nilly yelled.

Lisa pointed at the ice.

Nilly responded by pointing at his head. “Use that peanut brain of yours, would you? Look at those tracks! Whatever crossed the creek here is bigger than you and me combined!”

Lisa hated it when Nilly acted like he was smarter than her. So she angrily stomped her feet in the snow a couple of times and thought about what her commandant father—or even worse, her commandant mother—would say when she came home from school with a note from Mrs. Strobe. She knew she didn’t want that at all. But she walked across the ice anyway, because that’s just how it is when you’re unlucky enough to happen to be best friends with a guy named Nilly.

THE TRACKS RAN in a big circle through Hazelnut Woods, which was actually just a collection of nice trees, across Hazelnut Bridge, back to the schoolyard, and up the stairs into the gym. Lisa and Nilly opened the door and went in.

“Look,” Nilly said, pointing at the wet footprints on the floor. But the footprints got less and less clear as Lisa and Nilly walked down the hallway, through the locker rooms and finally found themselves standing in the empty gym, looking at the last traces of the footprints before they disappeared entirely.

“Their feet must have dried off,” Nilly said, sniffing the air.

“What is up with that?” Lisa asked, looking at the marching-band banner, which was leaning up against the wall behind the gym mats and the old pommel horse. The gym was where they had band rehearsal. Nilly played the trumpet, and Lisa played clarinet. The banner for their band was blue, and their name was embroidered in yellow: DØLGEN SCHOL MARCHING BAND.

Nilly started walking toward the exit again, and Lisa scurried after him. Because even though she was a sensible, brave girl who did not at all believe in ghosts, monsters, or that kind of thing (“Hah! What ten-year-old would believe in that kind of thing,” she scoffed), she still didn’t want to be left in the gym alone. Because there was something in there that had made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, something that wasn’t right.

Back out in the schoolyard, the principal was standing in front of the snowdrift asking loudly if anyone could tell her who had sewn the seat of Mr. Galvanius’s trousers to the chair. Nilly and Lisa stood at the top of the stairs by the door to the gym and watched the kids looking around in fear—first at the principal, then at Truls and Trym, who were standing shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed, staring menacingly back at them.

“No one will ever dare to tell on Truls and Trym,” Lisa said.

“I guess Mrs. Strobe was right,” Nilly said. “Most people just want peace and quiet so they can go about their business without being bothered too much by other people.”

Right then the bell rang. And Lisa thought this was turning out to be a really strange day.

AND IT GOT even stranger in the middle of their last class. Because that’s when Lisa figured out what hadn’t been right. The realization bopped her in the head like one of Truls and Trym’s snowballs. The marching-band banner! The banner with the name embroidered in yellow that she had seen hundreds of times: DØLGEN SCHOOL MARCHING BAND. Only the banner they had seen that morning said DØLGEN SCHOL MARCHING BAND. One of the Os was missing. Lisa suddenly felt ice cold. How could that be?

THE BELL HAD rung and Lisa had dragged Nilly back into the empty gym, where they were standing, staring at the old marching-band banner. Nilly spelled his way through the letters with difficulty: “D-Ø-L-G-E-N. S-C-H-O-O-L. M-A-R-C-H-I-N-G. B-A-N-D.”

“But there was only one O in the word ‘school’ this morning!” Lisa said miserably. “Honest!”

Nilly put the tips of the fingers on both hands together and turned to face her. He said, “Hm, maybe Doctor Proctor can invent some kind of imagination muffler for you, my dear.”

“I’m not imagining a darn thing!” Lisa yelled crossly.

Nilly gave her a friendly pat on the back. “I was just kidding. You know what the difference is between you and me, Lisa?”

“No. Wait, yes. Just about everything.”

“The difference, Lisa, is that as your friend, I always believe what you say. Completely.”

“That,” Lisa said, “is because the difference between you and me is that I always tell the truth.”

Nilly studied the banner thoughtfully. “I think it might just be time for us to get some advice from our friends.”

“We don’t have any friends, Nilly. Aside from each other, we only have one friend!”

“That sounds like a whole herd of friends if you ask me,” Nilly said and started tentatively whistling the trumpet melody from the “Old Ranger’s March,” the traditional Norwegian military march. And since he was doing that, Lisa couldn’t help herself. She joined in, whistling the clarinet part.

And to the tune of the “Old Ranger’s March,” they marched out of school onto Cannon Avenue, past the red house where Lisa lived, past the yellow one across the street from it where Nilly lived, to the strange, crooked blue house all the way at the end of the street, almost hidden below the snowdrifts, where their only friend lived. They waded through the snow past the leafless pear tree and knocked on the door, since the doorbell was still broken.

“Doctor Proctor!” Nilly yelled. “Open up!”

© 2010 H. Aschehoug

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher
"Large helpings of whimsy, humerous black-and-white illustrations, and the occasional fart joke, provide plenty of silliness."

-Booklist January 2012

Meet the Author

Jo Nesbø is the most successful Norwegian author of all time. He has sold millions of books, which are published in twenty-five different languages globally, and he is widely recognized as one of Europe’s foremost crime writers. The author of crime fiction and short stories, the Doctor Proctor adventures are his first children’s books.

Mike Lowery’s work has been in galleries and publications worldwide, and he is currently working on several books for children. He lives with his family in Atlanta, Georgia. Visit him at ArgyleAcademy.com.

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Who Cut the Cheese? (Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder Series #3) 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 37 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read all of the doctor proctor books and they are most defidently in my top ten seires!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great book!!! All of his books are good u should get all the books Can't wait 4 the fourth book
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is a great book with adventure and silliness
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Also fatrs can be burps so deal with it and can go to either pipe
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Beans beans the wonderful green. The more you eat the bigger the breeze.q
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Funny and great summer read
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book sounds funny but i still have one question? Who cut the cheese because it really stinks!!! LOL!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
My daughter considers Jo Nesbo the Norwegian Daniel Pinkwater. a very high complement indeed. This book does have the only references to hemorrhoids I have seen in one targeted for this age bracket, but it wasn't overly gross. Definitely works best for someone with a slightly warped sense of humor.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Best Doctor Proctor book ever!!!!!!!!
Anonymous 9 months ago
GamingLucario.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
FAAAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaaaaAAAART!!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
If you are swag you will think this is the best book ever (swag means asome
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Dont cut my cheese
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
What the heck? The author of this book has no life....
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Ho cut the chesee?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
So wa is a dildo?
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Better than the other ones! This is the best of the books! I have th e other two but this one is the best
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I'm talking to you number two. I haven't read it, but I plan on reading the sample, when it comes out.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Kiss your hand three times then repet ths message on three different books and then look under your pillow
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book stinks.