"Hi there, kids," said Mary Moo Cow, squeezed into an airplane seat. "I'm on my way to West Virginia to meet some kids who work underground in coal mines with their parents. Doesn't that sound exciting? And, so I can record everything I see and play it back for you, I've brought along my handy-dandy video camera." She turned the camera lens towards the window of the plane. "Look at that, kids! We're going down the runway, about to take off…"

"Pardon me, ma'am," said a passing flight attendant. "I'll have to ask you to turn off your portable electronic device."

"What…?" said the stupefied cow.

Grandpa Dave shuffled by, clutching his walker. Eyeing the TV curiously, he asked, "What's this you're watching?"

D.W. grinned at him from the couch. "It's Postcards from Mary, a spinoff from New Moo Revue," she told him.

"Eh?" said the old man, scratching his stubbly chin. "How'd they get a cow onto an airplane?"

"Mary isn't a real cow," explained his granddaughter. "She's a lady dressed up like a cow."

"I know that," said Dave, chuckling. "A real cow has big teats and has to be milked every morning."

"Grandpa, you said a bad word," D.W. scolded him.

"I'm sorry," said the oldster. "Say, what's this you're watching?"

"Postcards from Mary," said D.W. with an impatient sigh.

"What's a cow doing on an air—" said Grandpa, just as the front door opened.

In walked Arthur, Buster, and their new classmate Blake. Arthur greeted his father, who was laboring in the kitchen with yolk-covered hands. "Hey, Dad. Whatcha makin'?"

"It's a potato salad," said the aardvark man in the apron.

"Cool," said Buster. "I made potato salad once."

"Really? You did?" said Mr. Read.

"Yeah," said the long-eared boy. "Well, actually, it was potato chip salad, with potato chips instead of potatoes, and, uh, root beer instead of mayonnaise."

"Dad," said Arthur, gesturing at the shoddily dressed rat boy, "this is Blake Robinson. He's in our class at middle school."

"Yo," said Blake disinterestedly.

"Welcome," said Mr. Read. "Sorry I can't shake hands." Because yours look filthy.

"You got any cigarettes?" Blake asked him.

His request put a slight scowl on the man's face. "No, we don't have any cigarettes," he stated, "and you're much too young to be smoking anyway."

"I ain't gonna smoke 'em," said Blake, a bit crossly. "I'm gonna stick 'em…"

A glance at Arthur and Buster, who seemed to be hanging on his words, prompted him to soften his tone. "I'm gonna stick 'em in the ground, and see if they grow up into cigarette trees," he concluded.

"Well, we don't have any," said Mr. Read.

"Okay, fine," said Blake. "Do you got any beer?"

Opening the refrigerator and proudly displaying its contents to the boy, Mr. Read said, "We've got some nice Juicy Juice."

"Okay, whatever you got," said Blake, frustrated. "Geez."

D.W. soon found herself surrounded by three boys, each sipping from a Juicy Juice container. "Who's the new guy?" she asked Arthur.

"His name's Blake," her brother replied. "He's in our class."

"You smell funny," D.W. addressed the rat boy.

"Don't say such rude things, D.W.," called her father from behind the salad bowl.

"Well, somebody's gotta make him aware of his problem," said the little girl.

"What's your name?" Blake inquired of her.

"It's D.W.," she answered.

"What's that stand for?" was Blake's next question.

"It stands for don't want," she said, "as in, I don't want to tell you."

Arthur began to fiddle with the remote control. "Let's see what else is on," he said idly.

A Bunny League rerun appeared. "Great Scott!" cried Bionic Bunny to his comrades. "That impish little man is transforming the people of Manhattan into parrots!"

Indeed, throughout Times Square the crowds of pedestrians were vanishing, giving way to hordes of colorfully-plumaged, very annoyed birds. "Squawk! Who taught you how to drive, you moron?" "Squawk! Quit blocking the road, you idiot!" "Squawk! Give someone else a turn in the phone booth, you (bleep)!"

As the Bunny Leaguers confronted the diminutive man in the green hat, he introduced himself: "I am Mr. Sdrawkcab, a traveler from the year 5,000,000,000,000,001 A.D. I possess futuristic technology which, to your primitive eyes, is indistinguishable from magic."

"I order you to cease and desist at once!" barked Bionic Bunny.

"Ha!" said Mr. Sdrawkcab derisively. "How do you propose to defeat me? I can annihilate you with a snap of my fingers, and the only way to send me back to my own time is to trick me into saying my name backwards! Oops…"

Buster groaned. "Lamest supervillain ever. I am so not adding him to my action figure collection."

"I've heard the next big thing is edible action figures," said Arthur.

"Cool," said Buster. "So you can, like, play with them until they break, and then eat the pieces? What are they made of?"

"Recycled Christmas fruitcake," Arthur replied.

"Hey, Buster," D.W. chimed in, "if you're afraid of girls, how come you're not afraid of me?"

"Because you're a little girl," was Buster's answer.

"I won't be little forever," said D.W. "Someday you and I will be the same size."

Buster considered this statement with the part of his brain that wasn't watching TV.

"Er, excuse me," he said, leaving the couch with haste. Scurrying up the stairs, he sealed himself inside Arthur's room and searched for comic books to read.

"That ain't right," remarked Blake. "A boy shouldn't be afraid o' no girl. I say, if a girl gives you sass, you just slap 'er upside the head."

"You ain't slappin' me upside o' no head," said D.W. defiantly.

"But…boys aren't supposed to hit girls," said Arthur, sounding concerned. "It's one of the Ten Commandments."

"No, it ain't," said Blake. "Love your ma and pa, and don't tell no lies—those are the Ten Commandments."

By this time Mr. Read, his apron stained with mayonnaise, was standing before Blake and glowering. "What's that you said about hitting girls?" he demanded.

With perfect sincerity Blake said to him, "Don't tell me you never hit your wife."

"I'll have you know," said the indignant aardvark man, "that in all the years Jane and I have been married, I have never once hit her."

"And look where it's got you," said Blake with a triumphant sneer. "She does whatever she wants, and sticks you with all the cookin'."

Mr. Read sputtered. "You…" he managed to get out. "You are a bad influence on my children. I'd like you to leave now."

A suffocating silence fell over the living room. Blake's petulant expression turned into one of meekness. Without further ado he stood, marched slowly to the front door, and let himself out.

"Dad," Arthur protested, "why'd you have to do that?"

"You know why," snapped his father. "I don't want him filling your head with wrong ideas about how to treat women."

"Yeah," said Arthur, "but where's he gonna go now? His dad's not coming to get him until seven."

The news left Mr. Read in a befuddled state. Making his way to the kitchen window, he observed through the glass that Blake was now sitting motionlessly on the curb, his spindly legs stretched out on the asphalt.

"Good Lord," he mused. "What kind of parents must he have?"

"I'll bet they smoke weeds," D.W. interjected.

To be continued