Who Cut the Cheese?

Hardcover | January 3, 2012

byJo NesboTranslated byTara F. ChaceIllustratorMike Lowery

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Doctor Proctor, the kids, and the famous fart powder are back for another wildly funny adventure!

Nilly, Lisa, and Doctor Proctor are too busy inventing things to watch TV. 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 an SBD could save everything!

 Let ’er rip.

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From the Publisher

Doctor Proctor, the kids, and the famous fart powder are back for another wildly funny adventure!Nilly, Lisa, and Doctor Proctor are too busy inventing things to watch TV. 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 ...

Jo Nesbø is the most successful Norwegian author of all time. His books are published in twenty-five different languages globally, and he is widely recognized as one of Europe’s foremost crime writers. This is his first children’s book. Mike Lowery’s work has been in galleries and publications worldwide and he is currently working on s...

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Format:HardcoverDimensions:464 pages, 8.25 × 5.5 × 1.5 inPublished:January 3, 2012Publisher:AladdinLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:1442433078

ISBN - 13:9781442433076

Appropriate for ages: 8


Rated 5 out of 5 by from Best of the Doctor Proctor Books Reason for Reading: next (and, I'm guessing, last) in the series. Simple enough plot: Lisa and Nilly figure out that most of Norway has been hypnotized by space aliens whose ultimate goal is to take over the world so they can use humans as food. They alert Dr. Proctor and the three of them, with the aid of several others who have not been hypnotized set out to stop the dastardly aliens before they can invade Denmark and set their world domination plan into action. Hilarious! I read this book in two sittings and enjoyed it probably the most of all three books. There are no references to book 2 at all except for mention of Dr. P's lady friend who is still in France and not a character in this book, so there is no need to have read the books in order. I do recommend at least having read book 1 though as it explains the whole Fart Powder background, while this book just assumes you know the power of the invention. Also, the American publishers make a big deal of the "fart" allusions in the title of these books , but except for book 1 there is very little toilet humour within the books at all once you get past the idea of "fart powder". The name of this book in Norwegian is "Doctor Proctor and Armageddon. Maybe." which is an appropriate title while "Who Cut the Cheese?" is simply a marketing gimmick. However ... The story is deliciously funny. Nilly and Lisa are fantastic kid characters, with strange families and even stranger classmates and teachers. We have a few new characters along for the ride this time who add a new dimension to the team but as usual, Nilly and Lisa are the only main kid characters. The plot is way-out there silly and Doctor Proctor as usual has a few fun inventions to help them out. If you've enjoyed the other books in this series, you'll love this one! To me, there is a finality to the book which makes me think this may be the last book in the series. If so, I'm happy to leave the characters here and have enjoyed my time with them. For younger children, I suggest you just read books 1 & 3 and leave book 2 for older children who have some historical knowledge/interest in France.
Date published: 2012-02-04

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Read from the Book

Who Cut the Cheese 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!

Editorial Reviews

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

-Booklist, January 2012