(Irrefutable proof that you are an elite athlete at the top of your game)
WHEN A MILD itching sensation between his toes became increasingly persistent, local non-athlete Brian Kramer reluctantly scheduled a visit to his GP. Upon a cursory examination of his patient’s feet and wincing at the pungent aroma of overripe gorgonzola, the doctor informed Molloy he had contracted the common fungal infection tinea pedis, popularly known as Athlete’s Foot.
When the doctor questioned his patient about various lifestyle activities that may have led to appearance of the fungus, he was left mildly perplexed. Kramer did not belong to a gym; participated in no social sporting activities and never frequented public recreational venues such as swimming pools, beaches, lakes, parks, bowling alleys or ice-skating rinks.
A bachelor of long standing whose sexual activity had entered an extended hiatus approximately three years previously, Kramer could not recall the last time he had been physically intimate with a fellow member of the human species to the extent that a communicable condition such as Athlete’s Foot may have made its way onto his epidermis.
When not in his cubicle during the day at his telemarketing job, Kramer spends his large quantities of free time planted on the sofa in front of his television screen playing God of War and Halo; watching documentaries on medieval warfare and consuming copious amounts of pizza and Mountain Dew which he has delivered directly to the door of his apartment.
Kramer’s doctor prescribed him a tube of broad-spectrum anti-fungal cream and advised him to change his socks and wash his feet more often, as excessive sweating and lack of ventilation could trigger the onset of the condition. However, based upon recent evidence, Kramer would appear to have precisely zero interest in following the doctor’s instructions.
Instead of immediately buying a new pair of shoes and several clean new pair of socks, or at the very least a bar of soap, Molloy proceeded to a designer lifestyle store to purchase an Under Armour tracksuit, towel and cap. Upon donning his new regalia he walked to the sports bar around the corner from his flat, an effort which triggered profuse sweating, and ordered a Red Bull.
A young woman who approached the bar some time later immediately recoiled from the foul miasma surrounding the man seated there. ‘Sorry babe,’ said Kramer, draining his Red Bull. ‘Practice went on so long I didn’t have time to shower.’ ‘Wow,’ said the girl, re-assessing her initial repugnance. ‘You must work out really hard to smell like that.’ ‘You better believe it,’ said Kramer, tugging on the brow of his Under Armour cap. ‘I’m a born athlete. It’s literally in my blood.’
At press time the woman was twirling her hair with her fingers and listening attentively as Kramer regaled her with vividly detailed accounts of his long and illustrious football playing and coaching career.
