I have athlete’s foot, which is weird considering I’m not an athlete. The closest I’ve come to a marathon is a TV marathon. Unless, of course, you count channel surfing as a sport. I bring a whole new meaning to the surfer phrase “Totally tubular, dude!” Unfortunately, while channel surfing, I still manage to wipe out—by which I mean I fall asleep mid-show and take an unscheduled hour-long nap on the couch.
Speaking of couches, I’m basically a couch potato—no, scratch that—a fully loaded couch potato, stuffed with cheese, sour cream, and regret. And after dinner? I level up to a couch cake, because at that point, I’m just layers of laziness and frosting.
At this point, I should probably exercise more. Even switching channels feels like a workout. Some people do circuit training—I do remote control calisthenics. Maybe I don’t even need exercise—maybe I need an exorcist, because I think I’m turning into The Blob.
Exercise and I aren’t exactly the best of friends. Not like the friendship I have with Fat Albert. We go way back—back to the buffet line, again and again. “Hey, hey, hey! They put out a bowl of Jell-O!” Hopefully, it’s just gelatin and not my cousin Blobert. He’s too much fun to be dessert. I always say, “For a good slime, call Blobert.”
Anyway, I decided to fight back against my athlete’s foot with some Tinactin. It’s tough acting, but maybe a little too tough. I’m half convinced spraying it on my feet is going to turn me into the Tin Man. Next thing you know, I’ll be rusting in place, waiting for some kid to oil my joints just so I can reach the remote. Just what I need—another reason to not be able to move. That can’t be good for my heart. If I even have a heart. I’ll have to ask the Wizard about that, though he’ll probably just give me a heart-shaped alarm clock—useful only for waking me from my midafternoon wipeout. At this rate, hitting snooze will feel like triple bypass surgery.
Maybe I need a different kind of wise master. Not Yoda, but the StairMaster. (Though I’d rather lift an X-wing out of a swamp than climb stairs.) It’s not my fault I got this out of shape—my stomach doubles as a stove and being made of metal definitely adds a few extra pounds. What started as a simple case of athlete’s foot has somehow spiraled into an existential crisis.
But hey, maybe this is my chance to become an athlete after all! Maybe I’ll even make it to the Olympics. I’d make a great bobsledder—though, let’s be honest, if this Tinactin keeps working too well, I won’t just be racing in the sled—I’ll become the sled. Or, more accurately, the blobsled. Maybe I could even come close to winning a medal like those guys in Cool Runnings. One thing’s for sure—my feet would definitely feel cool running now.
