In the light of the COVID-19 pandemic, the United States Association of Pointless Recreation has scanned the country to crown the absolute best of the best at washing hands and staying apart from other potentially lethal human beings. The winner, the bearded and bewildered James McPasterson, would have posed for a photo op by his log cabin in the wilderness south of Cheyenne, if only the event crew’s cameras could have created a wide enough shot to capture everyone involved at the same time.
“This COVID thing,” McPasterson mumbled through an improvised sheet of blue fabric, “sent me runnin’ from urban New York to set up shop out here. Ain’t no way a virus is gonna send my lungs to heaven, the Good Lord be willing….” This reporter listened from afar as McPasterson then went on a religious diatribe and contest coordinator Beverly Warlick rolled her eyes. “There’s something about this that isn’t right,” she confessed upon the second of three breaks within four consecutive hours of interview footage, “since we had to wake him up and explain the championship to him. Just as his brain started clicking into place, he tried to put a mask on over his legs to cover his nether regions.”
This reporter investigated further with McPasterson after the ceremony, in which he was granted a lifetime supply of hand sanitizer and a taco bowl from the nearest Qdoba. All energy apparently having been spent in the process of winning, he coughed mightily straight into his leathered palms, and as the remaining bites of overcooked chips and underripe avocado were consumed, I could have sworn I heard the words, “Now I can die happy.”
Will this reporter live long enough to get tested and surround himself with HAZMAT-suited doctors in an actual bastion of civilization? Or will this cheating geezer’s germs rob me and anyone that comes within six feet of all life, save one final glance at his hastily-constructed golden trophy, topped with a generic bowler figurine? Only time will tell.
