Bowling Alley-Enemy of the Germophobe #2

Thanks to the cringe inducing feedback I received (some in the comments, but mostly talking to people) after my post on filthy hotel rooms I have decided to make The Enemy of the Germophobe a recurring series. I have no shortage of places and things that gross me out, so stay tuned.

Today's installment is that house of horrors known as the bowling alley. Let's start with the obvious-the shoes. Foot funk is gross. Community foot funk is really gross. Maybe when ordering shoes I need to specify that I want the size 13 pair not just turned in by the guy with trenchfoot. And don't tell me about the anti-bacterial spray they keep on the counter. That stuff is about as effective as the Orioles bullpen. One squirt in the heel is no match for the germs that lurk in the toejam neighborhood. And the guy half-spraying them wants to be holding those shoes about as much as I want to be wearing them. The sweet odiferous cocktail of foot sweat and pleather is more than enough to turn your stomach. If I want to smell old cheese at the bowling alley I will head for the snack bar.

Which, because I'm a dope, is exactly what I did last night because we were bowling around dinner time. There's a good chance (I hope) that this snack bar is cleaner than most drive-thrus I seem unable to avoid. However, at the drive-thru I can't see what goes on with my food. Which you would think would drive me nuts, except that my overwhelming need for saturated fat usually pushes the fear out of my brain. Anyway, back at the bowling alley's E. Coli Cafe I first get to witness the lack of hand washing after money handling. Then I hear "Ooh, good save!" and look up in time to see my frozen burger patty picked up off a shelf under the counter where it had landed after slipping out of the cook's hand on the way to the grill. I'm glad it didn't hit the floor, but I'm pretty sure that dark shelf must be where all the cockroaches hang out while the lights are on. "Excuse me, Mam, maybe you could sprinkle a few tainted peanuts and pistachios on the roll for good measure."

Finally, beware the dreaded finger holes looming on every ball. These havens of disease force the germophobe to weigh the pros and cons of wearing a latex glove when he bowls. Only the embarrassment of looking ridiculous keeps the gloves at home. Though, wearing one glove Michael Jackson-style really wouldn't look much sillier than those crazy wrist supports the serious bowlers wear. Think about it- how many nose picks, crotch scratches and wedgie pulls grace bowler fingertips just prior to picking up the ball? Nasty, right? Forget the ball polisher, I want my bowling alley to have an autoclave.

I love to bowl; the bowling alley, like the liquor store and the back room at the video store, is one of America's great melting pots. I just wish that I didn't feel the need to shower when I'm finished.