Remora

Tricksy. That is the only way to describe the horror that has for years lurked, invisible, in my gym shirts, all the while scheming and waiting. Apparently some parasitic organism has, over time, attached itself to my workout t-shirts like a remora on a shark. Oh, it blends in well enough, never giving you even the courtesy of a "how do you do?" when you first sniff around for it. Do not be fooled. It is only waiting to spring its trap. And spring it does.

The problem is that my shirts, whether fresh out of the wash or in the drawer, smell perfectly fine. But once I put one on and go to the gym, the foul stench of hundreds of workouts long forgotten comes out of hibernation and is released on an unwitting world.
Imagine, if you will, that Satan himself, the Crown Prince of Darkness and Bane of Humanity, created some version of evil Degree: my body heat turns it on. As much as I like these tattered old clothes, a time comes when a man must bid a fond adieu to clothing that has turned on him, and so it was with great reluctance that I purchased some new gym shirts last week. May these shirts, and me, never know the foulness that cursed their predecessors.