Sophia: Bruno Bonofiglio.
Dorothy: Ma! I was asleep!
Sophia: So was I. That's when it came to me. Picture this. Sicily, 1922. The village is in a terrible wine crisis. It's the peak of the wine season. And all our grape stompers are ravaged by an outbreak of athlete's foot. Soon the Chianti has a green hue and tastes like Desenex. They call in Sicily's foremost podiatrist, Bruno Bonofiglio. He's the one who prescribed arch supports for Mussolini.
Dorothy: Must have really helped his lower back when they hung him by his heels.
Sophia: Forget him. I'm talking about Bruno Bonofiglio. I take one look at him, and I have a hunch he's trouble. But nobody believes me. So, what happens? He cures everybody and wine sales skyrocket.
Dorothy: Wait a minute, wait a minute. Ma. Unless I'm missing something, your hunch was wrong.
Sophia: My hunches are never wrong. Now, everyone is living high on the hog and eating rich foods. The next thing you know, there's a gout epidemic. Nobody can stomp grapes. And Bruno makes a killing selling orthopedic sandals.
Dorothy: Don't tell me. He went to America, and changed his name to Dr. Scholl.
Sophia: No. Actually, he developed a foot fetish and suffocated when he shoved his head in a lady's rubber boot.
Dorothy: Ma, don't ever wake me up again.