I know the colors of my bathtub have no business resembling the same colors as a Wyoming Cowboys football jersey.
We're all about the exposed brick and hardwood floors in the German Village but one's shower should never look like a mashup of those two hues.
The shower at my place, the one where three bachelors who eat nothing but fast food live and sometimes sleep, needed a cleaning after seven months of about 2-point-5 to four showers per day.
Soaps from around the world sweated at the thought of being called into duty. We feared the spray that comes out of those plastic things like Windex bottles would stop flight midway to surface and attempt to scurry back into the bottle.
"Move, bitch, get out the way," said the dreadlocked cleaning particle on the way back to the comforts of his old home.
Mr. Clean, well that bastard, he tried Rogaine. He wanted no part. Plus I don't even know if you'd use Mr. Clean on a bathtub or even if there's a product called Mr. Clean. I just know he endorses some product but have never seen him in real life. Where does he live? We can assume his bathroom is clean. This we can do safely.
Juggling the duty and dealing with the distraction of how small my hands looked in a pair of yellow rubber gloves, I thought of things like how the weather needs to improve because I've seriously made the comment that "this weather isn't too bad because Thanksgiving is only two weeks away" to varying degrees of laughter like 22 times in the past five days and I'm running out of "bad weather in May" material. I thought about how I've been robbed in never having a friend with the last name Campbell because I'd just call him "Soup" like every single day but that'd only be on the days that I actually saw him in person because then the rest I'd just call him Soup via text messages because I only use like 47 anytime-minutes a month on my cell phone and I haven't had a land-line since 2002 when I lived at 64 E. 12th Ave.
Brighter minds always have pondered better questions. Monday night I went downstairs as we prepared to head out for Elyse's 21st birthday party. My roommate was watching a History Channel special on the history of the United States. They were discussing electricity and the roommate said, "That's got to be the best invention of all-time, right?"
I said, "well, there's soap." I only said this because I remember a similar discussion during the movie Donnie Darko and didn't have a real answer because that would make my head hurt and I didn't have time for that because I always prefer the activities which make my head hurt 12 hours later. I'm a procrastinator in all senses.
My mom, the one who knows me best, probably spends hours awake at night wondering how much better my life would be if I ever put any effort into using this brain for good. She actually probably wishes I made other people's lives better because she's just good that way and goes to church two or three times a week. When I told her Merle and Paul were going to be painting Paul's porch one Saturday afternoon and said "I just wasn't feeling the job" she immediately shot back that I should, "at least grab lunch for them!" The woman who's done more for me than anyone else constantly wonders why I'm not doing more for other people and holy shit this is going to make me depressed and good thing she doesn't know the best I've probably done for someone recently is contribute to a soft-core porn-esque blog on a near daily basis during 2009.
My dad? He's cool.
Our favorite player on the Cleveland Indians like 10 years ago was little-used utility player Enrique Wilson. We just liked saying "En-reeeeeeee-k WILL-sin" in a real Spanish accent and would say Ennnnnnnreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk WILLsin like a dozen times an inning and there's nine innings in baseball so do the math, you no-good motherhubbard. 108.
I'd be up in my room reading old Sports Illustrateds or whatever (Homework? Ha. That's what Nate was for. In terms of cheating off someone else's homework, no one abused the relationship more than me but Nate did end up marrying my sister.) and my dad would ring the doorbell unbeknownst to me and answer the door.
"Dave, there's someone at the door for you."
I'd walk over to the top of the steps and my dad would bellow out:
"It's Enreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeekk HhhhhhhhhhhhhhaWILLsin."
I fell for that at least seven times between 1997 and 2000.
Shown only a photo of what our shower looked like, those two years listed above also would be two of the four choices in a multiple-answer question regarding the last time we cleaned our bathroom.
If an elbow produced actual grease during that thing we call hard work, the component would have been an improvement to the scum I scrubed away. Breathing in the type of toxins you usually have to pay for, I spent 75 minutes cleaning.
Congrats on a job ... done. - J. Peterman
Without any beer in fridge, I had to answer what it is that beer drinkers drink when they're not drinking beer. Sure as shit wasn't going to be O'Doul's. I have two rules when it comes to beer A the beer is not allowed to include two apostrophes in its name and B the beer must include alcohol.
Not feeling tap water, I instead had two ... seven popsicles and wondered about the type of stuff Mr. Clean would do when he'd finish an arduous task.
Doing hard work actually is rewarding. LESSON.
When I clean my bathroom again right around my birthday (Dec. 13), I know what my birthday wish will be. It'd be cool to sit down and have a beer with Mr. Clean.
We'd probably have a lot in common. Given his bald head, he's probably a polished guy too.
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