Getting in Touch with Your Inner Homer (Doh!) Part I

I have a problem: I finally started letting my kids watch the Simpsons.

I work from the comfort of my private office every day, a room appointed with splendor and decorum, a wall lined with books, a large illuminated globe, and deep, rich Carduba leather wingback chairs and . . . ahh, who am I kidding? I work in the easy chair in front of the TV like every other blogger on earth. When the kids watch the Simpsons so do I and I'm starting to get a little pissed because apparently Homer is based on me.

Yeah, I know, those of you who know me are thinking of my George Clooney good looks and my naturally suave demeanor but I have to tell you it's all a ruse. In the privacy of my own home, when it's just me, I'm full-on Homer.

Like yesterday. I was cleaning the second floor. I mean top to bottom kind of cleaning where I move the vanity to yoga my fat ass in behind the toilet with a bottle of Windex and an old toothbrush. I was into it. So I'm standing there in the bathroom putting all the pieces of the water Pik back together and I turn it on and think it's like a miniature high pressure washer.

I love high pressure washers. I'm a man. We use them for everything. Mud on the tires? High pressure washer. Spot of ketchup on your tie? High pressure washer. Something in your eye? High pressure washer.

I'm standing there imagining this tiny high pressure washer when I notice a little grime around the faucet and automatically point the water pick at it and voila!, cleanliness.

Amazing. I crank up the power and water Pik the faucet gasket, the soap dish, the crevices in the mirror frame, the air hole, the drain . . . and then I go Homer.

See, water Piking the sink is not that bad. I bet you've done it. The mirror frame? That's ingenious. It's hard to get into the molding there and boy did it sparkle. But I was in the zone by now. I needed to clean and just as I looked around the room, my inner Homer spied the open toilet.

At first, I just kind of winged it, just a glancing shot along the rim, cleared off some dust and a spot. But the ingenuity of the thing was like a Homeric avalanche of gotta do it. I couldn't stop myself. I switched tips to the one with the tiniest aperture for maximum distance and pressure. It was like a surgical instrument. Like some kind of home-made water laser. I could cut through soap with this thing.

I cleaned the entire toilet.

I stood on tip toes and shot a stream that churned water all the way around the bowl. I blew rust off the seat posts. I cleaned. . . residue . . . from the back of the bowl, It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I filled the water Pik with Windex and hit the exterior. When I was done, it sparkled like a new dime.

I want to be perfectly clear: THE WATER PICK WAS ALWAYS MORE THAN THREE FEET FROM THE SURFACE OF THE TOILET. I was by the sink. I�m telling you, I swear. I didn't put the Pik into the bowl. I may crazy but I'm not sick--my dog drinks out of the toilet! Ew.

When I was finished, I cleared out the Pik and gave it a good soak. I mean, I paid a lot of money for that thing and now that it's dual purpose, I'm not letting a little Windex residue scare me off.

The real scary thing is that I know, in some upcoming episode, Homer's going to do the same thing and people are going to laugh like it's some kind of Neolithic dorkism and I'm gonna be pissed because it's not. It's genius.

Mark my words. As soon as one of the R&D guys from Scrubbing Bubbles reads this . . . well, it'll the be the must have Father's day gift.

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