June Two is all Eu, Gene
A birthday shout-out to our man Eugene, station house custodian. Always one with a ready, cheerful smile, whether he's Windexing the windows, dusting the desk tops, aerosoling the common areas or individually cleaning the recycled plastic forks and Chinet® dinner plates — "still holdin' up good, Dooley," he assures us. Right-o, chumley, I remember from the tenth time you told me. Yes our duty-bound associate takes to his tasks like our ball-less best friend Bloomfield takes to a replacement postal carrier's pant cuff — with a well-intentioned intensity. Indeed, Master E. finds no shame in putting in a solid 10 hours on his special day, cleaning the bloody toilets with great enthusiasm. While I applaud dedication to one’s work, whatever it may be, I also find no fault in staying home one day out of the year and leaving the chores to others, but not Eugene. He seems altogether taken with the notion of being up to his elbows in toilet water on the morning of his 45th year. He flashes his remarkably pearly whites — "brush and floss after every meal, Dooley" — and goes about his business with great enthusiasm. “Gonna have cake tonight!” Eugene exclaims as he splish splashes the mop head 'round the toilet stall. “Gonna blow out the candles on the cake!” he cries as he cheerfully spritzes the bowl and underside of the toilet seat. Perhaps he committed some grave sin in a former lifetime for which is now paying. Who can say? He puts the finishing touches on his lavatory duties like a champion — restocking the paper toweling and wiping down the faucets and toilet handles — backing out of the door, farting audibly, lava duties complete — emission accomplished! — and shouting “mop yourself out of the room, Dooley!” so the linoleum dries without any footprints, we've been informed on many occasions. Understood, birthday boy. Brilliant notion, as always. I’ll alert the rocket scientists at the Space Agency.
A birthday shout-out to our man Eugene, station house custodian. Always one with a ready, cheerful smile, whether he's Windexing the windows, dusting the desk tops, aerosoling the common areas or individually cleaning the recycled plastic forks and Chinet® dinner plates — "still holdin' up good, Dooley," he assures us. Right-o, chumley, I remember from the tenth time you told me. Yes our duty-bound associate takes to his tasks like our ball-less best friend Bloomfield takes to a replacement postal carrier's pant cuff — with a well-intentioned intensity. Indeed, Master E. finds no shame in putting in a solid 10 hours on his special day, cleaning the bloody toilets with great enthusiasm. While I applaud dedication to one’s work, whatever it may be, I also find no fault in staying home one day out of the year and leaving the chores to others, but not Eugene. He seems altogether taken with the notion of being up to his elbows in toilet water on the morning of his 45th year. He flashes his remarkably pearly whites — "brush and floss after every meal, Dooley" — and goes about his business with great enthusiasm. “Gonna have cake tonight!” Eugene exclaims as he splish splashes the mop head 'round the toilet stall. “Gonna blow out the candles on the cake!” he cries as he cheerfully spritzes the bowl and underside of the toilet seat. Perhaps he committed some grave sin in a former lifetime for which is now paying. Who can say? He puts the finishing touches on his lavatory duties like a champion — restocking the paper toweling and wiping down the faucets and toilet handles — backing out of the door, farting audibly, lava duties complete — emission accomplished! — and shouting “mop yourself out of the room, Dooley!” so the linoleum dries without any footprints, we've been informed on many occasions. Understood, birthday boy. Brilliant notion, as always. I’ll alert the rocket scientists at the Space Agency.