Essay / James Saunders / October 2017

On Mr.Clean

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Fuck Mr. Clean; I cannot fucking stand the sexual machination that is Mr. Clean, yet I love him. I envy him. Never before had I seen, let alone confabulated, even, the mere concept of an absolutely suave and sexy cleaning-brand mascot until I laid my eyes on that white-jeans-clad, silver-tongued son of a bitch.

Why would a cleaning brand ever decide to make their mascot into a man with such calm and understanding eyes? I find myself wanting to sit down and finish off two cheap bottles of wine with him while we talk about our feelings and dreams. It’s in this very moment that I step back and realize that I’m talking about a fucking animated character representing a multi-purpose cleaning solution. Why do I find myself wanting to partake in soccer mom-like activities with a goddamn work of fiction? I find myself baffled by nearly every component of this smirk-mouthed creation.

There exists a commercial dubbed “Mr. Clean – Cleaner of Your Dreams”, released and televised for the 2017 Super Bowl, in which a woman is cleaning her household alongside the beautiful man himself. She finds herself overjoyed with his presence and the two begin to dance close to one another while continuing to clean. The woman quickly snaps back to reality, finding that she had entirely hallucinated Mr. Clean’s presence and his help in cleaning her household. Upon her return to reality, the woman finds her significant other standing in Mr. Clean’s place. She locks eyes with him, overcome with the stimulation left by the metrosexual hunk of man, and pounces upon the clueless man in lust, concluding the commercial with a feeling of pride for the adorable chubster, now getting it on with his woman—a feeling which the commercial uses to hide the horrific truth from us: the woman is not attracted to her significant other in that moment, she truly just wants that bald-headed sex panther.

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The true, sickening advertized message is infidelity, and not just normal, soul-crushing infidelity with some other person. These fuckers are advertising infidelity with the unattainable, quintessential peak of male performance, something no mere mortal man could fathom achieving. God forbid if this golden meme of a commercial proves anything of my point: Mr. Clean is a sexual weapon in disguise.

All the exposure to this sinister fiend causes me to question if this asshat even knows anything about cleaning. Could his representation of the brand be a façade in its entirety, a façade to invade the primitive, sexual minds of men and women across America and beyond?

BridesLoveMrCleanImagine finding out that your mother or father, overcome by the hideously sensual prowess of the cuckolding Mr. Clean, has begun an affair with a representational fictional being, perhaps even leaving your other parent in their lust. How fucked would that totally impossible situation be? Imagine even your significant other, whether conceptual or real, leaving you for that crisply-ironed bastard. Imagine the burning hate and envy that you’d feel in every living fiber of your being. These are the absurd machinations of my mind and the things that I fear.

Fuck Mr. Clean, that bastard that gets into your head, manipulating your thoughts and evoking absurd ideas like grinding up on him whilst hopelessly trying to do chores around the household. This bald-headed monster is the stuff of nightmares for someone of belittled confidence such as I. I can hardly hold down a girlfriend for more than a few months, let alone come to the verge of making love to a woman amid such unromantic timing as household cleaning, yet this motherfucker infiltrates and dominates this poor woman’s thinking on a whim. What secrets does that god-forsaken, beautiful bastard hold?

8075126725_862a6cb109.jpgFuck Mr. Clean, as I find myself retaining, at the very least, decent—if not subpar—levels of suaveness. After all, I was bold enough to create a guide to talking to girls at the somewhat innocent age of twelve. Now, at the age of eighteen, I’ve fallen so far as to find myself mentally cuckolded by the smirking confidence of a fucking salesperson’s conjuring made to increase sales and bolster brand appeal. Fuck Mr. Clean! Yes, there absolutely is something wrong with me—I am very well aware—but my concerns on this subject must be, at the very least, moderately understandable.

Fuck Mr. Clean, that freshly tanned douchebag who stands as a monument to mock individuals of diminished confidence like myself. Absolutely no one—and I cannot stress it enough when I say absolutely no one—can pull off a white tee shirt with white jeans, especially any time post-Labor Day. Yet here we find ourselves, knowing that on the labels of millions of bottles of cleaning solution stands the bleached-assholed bastard himself—the quintessential essence of sexual and sensual cleanliness—a god among men and women of cartoonish fiction, clad in perfectly white shirt and pants. The douche canoe even tops it all off with white shoes, dressed like a ray of fucking angelic light. He knows how risky such a move is, and he takes it in stride. He stands, arms crossed, head held high, knowing fully well how tacky his fashion sense is, and he even pulls a power move by smirking in response. He fucking knows and he fucking works it. Fuck Mr. Clean.

I’ll very well be damned if you don’t find yourself as envious of the intimidating confidence of that flirtatiously mute devil. If you dare to tell me otherwise, correct yourself by gazing deep into the romantically dark loving eyes of that beast. Mr. Clean is the pinnacle of male performance and I know that you know it too. Fuck Mr. Clean.

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