Barnaby “Barnacle Butt” Bartlett, a man whose physique was best described as “robust,” decided a shirtless handwash was the perfect way to beat the summer heat. He stripped down to his boxers, a rather fetching pair of floral numbers, and stepped outside with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. He hummed happily as he scrubbed his car, completely oblivious to the increasingly bewildered stares from his neighbours.
Mrs. Higgins, peering from behind her lace curtains, gasped. “Goodness me, Bartholomew! Whatever are you doing?” she shrieked, her voice carrying over the carefully cultivated rose bushes.
Barnaby, mid-scrub, looked up, a soapy smile plastered across his face. “Just giving the old girl a good clean, Agnes! Bit of a shirtless handwash, you see. Gets right into the nooks and crannies!”
Agnes, still aghast, replied, “Well, I’ll be… But Bartholomew, dear, you’re using dish soap!”
Barnaby paused, examining the bright yellow bottle in his hand. He squinted. “Oh. Right. Well… that explains the excessive suds. And the… uh… unexpected glow?” He stared at his car, now gleaming like a particularly shiny lemon. “Perhaps a shirtless handwax would’ve been a better idea.” He sighed. “I’ll just… leave the rinsing for later. I think the fire department might have some concerns.” He pointed to his car, now sporting a thick, bubbly coating that was slowly but surely beginning to expand. “And I think this is starting to resemble more of a giant, sudsy, lemon-scented… marshmallow.”
