Dear Mr. Clean, Patron Saint of Saturday Morning Regret

Mr. Clean's "retirement," according to the Procter & Gamble-owned brand, is tied to an announcement coming March 4.

"The rumors are true! I'm retiring and saying goodbye to the world of cleaning to pursue new hobbies," Mr. Clean said in a statement. "You can call me Veritably now. No changes are being made to our packaging or our brand name, but I've earned a little time off. More details to come."

Yet, the bottles and formulas stay the same, while the bald head stays on the label. Sadly for us, the man behind the shine is chasing hobbies.

Details arrive on March 4, and it felt like somebody yanked the cord out of the vacuum right when the solo was about to melt the paint off the walls.

You Scrubbed It All Night Long

(in the loud, unapologetic spirit of AC/DC)

Verse 1
 Kitchen was a war zone, grease up on the wall
 Pizza box mountain leaning in the hall
 Sink full of regret from a Friday night
 Stains looking back like they’re ready to fight

Pre-chorus
 Then you showed up with that fearless grin
 Rolled up your sleeves and dug right in

Chorus
 You scrubbed it all night long
 Yeah, you scrubbed it all night long
 Made that mess pack up and run
 Left the whole dang counter shining like the sun

Verse 2
 Footprints in the hallway, mystery on the floor
 Something in the fridge I don’t recall before
 Soap in your wake like a tidal wave
 Dirt didn’t stand a chance; it dug its own grave

Pre-chorus
 No speeches, no blame, no shame
 Just muscle, sparkle, and a household saved

Chorus
 You scrubbed it all night long
 Yeah, you scrubbed it all night long
 Turned disaster into done
 Left the oven gleaming when the day was won

In 1958, Procter & Gamble brought you to life, and not one time did you ever mail it in. A year later, you hit us with your jingle, and America learned a new truth: If something looked hopeless, the bald guy with the gold earring could fix it.

Kids hummed the tune, parents sprayed the counters, and dogs tracked mud across the kitchen floor like it was kindergarten performance art.

And, through it all, you stood there, arms folded, calm as a monk who just discovered degreaser.

Thank you for your service; I know that phrase gets tossed around quite a bit, but you actually earned it.

Humans create messes as though they're our birthright; we spill our juice with confidence, drop our crumbs with flair, and throw parties that end with pizza boxes stacked like ancient Greek architecture next to the Parthenon, filled with unclaimed stains.

Gratefully, you never judged, sighed, or held a press conference demanding better behavior from the public.

You showed up and handled the business like The Wolf in Pulp Fiction, a professional, high-end "cleaner."

Your patience deserves its own monument.

Inside every American kitchen at its worst, you'll find grease that qualifies as roofing material, soap scum that looks like it applied for residency, and mysterious sticky patches on the floor that nobody remembers creating.

You stood there, stoic, facing each disaster with that steady gaze, without drama or lecture—just elbows, muscle, and results.

When other cleaners left streaks or that weird, cloudy film that makes you question whether you made things worse, your thoroughness set the bar very high. You erased evidence, red wine vanished, mud surrendered, and the stove regained its dignity. Counters sparkled like they had something to prove.

Generations trusted you, and that trust was never betrayed.

I have a vision of your retirement party that makes me laugh. You sit on a beach, somewhere, with your head reflecting sunlight like a lighthouse warning grease to stay far away.

A server hands you a drink, then you inspect the rim for water spots—just out of habit. Muscle memory and reflexes die hard.

You could start golfing and fix divots mid-swing because uneven turf offends you. There might be a memoir in your future. If there is, please name it "How to Clean Up After Humans," with the subtitle "I Should've Charged Extra for Casserole Dishes."

There's a level of trust that few reach, and you earned that trust.

Procter & Gamble transformed you into something more than a simple product; you became a mascot for redemption. The mop came out, the music started, and hope, the beacon in the darkness, returned to the kitchen.

Cleaning became a celebration, no, a victory rather than a punishment! In a culture that always leaves a mess behind and tells people it adds character, you quietly proved that order is still valuable.

Veritably, you never flinched in the face of chaos; you handled everyday disasters with grace and without a hint of sarcasm. That restraint alone qualifies you for sainthood, while you watched families grow, pets shed, and toddlers experiment with the relationship between condiments and a living room wall. Yet, you kept showing up; you didn't just clean surfaces, you restored morale.

Enjoy retirement, chase hobbies that don't involve grout, let the shiny dome of a head catch honest sunlight instead of the fluorescent kitchen glare. Laugh at each stain that no longer falls under your bailiwick; we'll keep spraying and scrubbing, humming that terrible version of a "song," and keep glancing at the bottle, as if it holds a bit of your stubborn work ethic.

On behalf of short, bald writers with poor eyesight who rely on dogs to vacuum the crumbs left behind in their chairs, thank you!

Thank you for 68 years of steady service; you made our homes look better than they deserved, you made our messes manageable, and you proved consistency still matters.

Enjoy your well-earned break, o' Patron Saint of Sunday Morning Regret.

With gratitude, while looking across a freshly wiped countertop.

The guy whose oven still owes you an apology after all these years.

Sincerely,

David Manney

Founder of the Society for Countertop Redemption