A rare instance of George in the wild, standing in front of a mirror in the bathroom of the restaurant he works at. He’s cocked his torso to the side at an egregiously sassy angle, hand-on-hip, other wielding his phone to snap the photo, as if to say, “Oh yeah. Not only am I a dishwasher, I also play the piano.” He looks horrible, the amount of grease and sweat in his hair and on his brow breaching health-code-violation levels, and he has, on this evening, discovered the wonders of saying “hoo-AHH” while lifting heavy objects. It gives him a little boost, a little acute strength, even. Box of veggies? Hoo-AAH. Big thing of garlic sauce? No problem boss man watch this move: hooo-AAAH.
It’s four hours into his shift, and he has another four to go. After he finishes the dishes at work he’ll go home and shower. “I’ll imagine I’m the hugest dish,” he thinks. “I’ll be scrubbed clean. Here I go!! Into the steamer!!!”