You’re on the cleaning staff at the Hotel Marriott downtown Chicago on a Saturday night. Your supervisor calls your name. She tells you there’s a mess to clean up in the women’s bathroom near the marriage party by the seventh floor banquet hall. You roll your yellow mop cart to the bathroom. You bring your bucket of cleaning products.
You find alcohol-laden vomit thickened with masticated chicken and green vegetables spread over the sink and floor. As vomit stew drips to the floor, you hear the splats hit floor like clockwork.
While you sop up the ooze holding your breath not to gag, that’s when it’s completely cool to say, “I fucking hate this job.”