Every janitor has a line that should not be crossed—a sacred threshold between “the normal mess of mankind” and “why, Lord, why?” You can mop up footprints, you can handle overflowing trash cans, but every once in a while something happens in that restroom or breakroom that tests the very limits of your faith in humanity.

Let’s start with my number one spiritual trial: spitting in the urinal.
Now listen, I get it—you’ve got something in your mouth. You don’t want to swallow it. But why, in the name of all things sanitary, must you hock it right into the urinal like you’re making a down payment on the plumbing? You know that little plastic screen sitting there? That thing’s supposed to catch minty freshness, not DNA samples. When I walk in later and see a glob of spittle slowly floating like a lonely jellyfish trapped under a lemon-scented reef, my soul cries out. I’ve had to actually wipe the urinal screen with a disinfectant towel, eye to eye with the offender’s ghost.
If janitors had a Ten Commandments, “Thou shalt not spit in the urinal” would be right under “Thou shalt not pee on the floor.”

And speaking of commandments—let’s talk about flushing.
You wouldn’t believe how many people just… walk away. Like it’s somebody else’s problem. Newsflash: it is somebody else’s problem—me! So, I decided to fight back the only way I knew how: comedy. I made a little sticker that looked like a Las Vegas slot machine and put it above the urinal. It said: “Maximum payout: $20,000 for a Royal Flush!”
Now, you’d be amazed. People actually started flushing. I’d hear it down the hall—whoosh!—like they were pulling a jackpot lever. Humor works, folks. It’s the janitor’s last defense against despair.

But then… there’s that other thing. The unholy abomination. The one that makes me question the entire public education system.
Let’s talk about poopy toilet paper in the women’s sanitary disposal.
I shouldn’t have to say this. This is America. We have toilets. We’ve perfected the flush. Other nations envy our plumbing. Yet, somehow, some women think that little metal box beside the toilet is a catch-all for everything that has ever left the human body. No, ma’am. That box is for one very specific type of item, and it’s not that.
And when you open that lid expecting maybe a dainty wrapper or two, and instead are greeted with a horror that belongs in a medieval dungeon, you question your calling. You look up and say, “Lord, if this cup may pass from me…” But He doesn’t let it pass. He lets you clean it. Because this, my friend, is sanctification through bleach.

But here’s the truth underneath the laughter: every janitor has their pet peeves because we care.
We care about decency, about order, about civilization itself not collapsing into chaos. We’re the last line between tidy harmony and total bathroom anarchy. And if we don’t laugh about it, we’ll lose our minds.

So, to my fellow janitors across the land—laugh. Laugh loud. Laugh while you mop, while you plunge, while you replace the mysterious urinal screen that has seen too much. Because laughter disinfects the soul better than Lysol ever could.

And next time you catch yourself getting angry about some ridiculous human habit—remember: every mop has its cross to bear.