Marcel Winatschek

The Pig Comes Clean

My name is Marcel and I live in filth. Not the charming kind of lived-in disorder that photographs well—I mean beer bottles in archipelago formations across the coffee table, socks that have developed opinions, a kitchen that has crossed into an evolutionary phase I’m no longer qualified to address. Somewhere in this apartment my girlfriend is technically present. I can confirm this by occasional sound.

Here’s the thing: none of it bothers me. The mess and I have reached an understanding. The problem is everyone else—the unannounced guests who force their way into my aromatic little den of stains and unclear windows and then pull a face like they’ve just found Angela Merkel in a men’s sauna. And then I’m supposed to feel bad about my choices.

So I’m looking for a cleaner. Not for myself—I want to be clear about that—but for the sake of whoever keeps turning up at my door with their expectations and their functioning noses. What I need is someone who treats a toilet as a personal enemy, who approaches a mop the way a general approaches a campaign, who arrives with vinegar and a scrub brush and leaves behind a place that doesn’t require an immediate apology.

Ideally: a Berta from Two and a Half Men—all jaw, zero sentimentality, no sexual tension whatsoever on either side of the arrangement. Mostly. The promise of a harassment-free workplace would be, if not entirely guaranteed, at least statistically probable. Apply anyway.