1. De Neve is already De Nasty.
Let’s be real here. Out of the three main dining halls, which would be the least bad to throw up in: BPlate, Epicuria, or De Neve? Frankly, I’m surprised there’s not more vomit somewhere in De Neve every time I go there. That place is nasty as hell. People cough right into the salad bar. I once saw a guy pick up a cookie, lick it, and put it back down. I’m pretty sure I saw a cockroach cooking their Macadamia Nut Crumble Mahi Mahi once. What’s a little throw up going to do to make that worse?
2. We all make mistakes.
As Jesus once said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” I think that’s pretty sexist, because women can throw up too, but we can give him a pass on this one. He also said to stone gay people, and I like getting stoned, so that’s two wins for Jesus. Speaking of Jesus, I’m sure he made mistakes. He probably threw up in the De Neve Dining of Nazareth. Maybe that’s why they crucified him. Obviously that was a mistake, so I don’t feel like I should be crucified for throwing up all over De Neve.
3. It’s literally the workers’ job to clean it up anyway.
We can just leave. It’s literally not even our job to clean it up. That’s what the workers are for! Like, they get paid minimum wage for that. I’ll happily leave the remains of my Buffalo chicken sandwich all over the salad bar. Sure, I may have done this so many times that AFSCME is mentioning me in their strike contract, but you can’t make an omelet without cracking a few eggs. Sure, there may be an audible groan every time I walk into De Neve, and they probably spit in my food, but I always remind them as they’re cleaning up my spew that they signed up for this, not me.
4. It was Throw Up Thursday.
No explanation needed. The real ones know.
5. It blended perfectly into the Cincinnati Chili.
Look, I may have spit up a few separate times, but I was very careful to blend it into the various De Neve meals that already take the appearance, smell, and taste of vomit. The Cincinnati chili is just one of the many places I let myself empty my lunch into. I’m pretty sure nobody even noticed that I had thrown up into the banana pudding or the creamed corn, and the California pasta salad didn’t look a smidge different after I blew chunks all over it. Ignorance is bliss, right?
