That sounds like a messy clean up to me, and I have a bad back/have to wash my hair/have a headache/have a soap allergy/don't know where the mop/paper towels/Mr. Clean magic eraser/bleach is/are and my wife/girlfriend/fiancée/mistress/prostitute/ is pretty tired/drunk/lazy/drugged-up/dangerously horny/diseased/on laudanum so I'd better be heading out straight away.
Oh, you're a sassy broad, are you? Referring to your lady bits/meat drapes/pork slippers/vagtables/clitirosaurus/inside-out goo pouch like that. Sure, I'll take care of it/fuck it/grease it with melon runoff/apply hot therapy/convince the badger to poke its head out/play sticky with it/entertain the spelunker/jazz up the place/insinuate sexual relations as long as you're willing to bend yourself backwards over this anvil/put on this Liza wig/talk dirty into my empty sock/breath out the sour cream and onion fumes after eating most of my Pringles/call your dad before you finish/make a dirty pie/elevate the art form/blow me with five to seven marbles in your mouth.
No? You just want me to go? I understand. I won't bother you again/send you emoticons at a funeral/tell you that your slippers are cozy/poke your dog in the eye/carry on a conversation with your landlady when you're not in the apartment/call child protective services and claim that you're 'grumpy'/stick to the ceiling above your bed like a sludgy octopus/wait for you in the dumpster with glitter.
Short Answer/Tiny Response/Final Quip/Extra Joke/Summary Line: I'm pretty sure it was like that when I got here.