That'll teach 'em

I work with this woman who has the highest, squeakiest voice you could possibly imagine. She's a fun, wonderful person (she even taught me how to knit!), and she's always been a pleasure to work with. I'd considered her a good friend, up until yesterday.
  Yesterday she rose to "hero" status.
  Every day, our lunch room is visited by a gaggle of teenybopper girls. There are about six to eight in this group, and they are all obliged to bring a sack lunch. These bimbos take it upon themselves to reenact natural disasters with their foodstuffs all over their table. Goldfish crackers are their preferred ammunition.
  There are a total of eight trash cans in the lunch room. Each is located at a nearby and convenient station. They are also equipped with wheels, for those who would rather bring the can to their trash. Each can is ready and willing to be filled with the refuse of junior high boys and girls. In short, there is ample opportunity for one to clean up after his or her self.
   But these fair maidens must not stoop to such menial tasks. Their time is much better spent shrieking and giggling, sending unintelligible text messages, fussing over their hair and wardrobe, and discussing who likes who. With all these important obligations, there is simply no time left for the cleanliness of their station.
  As you might imagine, this daily phenomena has become a bit of a sensitive subject for us lunch ladies. Unfortunaately, most of us are also rather the easy-going, water-off-a-duck's-back personality type.
 Most of us.
 Not, however, our dear Squeaky.
  Yesterday, Squeaky decided she'd had enough. She rushed out of the kitchen unexpectedly, towel in hand, the rest of us staring after her and wondering where the fire was. What we heard next will be forever cherished. Loud and clear over the din of 400 adolescents, Squeaky's voice at its squeakiest. The dialogue follows; I can only assume the pauses are snide and snotty replies, the likes of which only preteens can construct:
  "Excuse me, girls. You need to clean this up."
  Pause.
  "Yes, I'm talking to you. Get back here."
  Pause.
  "I didn't ask if it was your mess, I just told you to clean it up. But it IS your mess, because I sat here and watched you make it. Now clean it up."
  Pause.
  "Yes, I'm quite serious. Do you think your mother works here? I'm not getting paid enough to clean up your crap. Get to it."
  Pause.
  "Excuse me? Chill out? This is me chilled out. If I wasn't chilling out, I'd be fired by now."
  Pause.
  "I'll stand here all day if I have to. I'm not the one with classes to get to. Get it done."
  Moments later, Squeaky returned to the kitchen. She was welcomed with vigorous applause.
   And today: not so much as a crumb was left on the Brat Pack's table. Squeaky deserves a raise.