My future employer wants an entire cup of my pee, and he wants it within 168 hours. He needs it. Fresh, untainted urine is necessary for our business relationship to begin. He wants to pay experts to study it, withdraw interesting things from it and test it for cleanliness and moral fiber. He wants to save it for posterity. A generous annual salary, health benefits and a retirement plan can all be mine. All he wants in return is a drinking glass filled with my pee.
Well, he also wants me to work a job for forty hours per week, but that’s a minute detail. The cherry on top of this hot fudge sundae is my urine.
I’ve never taken a drug test before. Sure, I’ve urinated into cups numerous times, but that was back in college. That was just for fun, purely recreational. This is a professional urination. This urination is all business, polished and mature. No laughing, no spraying half of it on the floor for fun, no shouting “Dude, I’m totally peeing in this cup!” as I totally pee into the cup. My tendency to urinate into things is finally reaching the big leagues.
I’ve always been surprised that so many employers require a drug test. It’s a very personal thing, asking a stranger for multiple ounces of their urine. I wouldn’t be comfortable asking my parents for that. I wouldn’t even ask a girlfriend or wife, though I’m sure it would make for an amusing story.
“Darling, this first date has gone well, and I plan to call you in a few days, but first I’m going to need you to urinate into this small scientific beaker. Also, I’m going to have to watch you do it, because I don’t trust you. Darling? Where are you going? Did I do something wrong? Is it the pee thing? It’s the fact that I asked for your pee, isn’t it?! Damn Philistine!”
The pee/poop/fart test place (I don’t know all the things they test; I’m just covering all the possibilities) is a drug counseling center in Culver City, CA. I arrived and was greeted by a portly, bearded Jewish man wearing a yarmulke. Across from me in the waiting room was a drugged-out-looking guy wearing sunglasses indoors. He reminded me very much of Charlie Sheen’s cameo in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”. He may have been deceased, because he didn’t move at all the entire 20 minutes I was there.
The waiting room of the drug counseling center seemed strategically designed to encourage urination. A water cooler bubbled suggestively in the corner. Coffee percolated nearby, dripping slowly into the pot. Easy listening muzak was piped softly through the speakers, creating a warm and fuzzy, pee-friendly Kenny G atmosphere. I tend to wonder if the reason Kenny G isn’t married is because all his girlfriends found his calming nature to be too much of a natural laxative.
Fat Yarmulke Guy invited me into the facility’s pre-urination room and asked me to empty everything from my pockets into a locker. Once assured that I wasn’t hiding vials of other people’s liquid waste amongst my belongings, he handed me a cup that, to me at least, seemed roughly the size of a Big Gulp from 7-Eleven. A black line was printed a few inches from the top.
“You have to fill it to the line,” said Fat Yarmulke, “otherwise it doesn’t count and you’ll need to sit in the waiting room for a few hours drinking coffee until you can go again.” I informed him that I didn’t think I had ever achieved that sort of volume in my entire life. The only way to coax this much urine out of one person in a single sitting would be to replace the water and coffee in the waiting room with cases of Coors Light. He assured me that it wasn’t as much as it seemed, and that even his young son could fill it up. I thanked him for that awful visual and took the cup to the restroom.
“You have three minutes,” he said sternly, adjusting his yarmulke with what I thought was a bit of an attitude. I was tempted to spray pee on the side of the container as retaliation, but I figured I needed as much of it in the cup as possible if I was going to complete the challenging task of filling it. I barely made it. I got it just up to the line, and it felt like I had just filled the Grand Canyon with Tang.
Fat Yarm took the cup from me and did an “instant test” with it in the pre-urination room, which is also apparently the post-urination room. I asked if an instant test was similar to instant coffee. He either didn’t hear me or ignored me. I’m betting on the latter. Before transferring the test results to my employer’s form, he asked if I owned a medical marijuana card. I lied and said no.
“Okay, we have to ask,” he said. “If you have a prescription, then we won’t test for marijuana.”
I was shocked. “Um, what is this test for again?” I asked, baffled as to what else they could possibly be interested in finding. Anything more hardcore than weed is pretty easy to notice. Cocaine addicts have jittery movements. Heroin addicts show up a week late to the interview, not realizing they fell asleep for six days straight. People who take bath salts usually attempt to eat your face. If they weren’t testing for pot, it seemed like a pretty big waste of time.
The results, straight from the spoils of my own flaccid penis, are that I’m clean. Contrary to the expectations of everyone who has ever read this column ever, I am completely drug free. Fat Yarm said it was the finest, most immaculate, most delicious urine he’s ever come across, and that I could come back and test again for free anytime I wanted.
Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he would have if he were honest, because my urine is incredible. It’s by far the best urine on the market, and I have the paperwork to prove it. My urine is Charlie Sheen, while everyone else’s is Emilio Estevez. Let it be known forever more that Paul Ryan’s pee will take your breath away.