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Drug Testing
(As Practiced at the Village Saloon)

By Michael Voth
Posted May 5, 1998

About a week ago I went down to an unnamed establishment in a small village. John (Not his Real Name.) had a little problem, for he had to submit to a drug test the next day to get this job he had been hoping for. John smokes a lotta herbs, and passing the test was not in the cards, barring some kind of intervention from his friends. It turned out that John only knew two people who had any chance at all of ever passing the damned drug test. I was one of them, and this fellow outlaw I'm tryin' to get to run for county sheriff was the other, but that's almost another story.

So we're sittin' there, and I'm sorta flirtin' with John's daughter, who is just about a third my age and has youthful qualities I will not attempt to describe, and John doesn't seem to mind too much.

Well, I'm thinking, John hasn't even shot me once yet, and he isn't even asleep. Turns out he had a reason to be so nice. He had a little request. "John," I said, "what's mine is urine."

Well, what happened was that John pulls out this little plastic bottle. John obviously didn't know how big a normal man's dick was, or he would never've got a bottle quite that small. Or maybe that wasn't the problem. I guess you have to sneak the illegally obtained piss into the corporate shithouse somehow, and the best way is to hide it in your trousers. I guess there are still some things that even the politically correct will not do. At any rate, it was a very small bottle.

I am a marksman, however, so I went to the boy's room and sorta got some of my own homemade piss into the bottle.

I have never been one to carry a bottle of my own piss around in public, so I had this feeling that I was not in my element as I waltzed from the boy's room back to the table where John and his lovely daughter were sitting.

Now, if you've tried this lately, you will recall that fresh piss is amazingly warm. Fresh out of the coffee pot, so to speak.

Naturally John was bullshitting with some other friends by the time I got back to the table. Being a sorta shy person, I didn't know how to deal with this situation. What are you gonna do? Just put a bottle of fresh piss on a table in a rural saloon? Or perhaps interrupt conversation and say something like "Excuse me, here's the bottle you loaned me. I just pissed in it. Would you like the bottle back?"

So I handed the bottle to Charlie. (She's the daughter. Not her real name. Nobody around here has a real name any more.)

"Is this for my Dad?" Charlie says as I hand her the little bottle. The trouble is, it was a little warmer than she expected, since she was more practiced in holding a bottle of cool beer than a jug of the stuff it eventually turns into. And Charlie is really cute, which will be John's downfall for sure and maybe her own as well.

So she dropped our little bottle down on the table perhaps a little too hastily. Well, grown men have been known to be attentive to the needs of shapely young women from time to time. So immediately, Frank (Not his ...) literally jumps in to save the situation. Frank grabs the teetering plastic bottle, saving me from a lot of sorry explanation and a probable fistfight.

Except that this heroic rescue wasn't perfect. The seal on the lid of the bottle was either defective or poorly designed in the first place. Frank now has liquid all over his right forearm. So naturally he decides to sniff his arm. I would've done the same thing.

Frank is a red-haired person. I have tried to live a life free of prejudgment about the likely actions people will take based on their physical characteristics. But there are some things that are just obvious. People without legs will not likely kick you too hard. And redheaded people will get redder if you piss on them.

To his credit, John tried to defuse the situation, which was developing fairly rapidly. Frank isn't listening a bit, but fortunately is unaware that it's my piss all over his right arm. About this time, Charlie figures out what her Dad and I have been up to and what's in the bottle and all over Frank.

She defused the situation in proper hillwoman fashion. By the time she explained about the pregnancy test, old Frank was actually trying to get the portion of pee that landed on him back in the bottle, and his complexion was nearly back to normal. John was just about purple though, for I think he was wondering how his daughter got to be so clever.

But he was still focused on the precious contents of the plastic bottle. He didn't want another incident of this sort to ruin his future.

So he went out to his truck, got some duct tape, and sealed that bottle good.

Since people who administer drug testing are not necessarily total idiots, it is necessary to reheat urine to something like its original exit temperature before you hand it to the nice nurse. Unlike Charlie, the nice nurse expects a warm bottle.

So John put my little bottle of piss into his microwave oven just before his drug test. He forgot how well it was sealed. I guess he cranked up the volume a little too far. The inevitable occurred once again.

Well, that's what John, Charlie, Frank and I did on Thursday night and Friday morning.

(c)1998 by Michael Voth

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05 May, 1998