This is a two-part story; you can’t fully appreciate the logic involved without reading the first (and longest) installment. It deals with an episode that happened sometime the week of November 10, 2014 and posted that Saturday. Installment ONE follows:
!!!! WARNING !!!! – If you are a good, decent, God-fearing person, do NOT read this post under ANY circumstances!
Life ain’t easy for fat folks. First, you have all the snide remarks, disgusted looks, deliberate disrespect, lack of normal compassion from others and general prejudice to deal with. Then, you have to deal with the fact that excess weight causes a lot of inconveniences in your life. Cars, clothes and furniture are uncomfortable. Aisle ways, turnstiles, restrooms and even some tools and appliances just don’t seem “user friendly.” Life can get really aggravating when the inconvenience of being fat is made worse by the stupidity of people who think that EVERYTHING in life falls into the “one size fits all” category. One of those situations occurred recently for me.
I and another “big” guy at work were “randomly” chosen for drug and alcohol testing. Translated, I think that means that they didn’t have a load for either of us just then. We were given our paperwork and then went down to the testing facility behind the local mall for the “piss test.” Unfortunately, I’d been handed the papers immediately upon exiting the restroom, so I requested a wait for more ammunition. Eventually, I felt that a sufficient volume had accumulated to give it a shot.
Now, for any of you who’ve never done the dirty deed, you must first empty all your pockets to prove that you haven’t snuck in a vial of urine from someone else, so you could hide your habit. THEN, you have to LEAVE all your stuff, including your wallet, in an unlocked box on the nurse’s counter, where OTHER victims may walk past it. I suppose they think that these inanimate objects can produce urine, but they never did request that I turn my pockets inside-out to PROVE that they were empty. Foolishly, I even took my multi-tool out of its belt pouch and put it with the other stuff as a sort of wasted bit of sarcasm.
Skinny folks have no way of knowing this, but asking a really fat person to pee in a little plastic cup isn’t much different than asking them to lick their elbow. Things can only stretch and strain so far. When you have a normal length arm, a humongous belly, and a short…..well…I won’t go there, you are working blind to say the least. Also, you can’t just hold the cup with your thumb at the top and your longest finger at the bottom, as you would expect. No, you must pinch the rim between your thumb and finger, which is a tenuous hold at best, to get every fraction of an inch of length that you can to get near the “dispenser.”
You would think that you could align the cup by feel, but experience has taught me that’s not the case. You, instead, operate by sound. Straddling the john, so you won’t get anything on the floor, you listen for the sound of liquid hitting the water in the bowl; that means you need to adjust placement of the cup. Even that sounds easy, but trust me, it isn’t. More urine ends up running down the outside of the cup than inside, so a sizeable volume is required to get enough for the sample. Since I’d recently used the john at work, I couldn’t corral enough of the golden, tattle-tale liquid the first time, AND THEY WON”T SAVE IT TO LET YOU ADD TO IT IN A LITTLE WHILE! I guess they think that it will magically change chemical composition in a half-hour’s time.
So, they offered me the option of staying there and trying again within the next three hours, or rescheduling for another day. I chose to stay. They lead me back to the lobby, but left all my personal items in the open box in the back room. They offered me a cup and suggested that I drink some water from their water cooler to build up ammo faster. A few minutes later, a nurse stuck her head out the door and asked in a panicky voice how many cups I’d drunk. When I replied that I was on my fourth, she asked that I not drink any more. Apparently, you can weaken the sample if you drink TOO much. If I’d known that, I’d have drunk TEN cups for sheer spite!
I waited not until I thought that I MIGHT have enough ammo to do the job, but until I grew DESPERATE to drain my tank! I told them then, that if they’d give me a bucket or a bedpan, I’d give them more “sample” than they’d know what to do with, but no, they gave me another little plastic cup. Most of it STILL went outside the cup, but the sheer volume overwhelmed the odds and I got a more than adequate sample. Then the nurse poured some of it into two little vials and threw the rest away! So much effort WASTED! I think they should have had to test anything up to ten gallons after all that effort!
I’ve got it figured out though. Next time, I’m going to hide that multi-tool in my sock. Then, at least I can use the folding pliers for a handle on that @%#$&^*)$# little plastic cup! In the meanwhile, I suppose no-one notices that one of my coworkers often smells as if he drank a really huge supper the night before. © 2014
On Tuesday (February 16, 2016), I got a call from the shop, telling me that the bureaucratic powers-that-be had drawn my name as the lucky random guy to pee in the proverbial cup, in an effort to determine if I’m a hopeless drunk or a drug addict. I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever be able to drive again, due to the need for the climbing ability of a billy-goat to get in most dump trucks. For some reason, my recent medical problems have left me with a weakness in the hips that makes it extremely difficult for me to climb stairs, so I don’t know how I’m going to clamber into a truck. Still, I need to keep my options open, just in case. After all, the paltry sick pay I’ve been drawing (thankful though I am for it) pays only about 1/3 of what working does. If I would draw disability, it would pay only HALF of what I make working. SO, should I be able to do so (and if the doctor allows it) I need to go back to work.
However, I was supposed to tie up a few lose ends that day and have surgery the following day, so the guy at the shop told me that I could do it the following week. Since my surgery was cancelled, though, I went today (Thursday) and did the dastardly deed. I didn’t follow the original plan though.
I had an epiphany this morning as I sat watching the morning news. As a result, before getting out of my truck to go inside the facility’s offices, I took a Walmart bag and acted as if I was blowing up a balloon. When I was sure that it had no leaks, I deflated it and suck it in my underwear. After paperwork and emptying my pockets, I entered the place of my former trials. This time, though, I left the cup on the back of the lidless commode and dropped my drawers to ankle level. After opening it, I placed one handle of the bag on the front of the commode and sat down on the front edge of the seat. I then pulled the other handle forward with both hands, so as to widen the bag opening as much as possible. Then, I let it rip!
My plan worked perfectly. I poured the needed amount of the warm, golden liquid into the cup, and the remainder into the commode. (You’re not allowed to flush it, by the way.) Using some toilet paper, I then squeezed out any remaining drops of urine from the upside-down bag (much like stripping the last bit of milk from a cow’s udder), wrapped the bag in toilet paper, raised my drawers, stuffed the bag back into my undies and exited the room.
A couple minutes later, I was hobbling out the front door of the facility feeling like I’d made good use of my time. Sometimes, the small victories are the sweetest. © 2016