Ghetto Copperfield

I've always had a weakness for redheads and it's been my undoing far too many times to count. Fuck, let's face it, simply getting out of bed in the morning has been my undoing far too many times to count, but that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking about here are Gingers and my personal struggle with Ginger addiction. Let that sink in for a moment. Gingers.

Gingers are evil, soul eating monsters that have somehow managed to escape from the fiery pits in the lowest depths of Hell, clawing their way to the surface and eating the hearts of their victims; a noontime snack along the way.

As tools of the devil, these carrot topped demons are marked by the color red, the same satanic shade as their master, the Prince of Darkness. Cursed by God, Gingers cannot walk the Earth by day without bursting into flames and crumbling into a gritty, toxic, neon orange dust. In retribution for this curse, Gingers lurk in pools of shadow at night, waiting to steal unwary children from their beds, drinking their blood and eating their souls. Gingers scare the shit out of humanity and rightly so. One only needs to look at the history of civilization to see the havoc that the Ginger race has wreaked among our species. Even now, as I write this, my life and 'immoral' soul are in danger of being snuffed out. You see, I'm a race traitor and I'm currently dating one of them. A Ginger. A motherfucking Ginger. Think about that for a moment.  If you need a quick break to process that bombshell, I understand. Take all the time you need, I'll be right here waiting. Deep breaths. Baby steps. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.

I love the shit out of my Ginger, she's an amazing woman, but I also live in constant fear of her. She scares the living fuck out of me, because she is, after all, a Ginger and Gingers are some scary shit. Don't tell her that I'm afraid of her, though. Please, please, please do not tell her that. I've managed to keep her fooled for all of this time and I like to pretend that I'm all brave and manly and shit and Gingers can smell fear a mile away. I'm a fucking dead man if she catches one whiff of my terror. Maybe you could say like a little fucking prayer for me, or something. Everyone always says that I need prayer, so please pray for me. Oh please, please pray for me. It's all about the power of prayer. It's a long, long, really fucking long way to Heaven, when you spend every one of your nights trying to get to Hell.

Ain't no fucking way I'd ever get into Heaven.

How come there's a Highway to Hell and only a Stairway to Heaven?

There's probably car pool lanes and shit.

While this is a story about a Ginger, this isn't a story about the current Ginger; this one's safe. For now. Oh, but do I have stories, fuck do I ever (insert maniacal, evil laugh here). Please don't cut off my dick, honey. I love you. I really fucking do. I fucking love the shit out of you. Besides, it's not like I want to piss her off or anything while we're both on the same continent. Fear has a lot to do with that. Fear and my desire for a sex life that doesn't involve my right hand. Plus, I'd like to think that I'm smarter than that. I'd like to think it, but we all know that I'm not. Fuck. It's like that whole math thing. I really should have been a stripper, but I would have starved. All the other dudes would be walking off the stage with g-strings stuffed full of cash and I'd be jingling and jangling with a few rusty nickels. Plus, "Nickels" as a stage name, well, it's not very becoming, is it? So no, this isn't a story about the current Ginger, no, this story is about another Ginger from a lifetime ago. Centuries, eons, eras, whatever. I was young. Younger. The wheel had just been invented, it looked promising, but no one knew what the fuck to do with it. Unfortunately, I was heavily invested in triangles, at the time.

My ship always comes in while I'm at the fucking bus station.

Back when I was eighteen, there was this girl, Andrea and she was beautiful. Her hair was a deep red with long curls. Hot stuff. Andrea was petite, fawn eyed and had the biggest and nicest pair of tits that I'd ever wanted to play with. Seriously. I just wanted to hug them and squeeze them, but fuck calling them George. Andrea was eighteen and she and her parents had just moved to Florida from Quebec. Her parents had struck up a friendship with my parents and they had been encouraging us to meet and hang out together. We resisted, but both sets of parents seemed hell bent matching us up. It's like they wanted us to fuck, or be besties, or something. Whatever. Look, at that age, if you introduced me to your daughter, you were basically telling me that it was cool for me to fuck her, because if you didn't want me to fuck her, you wouldn't have introduced me to your daughter. Makes sense, right? It's called logic, baby. Parents, you should keep that shit in mind when it comes to your daughters.

Hope I didn't cock block anyone.

Anyway, one night when our parents were hanging out, or smoking up, or swinging (double shudders), or whatever they fuck they did, Andrea and I were introduced and then forced upon each other as companions for the evening. Apparently, it was my lucky fucking day, whether I wanted it to be, or not. It was one of those, "Hey, Steve. This is your new friend, Andrea. Why don't the two of you run along and play?" kind of moments, like I was five years old and shit. I wanted to shank a motherfucker, but at least she had hella nice titties. As the two of us ran off to play and being the friendly little motherfucker that I've always been, I asked Andrea if she wanted to smoke a little weed. She stuck her nose in the air and she sniffed. Literally. Fuck me. Well, that bitch was just too fucking cool for school to smoke my fucking pot, what with her being a super fucking cool Canadian and all, but if a troglodyte like myself could somehow hook her up with some high class hash, she'd be down with the clown and might even deign to smoke some of it with me. My treat.

Hash? Yeah, sure, no problem. Why not just ask for the fucking moon while you're at it? I could find weed all fucking day long, figuratively pull it out of my ass, but where the fuck was I going to find hash? No one that I knew bothered with it, because we weren't super fucking cool Canadian dickheads who sat around in our fucking igloos, munching on fucking homemade whale blubber jerky and smoking fucking hash mixed with tobacco, all while trying to not be eaten by a motherfucking polar bear, or getting ass raped by a moose. I'd smoked plenty of hash and I wasn't impressed, it really did nothing for me. Yet, Andrea liked hash and she liked her hash mixed with tobacco, no less. Seriously? That's fucking disgusting. Who does that shit? Obviously, super fucking cool Canadian dickheads do that shit, but I digress. I was pretty sure that there was no way in hell that I was going to find any hash.

So yeah, there just might be one teeny, tiny little fucking problem, one little speed bump along the way. Reality was intruding, but who was I to let reality stand in my way. I brushed that shit aside and eyed up those bodacious tatas.

"I can get it," I blurted out. "No problem."

Did I really just fucking say that? Seriously? What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck am I ever fucking thinking? That's a rhetorical question, you don't need to fucking answer it.

Tits on the brain.

I made a few calls to a sundry assortment of drug dealers and numerous friends, finding nothing other than bullshit promises and my usual disappointment. Everybody knew somebody, but nobody could deliver the goods. Fuck me, I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties if I couldn't deliver the goods and I really wanted to squeeze those magnificent Canadian titties, even if the girl that owned them was an uptight bitch. I needed to think of something quick.

Fortunately, I've always been a quick thinker and fast on my feet. We're talking motherfucking light speed, when I have the proper motivation and I find a spectacular pair of breasts to be very motivating. Very motivating, indeed.

In hindsight, maybe it was a little too quick, but fuck me, that girl carried quite a bit of motivation.

Whatever. Fortune favors the bold, motherfucker and I was one bold motherfucker.

Inspiration struck. Inspiration, desperation, insanity, whatever. One man's insanity is another man's inspiration or some shit like that and I'm all about being inspirational. Anyway, the point is, I had this bright idea and hatched an amazing plan that was both simple and elegant, like all of my plans. That shit was foolproof. There should have been no way for me to fuck it up. None. I would drive us down to the projects on Ali Baba Avenue in Opa Locka (you can't make this shit up), score some hash, drive Andrea back to my apartment, smoke up and then I'd get to squeeze the titties like they were rolls of Charmin and fuck you, Mr. Whipple. Except... there was no way that I was going to find any hash and Miss High and Fucking Mighty Canadian was going to be forced to smoke my common man weed and I was still going to squeeze those titties. It was a fucked up plan, I acknowledge that, but it was a plan nonetheless. It was a simple and straightforward plan and those sun ripened titties were practically in my hands and begging to be squeezed. What could possibly go wrong?

Pretty much everything could go wrong, if you think about it, but that uppity fucking Canadian was too good to smoke my fucking 100% American weed (from Jamaica) and she just had to have her fucking hash and I just had to squeeze those titties, so I didn't think about it quite as much as I should have. Oops, my bad.

Not long after we got into my car, Andrea straight up tried to friend zone me. Oh no, motherfucker, I'm a titty squeezing kind of friend, let's get that shit straight right now. Andrea mentioned something about some dumbass boyfriend that she had who was back in Canada and how much she loved him and was staying faithful to him until some crackhead dream time that she would return to Canada and they would live happily ever after, blah, blah, fucking blah. Yeah, fuck that. I wasn't about to let some redneck Canadian fuck, named Derek, of all fucking things, stand in the way of my squeezing those magnificent tits. There was no way that I was going to be defeated by Derek the Douchebag, no fucking way. Sorry Derek, but fuck you. Find a new girl, dude; maybe buy her some hash.

We drove down to the hood, passed the Circle K, cruised around the block and pulled up in front of the projects. My car was instantly surrounded by a crowd of motherfuckers that were all pushing little manila envelopes filled with dime bags of weed at me.

"Anyone got any hash?" I asked. All of the hands that had been reaching through my slightly open window disappeared. No bueno.

Dude made three grams of hash appear in my hand like he was some kind of ghetto David Copperfield. Get. The. Fuck. Out. I couldn't believe it. There was no fucking way and yet, there it was, the Holy Fucking Grail was in my grasp. Holy shit. I was going to squeeze the motherfucking titties. Hallelujah and praise Jesus, but it was my lucky fucking day.

Some people want to win the lottery, I just wanted to get laid. Tits, ftw!

That space between heartbeats and everything changes. It only takes a fraction of a second to go from squeezing the titties to not squeezing the titties, because that was the moment that the night lit up like a fucking Christmas tree as a police car, that I had somehow missed seeing, rolled up on us, lights flashing. Totally not cool.

Fuck. Yeah, no. This was so far beyond fuck that a word to describe it still hasn't been invented.

Andrea screamed. Seriously? Who fucking screams? She screamed again. Really? Omg. Shut the fuck up.

I told Andrea to calm down, because when you tell a woman to calm down, she immediately realizes that she's being completely irrational and she instantly calms down. Trust me on this one, it works every time. Guys, you should try it.

Andrea became a bit more animated. Okay, she started flipping the fuck out.

The crowd of kids that had been surrounding my car scattered and slithered into the shadows, escaping into the night. That really wasn't an option for me. The cop was out of his car and waddling his doughnut heavy, fat ass up to my car just as fast as he could weeble and wobble.

Andrea screamed a third time. I looked at her.

"We're going to jail! This is all your fault! I fucking hate you!" Andrea wailed.

"Jesus Christ! Would you shut the fuck up?" I yelled at the terrified girl.

Andrea shut the fuck up. Thank fucking god. The power of motherfucking prayer in action, my friends. The power of motherfucking prayer.

I looked at the three cubes of hash in my hand and I did the only thing that I could possibly and sensibly do. I ate that shit. Popped it all right into my mouth and started chewing like a motherfucker. Three fucking grams of hash. Chew, chew, chew like a motherfucker. Three grams of hash is a fucking mouthful. It also tasted like shit. No, it tasted like dried up shit rolled in dirt and then topped with some more shit. Think about that for just a second, I was chewing a mouthful of dirt encrusted dried shit. Just wanted to throw that out there.

The police cruiser was nose to nose with my car, blue lights flashing and the spotlight was on and it was blinding me and I'd lost sight of the cop, but there he was, popping up at my window like some kind of Pillsbury Poppin' Fresh jack in the box motherfucker with his flashlight shining in my eyes and I couldn't see for shit. I was still frantically chewing the fucking hash which had dried my mouth to a fine crusty pucker. I tried to swallow and I couldn't. I kept chewing.

The cop starts shouting at me, "Where are the drugs?"

"Drugs? What drugs?" I answered. "We're lost. We only stopped to ask for directions."

As I'm speaking to the cop, I noticed that little chunks of hash were shooting out of my mouth like little brown cannonballs of shit and those little cannonballs were being fired at the cop, hitting his uniform shirt and tie and then bouncing back at me.

Oh, fuck.

My eyes were watering like crazy. I'm not sure if it was from the lights or if it was the taste of the hash that was making my eyes water. Probably both.

I glanced over at Andrea and she looked like she was one wet fart away from spewing shit all over the passenger seat of my car.

"Don't play games with me, son," the cop said.

What? Did he think we were playing fucking Chutes and Ladders? Dude, you need to take this shit seriously.

I finally managed to swallow the hash. Finally. The taste was glued to the inside of my mouth like a fecal fondue, but hey, I'm just guessing here, having never tasted a fecal fondue. Hey, we all need to swallow a little unpalatable shit sometimes.

I looked at the cop and I laughed. I couldn't fucking help myself. The cop became visibly agitated. More agitated, I should say. I thought that sonofabitch was going to have a fucking stroke or an apoplectic fit. Fuck that guy. The evidence was gone, I was clean, my car was clean (except for Andrea's shit stains and the usual mess of candy bar wrappers, empty cups and fast food detritus) and there wasn't a fucking thing that prick could do to me, so yeah, fuck that guy.

Meanwhile, Andrea is still squirming in her shit, but at least she kept her mouth shut. The power of prayer... It's real.

"What's so funny, boy?" the cop asked me.

"I don't have any drugs," I said just as smugly as I could.

As I spoke, I noticed that the cop's shirt took another broadside of hash cannonballs. Thought I had swallowed all of that shit. Surprise!

"Don't bullshit me, boy," said Officer Smooth. "Give me the drugs and you just might go home tonight. Don't make me go looking."

Did this motherfucker really think I would be stupid enough to hand him drugs and expect to go home that night? Fat fucking chance of that, but since I no longer had any drugs, fuck that and fuck him and I planned on being in my own bed that night, hopefully squeezing some titties, but that was starting to look like it might not happen and it was all this fucking guys fault and I was none too happy about it. Fucking cop blocker.

I grew cocky. Cockier.

"I don't have anything," I laughed.

The cop turned a very pretty shade of purple. Temper, temper...

"I don't have anything," I repeated. "Search all you want. Search me, search the car, you can search your own fucking asshole and anything else you want, but you won't find anything. You were too fast, you jumped the gun. I didn't have a chance to buy anything."

I had finally confessed my guilt, but I was clean and there wasn't a thing in the world that cop could do to me, other than to break my balls and waste my time, so if he was going to fuck with me, I was going to fuck right back. I was eighteen, cocky and stupid and because fuck that guy.

The cop glared at me and that fucking prick kept his fucking flashlight aimed straight into my eyes. Yeah, fuck that guy.

"Don't make me get a dog," the cop threatened.

"Go ahead and get a dog," I replied. "search all you want, I'm clean. Maybe you and the dog can play a little fetch?"

The cop scowled and looked like he was about to say something nasty and had thought better of it. He ordered me to hand over my drivers license, proof of insurance and vehicle registration and I complied. He told me to stay where I was and he walked back over to his car to run my license and registration. Where did he think I was going to go? Out for pizza?

My documentation checked out and came back clean. He looked crestfallen. The cop waddled over to my car again and he gave me back my shit.

"Please step out of the car. I'm going to search your vehicle," the cop said.

Oh goody, an illegal search. You go right the fuck ahead, fat boy.

Andrea and I got out of the car. She didn't look very happy. Actually, she looked terrified and entirely too pissed off. Plus, she was shooting me some serious fucking stink eye. Wtf? What the hell did I do? Fuck. Try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you? Wtf? Some people just have no appreciation. Bitches.

Anyway, the cop searches and searches, but he can't find shit, because I ate all of that shit and there isn't shit for him to find, but if he wanted to search through all of the trash and shit in my car, that was fine with me. Holy shit! That's a lot of shit.

"Do you ever clean this thing?" the cop asked rhetorically.

"Not really," I answered.

After what seemed like forever, the cop finally gave up the ghost and ended his search, allowing us to get back into my car. The cop was pissed off and frustrated by his inability to find any contraband. He had no option other than to let us go off on our merry way and he bid us a fond farewell with one final threat.

"Don't ever let me catch you around here again," he said.

Or what? Fat fucking chance of that, you fat, fucking asshole.

I started the car, put it in gear and I got us the fuck out of Dodge. My mouth was still as dry as a fucking desert and the noxious taste of the hash was clinging to my taste buds like a sweat soaked dollar bill stuck in a stripper's ass crack. The taste in my mouth was akin to licking the inside of an abandoned outhouse. Once again, I feel obliged that I need to mention that I have no personal experience of this. No pics, no proof.

Here it is, more than thirty years later and I'm fucking gagging, just thinking about the taste of that shit.

I looked over at Andrea. Yeah, that girl was definitely going to need a change of clothing. Fucking dropping deuces on my car seat and shit.

Once we got back onto the main road, I saw the shining lights of my salvation just ahead, a gleaming beacon in the darkness of the night, BK in da hood. A brightly colored mecca of frosty beverages that could be used to wash the taste of sin and nasty fucking dirt hash out of my mouth. I made a beeline for that oasis of light in the urban desert, that brightly burning beacon of hope with a motherfucking drive thru. Hallefuckinglujah!

As I was about to pull into the Burger King, Andrea finally found her voice and she unleashed a torrent of harshness and invective upon my gentle soul. It was pretty fucking mean, if you ask me. After all, I'm all sweetness and sensitivity and innocence and light and shit and here that bitch was, acting like her sister had just been crushed by a fucking house. Click your heels three times and fucking go back to Canada, bitch.

She was pretty fucking creative, let me tell you. I don't think she used the same curse word twice at any point during her tirade. That motherfucker called me all sorts of names, but I refuse to use language like that. I'm much too much of a gentle soul for that kind of bullshit.

I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to be squeezing any titties that night, but then she called me an idiot.

An idiot? Once she said that, I was pretty sure that she liked me. Things were looking up. Maybe a quick squeeze? Tune in Tokyo?

I ignored the shit out of Andrea and I ordered myself a chocolate shake. Maybe if Andrea had shut the fuck up, I'd have ordered her something too. Lord knows, she needed a dick, or something in her mouth in order for her to shut the fuck up. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Fer fuck's sake. I attacked my drink like a dying man looking for a last chance to jerk off before he dies. That chocolate shake was like manna from heaven and it cleansed the taste of the hash out of my mouth.

Meanwhile, the bitch kept bitching and babbling on.

The way that Andrea kept going on (Jesus, stop and take a fucking breath, would you?) I was starting to rethink my position. Maybe, just maybe I wasn't going to get to squeeze the titties. That's all kinds of fucked up, I know, but fuck it, you can't squeeze all of the titties all of the time.

But you can sure fucking try.

To be honest, at this point, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to squeeze her titties anymore. Okay, that last part is complete bullshit, I'm always down for squeezing some titties. Silence is golden. duct tape is silver. Just sayin'.

I drove us back to my parent's house and I had to listen to Andrea bitch the entire way. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch... like it was my fucking fault or something. Like I'm the one who wanted the hash. Was I the one who was too uppity to smoke good old American weed from Jamaica? Fuck no. So, how the fuck was any of this my fault? Fuck, you try to do something nice for someone and this is how they repay you?

Finally, I turned to Andrea and said, "Would you shut the fuck up, already?"

Andrea was so shocked, she shut the fuck up. Finally. Praise Jesus.

The car was now silent, which was a good thing. I cranked up the stereo. Andrea scowled, but she kept her fucking mouth shut and that was a good thing too. Like, the bestest thing ever.

The hash kicked in. I was one stoned motherfucker. At least something good would come out of all of this, a free buzz. I'd never paid David Copperfield for the hash. Plus, I made that shit disappear.

Who's the better magician now, motherfucker?

We made it back to my parent's house and I parked. Andrea couldn't get out of the car fast enough. I asked her if she wanted to go back to my apartment and catch a buzz, but she totally freaked the fuck out and started crying and then she took of running. Wtf? Was it something I said?

Needless to say, I didn't get to squeeze Andrea's titties. Not that night, anyway, but I did eventually.

Bitches can't resist my charms.

Don't Be Lude

As I've mentioned in a number of other stories, my family had a summer home in Atlantic City, NJ and I spent many a summer season prowling that old wooden boardwalk with my friends in search of adventure and girls, always girls.

I've always been a whore. My father respected and encouraged that.

My father... As tough as that man was, I could get straight to that man's heart, and his wallet, by mentioning that I had the possibility of getting laid. It worked every fucking time. Pussy was my personal four leaf clover. Okay, I'm lying, but I'd like to pretend it was. Fuck off, they're my memories.

I remember when my father and I had the sex talk. It was pretty damn funny. I was about thirteen or so and he sidled on up to me.

"Steven," he said, "We need to talk."

My father looked embarrassed; horribly so. Good.

"Sure, Pop. What's up?"

"We need to talk about sex, son," my father said. There was quite a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

"Sure, Pop. What did you need to know?"

My father's face grew red and drifted into purple. I didn't know if he was embarrassed, pissed off, or what, but he just spluttered something and stalked off in a huff. Ah, good times.

But our typical conversations would usually go something like this:

Me: "Dad, can I have $20?"

Back in those days, $20 could get you places.

My Father: "No. You work, use your own money. I'm not giving you $15. I'm not giving you $10. What the hell do you need $5 for?"

Like it was a fucking negotiation or something. How much was the vig going to be?

Me: "I'm broke and I have a date. I might get laid."

My Father (reaching into his wallet): "Don't use words like that. Here you go, Is $20 going to be enough? Don't tell your mother."

And then there was this famous conversation after I started high school in Atlantic City when I was fourteen. We were headed back to Florida and the transfer paperwork from my high school had a typo in it that made me a year older. In my mind, this opened up a world of salacious opportunities and I did a little research. As it turned out, the State of Florida's Department of Motor Vehicles would accept school records as proof of identity and age. Suddenly, I was eligible for my learner's permit an entire year earlier than I should have been. I had a plan.

I approached my father and I told him of the typo and my scheme. He refused to be a part of it. What the hell? My father was into all kinds of shady shit, why not this? I tried and I tried, I fast talked as much as I could; I was literally tap dancing, but still my father stood firm, so I pulled out the big guns.

"Dad," I said, "You just don't understand."

"I understand plenty," my father said, "I said no and that's final. Don't make me tell you no again, or you'll regret it."

Fuck that. I wasn't about to give up, this was totally worth a beating.

"Dad," I pleaded and then I dropped the magic words, "This could get me laid."

"Your mother will kill me."

I was winning. I knew it and he knew it. I pressed home my attack.

"She doesn't need to know," I told him. "I'll never say a word. Seriously, Dad, I could totally get laid."

When the collapse came, it happened all at once.

"Alright," he said, "We'll go to the DMV on Saturday morning. Don't tell your mother. She's going to kill me."

I couldn't believe it, I had won.

I got my permit and then I got a motorcycle. It got me laid. Oh, did it ever.

I just wanted you to understand how my father was when it came to me and girls. We're going to go back to Atlantic City, now.

It was the Summer of 1980 and I was almost fifteen years old. I thought that I was hot shit with my license that made me a year older than I was and it set the stage for a whole new world of trouble. Trouble of the best kind.

I worked a lot in the summertime, usually having two jobs and I also dabbled in a few other things to help supplement my income. I had a close relative that moved a lot of drugs and I would purchase weed and Quaaludes from that relative and then sell the weed to my friends and the ludes would make their way to other friends, or I would sell them for top dollar at the local discos. Nobody really cared about your age back then when it came to getting into bars. If you had money to spend, you were in.

On this particular day, I had scored three hundred Quaaludes from my relative and I needed a safe and secure place to count the pills and then divide them up. Our condo was out; my parents watched me like a hawk and they didn't trust me for shit. I've never understood why, I was always such a wonderful and loving son. Responsible, too.

My friend Sue had a sister named Kathy, who was a few years older than I and lived in the same building that we did. Kathy was also one of my biggest customers. Her parents would let her stay in their condo all summer long and would only show up on the weekends, when they would drive down from Cherry Hill, a suburban enclave in New Jersey, but was more of a suburb of Philadelphia. I went down to the beach and I approached Kathy and explained what I needed to do and I asked her if I could use her apartment for a few minutes, telling her that I'd make it worth her while. As luck would have it, my parents were also at the beach and they took notice of the two of us leaving together. I looked over at my parents and waved to them. They didn't wave back. Instead, they looked at me suspiciously. Somehow, they always knew when I was up to something, not that they were the most trusting of souls to begin with.

Kathy and I went back to our building and she brought me up to her apartment. Once inside, I pulled the bag of ludes out of my pocket and I dumped them on a small table by the door. Those fucking things were rolling all over the place. We started counting everything up, to make sure that the amount that I had was accurate. When we were finished, we would divide them up into piles of ten and wrap them in aluminum foil; they looked just like a roll of Lifesavers when we did that. It was so cute.

Just as we started counting, someone started pounding loudly on the front door.

We both looked up, startled. We hadn't been expecting anyone. I looked at her and she looked at me. Who the fuck could it be? Whomever it was, it couldn't be good, we had three hundred fucking Quaaludes on the table and they were in full view of the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck...

The pounding on the door continued.

Kathy's voice was cracking with fear as she asked me what we should do.

I whispered back to her, "Stop freaking out. Calm down and ask who it is."

Kathy gulped, took a deep breath and sounded a lot like a big ol' hoot owl when she asked, "Who-who is it?"

"It's Tony. Is Steven in there? Tell him to get his ass out here, right now!" yelled the voice at the door.

It was my father. Fuck. Shit. Fuckshit. What the hell was he doing here? Shit. I was well and truly fucked. Maybe he'd understand that I was just trying to make some extra money. Maybe he wouldn't actually kill, me either, but I knew that I was just bullshitting myself. My father wasn't going to understand shit and I was a fucking dead man. Hell, even I understood that much.

If I thought Kathy had been panicking before, she seemed about to piss herself at that very moment and I don't think that I was too far behind her. This shit was getting out of control. I had to think of something.

Like a lightbulb that sizzles and pops, I had an epiphany and I knew what I had to do.

I looked at Kathy and I said, "Don't worry, I've got this. I've got a plan."

You'd think that would have calmed her down, but noooo... Why do people always get nervous when I say that I have a plan? They always work. Mostly. Sometimes. On occasion, maybe. Fuck you.

I got up and started walking towards the door, unbuttoning and unzipping my pants as I went. I pulled my shirt out of my jeans and then I messed up my hair. I unlocked the door and cracked it open enough for my father to see me as I was pulling my jeans back up and started zipping them. I could tell from the look on my father's face that he thought that he had interrupted something and that I was getting dressed. My father's face turned cherry red. It was working, I was going to get away with this. For once, one of my fucking ideas was actually working. I felt giddy with joy.

"What's up, Pop?" I asked him. "Need something?"

My father was speechless for a moment and then he started spluttering.

"I just wanted to know where you were," he said. "When you're finished here, come and find me. I need to talk to you about something."

He was trying to save face. My gambit had totally worked and I was going to live to see another day. The relief that I felt was palpable. This... This right here... This is why I'm a fucking evil genius and you're not.

"Sure thing, Pop," I said as I closed the door in his face and locked it. I turned around and started laughing my ass off.

Kathy looked at me as if I'd gone mad. I told her what I'd done and she started laughing too. Insanity, like laughter, is contagious.

"I can't believe he fell for it," I told her. "He really thought we were having sex."

Kathy looked at me a little funny and she said, "What would be so hard to believe about that?"

Oh? Ohhhh...

It was a while before I went looking for my father.

Thanks for stopping by!

If you enjoyed reading this story, you might enjoy this one as well:

If the Shoe Fits

Urine Luck

While I don't smoke marijuana anymore, my views on it are the same as when I smoked it. I believe that marijuana is less harmful than alcohol, has scientifically proven medical benefits  and that the consumption of marijuana should be a personal choice. Legalization increases tax revenue, provides employment and contributes to local economies. Crime rates are lower, opiate use and abuse are also lower, and contrary to popular belief, people are not intentionally giving marijuana edibles to children (that shit's expensive) and it has been well documented that use among children has not increased. Marijuana is not the boogeyman hiding under the bed that we once thought it was.

But I'm not writing this to advocate for the legalization of marijuana.

I'm also rather opinionated on the topic of drug testing. I don't like it and I don't believe in it. I believe that drug testing is an affront to liberty, dignity, and privacy. That being said, my being able to work and pay my bills is more important to me than catching a buzz and I expect to have to take a drug test when applying for employment. I think that drug testing is overly intrusive  and that a corporation should not have the right to be able to demand a sample of my urine, DNA, hair, blood, or saliva. I've never smoked before work, I've never been high on the job, and frankly, what I do on my own time is my business, not my employer's.

But I'm not writing this to advocate for the elimination of drug testing, either.

Nope. Today, we're going to talk about what it's like to be the poor schmuck who was confronted with taking a drug test when he knows damn well that he's not going to pass it, but takes it anyway. Of course, that poor schmuck would be me.

Now, you may have read about a previous experience that I had when it comes to drug testing in the story "In a Pickle", but this one takes a somewhat different track.

Many, many years ago, I was working full-time and looking to take on a part-time job. I had been applying to a lot of different companies, because my skill set is pretty varied and I happen to know a lot about absolutely nothing, which makes me fairly qualified for a political career, I guess. One of the places that I applied to was an Awful House restaurant in Martinsburg, WV, looking for a position as a cook. As I was filling out the application, the manager struck up a conversation with me and he started asking me questions about my background, experience and education. We spoke for a few minutes and he asked me if I would be interested in applying for a management position. As it turned out, he was not the restaurant manager, he was the district manager for the company. He turned on the charm and I informed him that I really wasn't that interested, but he pressed on. He started talking numbers; base pay, bonuses and benefits. Those were some pretty big numbers that he was throwing at me and I had no idea that the managers at those little shit holes were earning that kind of cash. Suddenly, I was a bit more interested.

We spoke some more and our casual conversation turned into a full blown interview and he offered me the position. I would have six weeks of training in the location that I was at and then I would be opening my own store on the other side of town. My start date would be contingent upon the results of my background check and drug test.

Wait. What?

Drug test? That motherfucker never mentioned anything about a fucking drug test when he was talking me into that bullshit. The background check wouldn't be a problem, but that drug test, yeah... that was going to be a bit of a problem. This was why I had just wanted to be a part-time cook, I hadn't wanted to be bothered with that kind of bullshit. I'd never heard of drug testing restaurant employees before. Hell, most restaurant employees are high, think about that the next time your server or the cook fucks up. If restaurants started drug testing their employees, there wouldn't be many restaurants left. I'll even tell you why we do drugs. It's because of YOU, motherfucker. We do drugs because of motherfuckers like you. Seriously. The general public treats us like shit. That's okay, think that fucking smile is real? Wondering why your food is taking so long? Throat feeling a little parched, because you sucked down five sodas, demanded a sixth and are wondering where the fuck your server is? That's because we fucking hate you too. Piss us off and we'll fuck your shit up ten ways from Sunday. Want it your way? Go to motherfucking Burger King or cook that shit at home, just the way you fucking like it. Now you've got it your fucking way.

Anyway, most restaurants wouldn't dream of drug testing their employees, but not the fucking Awful House. Oh no, this fucking place had to have a "Christian Ethic" that management had to aspire to. The management of Awful House was held to a completely different and much higher standard than their hourly employees. Role model bullshit and all that. It's hard to have a Christian ethic when you're not a Christian and I really didn't want to let silly little things like ethics get in the way of all of my raping and killing. A man needs his pursuits.

This was complete bullshit, of course, but I'd swallowed enough bullshit by this point in my life that I'd acquired a taste for it. The real question was if I really was willing to put up with this bullshit for money? Well, it was a lot of fucking money and I just needed to pass one silly little drug test. How fucking hard could that be?

I had a plan.

I had to schedule the test within five days. No problem. I needed one of two things and I was golden; I needed someone who could provide me with a clean urine sample, or I needed some type of masking agent.

This left me with two problems.

Problem #1 - I didn't know a single person that could provide me with a clean urine sample. Everyone that I knew back then was a pothead. Fucking potheads.

Problem #2 - I'd tried using masking agents before and based upon my previous experiences, they were completely worthless. No, they were worse than useless. I'd tried a product called "The Stuff", which came with a money back guarantee. Well, "The Stuff" was "Le Shit" and the money back guarantee was just as worthless as the product was. Guaranteed to fucking fail, is what it was.

Fuck. Things weren't looking very good for me, but I wasn't ready to give up just yet.

I had looked at some other methods for passing a drug test. There were online forums that were devoted to the art and full of erroneous advice. I read through discussion after discussion about the efficacy of bleach, vinegar and pickle juice (yeah, fuck that and fuck you too, Chad). There was even a white paper written by the guy who invented the fucking thing in the first place (feeling guilty, motherfucker?) And then there was some really strange shit that my research turned up, commercial products that were available for purchase, wondrous and magical things such as synthetic urine (who thinks of this shit?) and even a synthetic penis, the Whizzonator delivery system, which was basically just a big old rubber dildo that squirted fake pee. Yeah, um, no.

Not exactly the gift that keeps on giving, unless you're into giving golden showers. ***Spoiler alert*** Guess what you're getting for Christmas?

A friend of mine suggested that I try Tommy Chong's Urine Luck, a masking agent that my friend claimed had worked for him. I drove over to the local smoke shop and I bought a bottle. I had my study aid and I was ready to pass my drug test. The clerk at the store told me that it looked and smelled just like the real thing. I asked him about the taste test. People are so fucking uptight.

The big day arrived without fanfare (fuck that, my life deserves fanfare and a soundtrack) and I went to the lab to take my drug test. I walked in and greeted the female technician at the front desk. She had me show her my ID, sign in and then I had to sign a small forest of paperwork. The tech then asked me to empty my pockets. No problem, because the Urine Luck was securely taped to the inside of my thigh, in order to keep it at body temperature, because I'm fucking smart like that. The tech asked me if I was ready and then led me into the bathroom where she explained that I was not to close the door, I was to pee into the cup, I was not to touch or flush the toilet and I was not to wash my hands. She asked me if I understood all of that claptrap and asked if I had any questions. Seriously? I needed to pee in a cup. It wasn't exactly rocket science.

Ready, set, wait...

The tech was still in the bathroom with me. What the fuck? Not cool. Now, I had questions. Serious questions. Was she going to watch? Maybe hold it for me, too? Maybe she'd like to go outside and write my fucking name in the snow with it. More importantly, did she have good hand writing? I wouldn't want to sign my name to anything that might be less than the best. The technician's continued presence presented me with a little conundrum; I still needed to get to the bottle of Urine Luck that was taped to my thigh and this woman was watching me like a motherfucking hawk. This really wasn't working out the way that it was supposed to.

The lab tech looked away and I was good to go. I unleashed the beast and... nothing.

I had motherfucking stage fright. Yeah... this shit really wasn't working out for me.

I overcame my shyness and started filling the cup, but I still needed to get to the bottle of Urine Luck that was taped to my leg. I reached into my pants and grasped the bottle, giving it a quick tug. Nothing happened. The bottle was stuck fast against my thigh. Looking back, maybe duct tape wasn't my best choice for an adhesive, as the tape strained against my leg, painfully pulling at the hair that it was attached to. I pulled harder and the tape ripped free, taking all of the hair on my thigh along with about two layers of skin. That shit fucking hurt. I stifled a scream and nearly spilled my pee all over myself.

I looked at the instructions on the bottle. In hindsight. maybe it would have been a better idea to read the instructions before the moment of truth. Shit happens. Real men don't read the fucking instructions, anyway. Fuck that, I sure as shit was all about reading those fucking instructions right then. Hey, if Bruce Jenner can be a little bitch, so can I.

Step 1 - Pour Urine Luck into the urine sample.

Simple enough. I emptied the bottle into the sample cup.

Step 2 - Stir.

Stir?

My head spun.

Stir? Get the fuck out of here. How the fucking fuck was I supposed to stir that shit in the middle of a fucking drug test?

What the fuck was I going to stir it with?

I looked at my finger and let out a sigh.

"Fuck it," I thought, as I plunged my finger into the cup. I dipped and stirred.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. A fuck for every lap around the cup.

It was beyond fucking nasty, it was totally fucking gross. I'm pretty sure that I will never be into that whole golden showers thing. No lemon parties for me, thanks.

Don't click that link! Too late? So fucking sorry, bro.

If you just went back and clicked that shit, I promise you that your life will never be the same again. If you still haven't clicked it, don't. I'm warning you for the last time. That which has been seen, cannot be unseen.

So, my finger was covered in piss and I wasn't allowed to wash my hands. Urine Luck, my ass. If this was fucking luck... Jesus...

I needed to zip back up, but I really didn't want to touch myself, not at all, not with my piss finger anyway. Fuck! I managed to take care of business, cringing at my own touch and completely disgusted with myself. Hell, it's not like I can really complain that it was the first time I've ever been disgusted with myself, or the tenth. It certainly wasn't the last time, either. I'm just blessed like that. My fucking cup runneth over.

Speaking of cups, I handed the cup over to the still oblivious tech. She sealed the sample and labeled it. I was then allowed to wash my hands. What did it matter now? I'd already pissed away all of my dignity and whatever small measure that may have remained now washed slowly down the drain like so much soap scum.

I dried my hands, tucked my tail between my legs, and left the lab as quickly as possible. It was a traumatic experience and I needed to smoke a joint for my PTSD. I was puffing away before I pulled out of the parking space.

I patiently awaited the results of my drug test. Translation - I was paranoid as fuck.

Time passed slowly. I didn't expect to hear anything right away but three days had gone by. I was starting to wonder what was going on.

After the fourth day had passed, I still hadn't heard back from Awful House, so I gave the district manager a call.

He hung up on me as soon as I said who I was. Well, maybe the call dropped. Yeah, that was it, the call must have dropped. I called him again and he hung up on me again. What the fuck? I stopped calling. Fuck that place.

A few days later, I received a copy of the lab report in the mail. Evidently, the amount of THC in my system may have disqualified me from employment and it was a wonder that I hadn't peed green.

I also tested positive for the masking agents in the Urine Luck.

Some fucking luck.

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

Kill it with Fire

In a Pickle

Searching for employment has never been any easier than it is today. Jobs are scarce and landing one is harder than ever, but searching and applying for employment all comes down to a web search and applying for a job is as easy as pressing a button. As if that weren't enough, there's Monster, CareerBuilder, LinkedIn and a plethora of others, all clamoring for attention and every single one of them swearing on a stack of Bibles and your children's lives that they are going to help land you the job of your dreams.

Yeah.

Sure.

Smells like bullshit to me.

Smells like bullshit to him, too.

Believe it or not, searching for a job wasn't always like this; it wasn't always so simple, easy and worry-free. Once upon a time, there were no online job searches. Back in the bad old days, in a world long forgotten, long before the Monsters and their ilk, so far back it was before the modern Internet even and people were still using AOL, long before there were scrolling job searches from your smart phone, email job prospects and recruitment firms, you actually had to get your hands dirty. Literally. You see, you had to physically peruse this thing called a newspaper. I shit you not. The newspaper was a large part of the analog experience, but I think that most people really bought them for the coupons and the TV guide, but it was also useful for the comics, horoscope and the classified ads where you could buy used, broken crap or search the help wanted ads. But the worst thing about newspapers was that they were very cheaply printed and the ink would rub off and get all over your hands, turning them black. The horrors, the horrors...

Newspaper Example

These are actual headlines.

In the bad old days, if you wanted to find a job, you would have to start by searching through the employment section, hoping to find something suitable and circling all of the jobs that you wanted to apply for. Oh, joy of joys; such fun. The ads would usually direct you to physically mail a paper resume and cover letter to a designated address, or you would be directed to apply in person, or you would be directed to call, so that you could be told that you have to apply in person. Apply in person. As in, get up off your ass, make yourself pretty and actually speak to a human. Omigod, the fucking horrors.

If you're really lucky, you just might find your dream job. I found mine once. I'd tell you about it, but I signed a confidentiality agreement.

Well, one fine day, many years ago, I was thumbing through the employment section of the local newspaper, I was in the trenches, man, getting my hands dirty, when I came across an ad for a local factory that needed production workers and they were paying very well. Not having anything better to do at the time and because I really needed a job and money to pay for silly little things like rent, electricity and food. Plus, I was starting to get a little low on a few of life's little luxuries, such as weed, booze and dollar bills for strippers. Money would go a long way towards solving that problem and easing my anxiety.

Anxiety can kill, you know. This was all about taking care of myself and concern for my own well-being.

I picked up the rotary phone and I dialed the number in the ad. Okay, it wasn't really a rotary phone, but it was a house phone, a land line, an honest to God cordless phone with an extending metal antenna and everything, like something you'd see on Friends or in the Smithsonian or something.

Anyway, I dialed the number and the phone was answered by a woman with an incredibly deep-throated, husky and sexy voice. I automatically assumed that she was ugly. That's been my experience, anyway. Consider it a precious pearl of wisdom that I'm imparting to you. Free. No charge. No need to thank me, that's just the kind of guy that I am, such a generous soul am I.

Don't forget, you get what you pay for.

Ms Sexy Voice, whom I was certain was incredibly ugly, informed me that the job placement for the factory was through the temp agency that she worked for, that it was full-time employment and fairly easy work. Plus, it paid a living wage.

I asked her what kind of factory it was and she told me that they manufactured bath tubs and that my job would be to move the tubs from the finishing area to the packing area, for shipment.

It sounded easy enough and like I mentioned, the pay was pretty decent for back then.

Ms Sexy Voice, whom I was certain was incredibly ugly, asked me if I would be interested in coming down to her office in a few hours for an interview and I told her that it wouldn't be a problem. We set a time for the interview and we were just about to hang up when she dropped a bomb on me.

"Do you have a problem with taking and passing a drug test?" she asked me.

Well, fuck me.

The mention of a drug test made it a bit of a sticky wicket and I was now in a bit of a conundrum. I looked at the pile of weed sitting in front of me as I briefly pondered the unfairness of life.

"Absolutely," I totally fucking lied, told her that I would see her in a couple of hours and hung up the phone.

I broke into a cold sweat and I started to panic. A little. Okay, it was a fucking lot. Happy now?

I was well and truly fucked. There was no way in hell that I was going to pass a drug test. I had been doing bong hits while thumbing through the classifieds, fer fuck's sake. My mind raced through possible solutions. I could try to use a coverup or a masking agent, but I already knew that shit was worthless. I had previously tried The Stuff, which advertised itself as The Shit and it certainly was. Shit, I mean. It was definitely shit and I didn't have time for that shit. The clock was ticking and when the bell tolled...

I took a bong hit and a deep breath to help settle my nerves, since I was still in a bit of a tizzy.  I tried to figure out what to do, but I was completely bereft of any logical thoughts.

I needed to think outside of the box. I needed to think illogical thoughts, sort of like a bizarro Mr. Spock on some severely fucked up, bad acid trip version of Star Trek. That was when I had an epiphany. Maybe it was just a mini stroke. Who the fuck knows?

I now had a plan of action. Kind of. Baby steps, people.

I needed to call my friend Chad. Chad would know what to do. You see, good old Chad was a bigger pothead than I was and he changed jobs a lot, always managing to pass his pre-employment drug screenings. I had to call Chad. I needed to know his secrets.

I picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed his number. Thankfully, Chad was awake and somewhat coherent. More importantly, for my purposes, he'd answered his fucking phone.

"Dude," I said.

"Dude," he answered.

High brow conversation has always been my forte.

"Dude, I need your help," I pleaded.

"Dude," he said, "I'm not helping you move shit and no, you can't borrow my truck."

"Dude," I countered, "I'm not moving anything and I don't need your fucking truck. This is about me, so stop trying to make it about you, you selfish fucking asshole. I have to take a drug test in a little bit and I need to know how you always pass them.

"Dude, that's easy," said Chad. "Do you have a jar of pickles?"

Pickles??? WTF???

Clearly, Chad had lost his fucking mind.

"Yeah, dude," I said. "I have a jar of pickles. What the fuck do I need a jar of pickles for?"

"Dude, you need to drink the pickle juice," he told me. "The vinegar in there will skew the results of the drug test and you'll pass.  It's all about like alkalinity and ph levels and shit. That's my method, that's how I pass all of my drug tests. You need to trust me on this one, dude."

Upon reflection, that is the moment that I should have known that I was doomed. It is a proven scientific fact that any time that someone says the words "trust me," they're really just politely saying, "Fuck you." Trust me on this...

"Okay," I said. "Thanks, Chad. I'll give it a try." I hung up the phone.

What did I have to lose?

If I only knew then what I know now...

Well, innocent, pure, naive and trusting soul that I am, I walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and peered inside. There it was, gleaming in all of its green ghastliness. I stared at that jar of pickles and that jar of pickles stared back at me; taunting me, daring me. I looked into the abyss and it looked into me. It was a Mexican standoff and someone had to flinch first. Deep down, I knew that it was going to be me. Pickle jars are incapable of flinching. I'm insane, I'm not fucking stupid.

My balls dropped. I manned up and I seized the jar, choking the shit out of that mocking little bastard. I opened the jar and I took a whiff.

I shuddered.

"Fuck me," I thought.

I gulped and then I slugged that shit down. It was cold, disgusting and vile. If I had to compare it to something, I'd say it was a lot like kissing my ex-wife.

The pickle juice hit my stomach like a fat guy doing a bad belly flop in a Mr. Turtle pool. My little tummy was not pleased. Nope, not pleased at all.

Meanwhile, the clock was still ticking.

I went upstairs to shower and shave. All through this, my stomach let me know what it thought of the pickle juice, repeatedly threatening to exorcise the demon from within my body. Unknown to me, my stomach was also biding its time and plotting its revenge.

I got dressed, all by myself and I made myself look and smell pretty, just in case Ms. Sexy Voice, whom I automatically assumed was ugly, turned out to be a hot chick. Besides, it pays to be pretty and you just never know, right? Just say right and shut the fuck up. It's all about me, remember?

My stomach rumbled again, louder and more forcefully. It was making noises the likes of which I'd never heard before and which I had previously thought weren't humanly possible. I started to feel a little bit of worry creep into my newfound confidence, but I couldn't dwell on a case of nerves as my time was now up and I had to leave for the interview. I took one last bong hit for luck and I walked out to the car. The employment agency's office was only a fifteen minute drive from my house. I quickly drove through town and I hit the highway. It seemed to me as if the moment that I merged into traffic, my stomach started freaking out like a ninety year old grandmother that just ate an entire bag of magic mushrooms. My colon was doing cartwheels. That was definitely not a good sign. I broke into a cold sweat and my sphincter began to tremble. I hoped and prayed that I could get the car off of the highway before my ass achieved liftoff at eighty miles per hour.

I made it to my exit and floored the gas pedal, leaving rubber behind in my hurry to make it to the office. There was some good news, at least. My pants were still dry; score one for the home team.

I arrived at the office building without further incident, which was a good thing. Trust me on this. I parked my car, hopped out and entered the building. My stomach started up again, much more urgently than before. I looked around for the restrooms and was rewarded with nothing. Seriously? How do you build an office building and not put a fucking bathroom in the fucking lobby for people who are about to shit their fucking pants? WTF? WTF? WTF?

Seriously. What the fuck? Who does that shit? It's fucking cruel is what it is.

I swear, if I had a drink for every time I've said, "What the fuck?" I'd never have a sober moment.

I was starting to feel a little desperate because my gut was beginning to lose its patience with me.

"Fuck it," I thought.

I walked over to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, the doors opened and I found myself confronted by an extraordinarily long hallway that stretched to both my left and my right.

"I wonder if there's a bathroom up here," I thought to myself, "and if there is, whichever direction it's in, I'm sure that I'll pick the wrong fucking one."

My poor little tummy once again voiced its displeasure. Loudly. I could feel a lot of pressure starting to build up and it was urgently demanding release. I needed to fart. I was scared. No, I wasn't scared, I was fucking terrified. There was no fucking way in hell that I was going to trust that fart. I started wishing that I had a cork. Don't ask.

I decided to try searching in the direction that the employment agency was in and for once, blind luck paid off. I had found the fucking bathroom! I was saved! I did a little dance in my head. It was like a little pirate jig. Mainly because my ass was saying, "Argh!"

I reached for the doorknob and MOTHERFUCKER! that sonofabitch was locked. What kind of sick, cruel and sadistic joke was this? What kind of sick fucking bastard locks a bathroom door in the middle of Bumfuck, West Virginia? At that moment, right there and then, I could have shanked a bitch.

"Fuck it," I thought.

I sucked it up and unbunched my panties, putting myself back on the path for the employment agency and my interview, which of course had to be all the way at the very end of the longest fucking hallway in the world. Each and every step seemed to be a mile and my stomach was warning me that I was approaching a state of dire peril. The pressure in my bowels was building to a crashing crescendo. I could feel the sweat on my brow. I was frightened, scared, but unfortunately, I wasn't scared shitless.

Things didn't look good...

After what seemed an eternity and the equivalent of being forced to hike to school, uphill, barefoot and in the snow, I finally arrived at my destination. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, straightened my tie, put on an I'm really not about to shit my pants smile and entered the office, where I was immediately greeted by Ms. Sexy Voice whom I immediately assumed must be ugly.

She wasn't ugly at all. Nope, not ugly at all. She was hot. No, she was beyond hot. Standing before me was one of the most incredibly beautiful women that I have ever seen.

"Hi," Ms. Sexy Voice said in that incredibly sexy voice of hers. "Are you Steve?"

I nodded my head, which was a good thing. I couldn't form words, much less a complete sentence or a coherent response. I mumbled something that hopefully resembled a "Yes," but the sound that came out of my mouth sounded more like something that a stroke victim might say, but I'm sure the stroke victim would have been easier to understand.

I gathered my wits, what little wits I had anyway. It wasn't much.

I introduced myself and we shook hands. I had to remind myself to let go. She asked me to follow her back to her office, which was great because it gave me the opportunity to check out her butt, too. Her ass was so tight, I could have bounced quarters off of it. We entered her office and she closed and locked the door.

And that was when she started to undress, slowly peeling her clothes off. She asked me if I'd ever had sex on an office desk before.

Holy fuck, I was flabbergasted.

Okay, that entire part is complete bullshit, but I know that's the way that it should have played out. Alas, life is a cruel and vicious bitch, because the reality of the situation was that it was taking all of my concentration and muscle control to keep my ass reigned in so that I wouldn't shit myself and I was unbelievably uncomfortable. I just wanted to barrel my way through this interview so that I could find a bathroom, bush or even a tree that I could hide behind.

I started off the interview by apologizing to Ms. Sexy Voiced Super Hot Chick and explaining that I was feeling very much under the weather and that I had been sick all morning, somehow managing to gather my strength and crawl out from my deathbed because this interview was just so gosh darned important to me. Ms. Sexy Voice seemed very understanding of my 'illness' and showed a great deal of empathy as she started the interview.

My stomach chose that moment to remind me that it was displeased with me and the unnatural sound that it produced was embarrassingly loud. I noticed that Ms. Sexy Voice's eyebrows had shot upwards a little bit. just a little. Like the distance form the earth to the moon, just a little. Oh fuck, why did I have to humiliate myself in front of the hot chick? Please, please, please, please, PLEASE do not let me shit myself in front of this woman.

After about twenty minutes of questions and answers, a line had been crossed and the dam was ready to breach. I had to go and Right Fucking Now! Literally. My ass wasn't going to wait for shit. Again, literally.

I apologized again, profusely and I informed Ms. Sexy Voice that I was about to be very sick and asked for directions to the restroom. I don't think that she was very surprised. Nope, I don't think that she was very surprised at all.

"I understand," she said, "and it's no problem." She then proceeded to tell me where I'd find the bathroom (all the way back down the fucking hall, of course) and she held up a gleaming metal object.

The Key! The fucking Key! I felt as if I had found the Holy Grail, even if I was only headed for a porcelain chalice. Still, I had the fucking key and my salvation was close at hand. I wanted to marry this woman, who had suddenly become both my savior and my soulmate, but that would have to wait for the nonce as I had some very pressing business that I needed to attend to quite urgently. Happily though, I had the key and you can praise whoever the fuck you feel like praising. The only thing that mattered to me right then and there was that key. Well, maybe the key and not shitting my pants. Not shitting my pants was pretty high on my list of priorities and I was now safe, because I had the key.

I did another little dance in my head.

Fuck yeah!

I calmly excused myself and left the office, gently closing the door behind me. I casually took two steps and then I broke into a sprint. At that moment, I could have shamed an Olympic runner, I was running so fast. I ran down that hallway faster than Kim Kardashian can figure out new ways to whore herself for money. Yep, it was that fucking fast. My stomach was churning and burning. I was beyond frantic. I felt as if I were on a countdown timer; I had mere moments at best, before that hallway would experience a shit tsunami of truly epic proportions.

I made it to the restroom, grabbed the door and inserted the key. No, I didn't. Do you really think that I could possibly ever be that lucky or that I could manage to accomplish such a simple task? Not fucking likely. I dropped the fucking key. Of course, I dropped the fucking key. What else would you fucking expect?

I picked up the key and I tried again.

Why is it that my inability to insert the key directly into the lock is always magnified tenfold by how badly I have to use the restroom? That's some serious shit to ponder, right there. No pun intended, I take that shit way too seriously.

After only like three or four zillion tries, I finally managed to unlock the door and I rushed inside, locking the door behind me. I frantically yanked down my pants while attempting to sit on the toilet in one fluid motion. I'd like to say that it worked, but alas, it just wasn't meant to be. I didn't make it. The seal shattered. The dam broke. That poor toilet was the Pompeii to my Mount Vesuvius. It was like watching an oil well make a strike in one of those old movies. It was a fountain of foaming feces, a crap frappe, a fecal fondue, a bountiful bonanza of bubbling filth as the pureed contents of my internal organs shot out of my ass like a flaming barrel of monkeys and I released a pent up scream of pain, mixed with relief. There was nothing that I could do except ride the storm out.

My ass hit the seat. No wetness. That was a good sign, it meant that I wasn't sitting in shit, which was a good thing, because that pickle juice wasn't done with me just yet. The entire bathroom smelled like pickles and shit. Yum. Pickled shit. Coming soon, to a convenience store near you.

The thing about tsunamis is that there's always more than just the initial wave. There can be several waves, one right after the other and there were. I held on to the handicap rail as if my life depended on it.

The next wave was so brutal that it actually lifted my ass off of the toilet seat. No shit! Well, yes shit, actually and plenty of it. I pictured my spleen floating out to sea on a froth of filth. I can't even begin to describe the sound effects that accompanied my moments of bliss, but they must have really been something, because my performance did not go unnoticed.

There was a knock at the door.

I froze.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.

The knock came again, louder this time.

Are you fucking kidding me? Doesn't anyone have any fucking decency?

And then I heard a voice. Oh, fuck me. I was mortified. Fuck me a thousand times. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. I was now trapped in the bathroom and afraid to leave. I was too afraid of being seen by anyone and later recognized; to be pointed out for public ridicule. Hey, I lived in a very small town.

"Sir, are you okay in there?" came the stranger's voice.

I mumbled something and he left. At least I hoped he'd left. I finished burying the remains of my stomach at sea and cleaned myself up. I washed my hands and prepared to make my escape from the room of doom, hoping that no one was around to see whom had unleashed an unholy horror from Hell within the building. Still wanting to avoid that whole public ridicule thing, I stealthily cracked open the door and peeked out, half expecting to see a small crowd, but I the coast was clear and I was safe. Talk about lucky. I'm truly grateful that I'm able to lead such a charmed fucking life. I'm just going to go ahead and count my lucky fucking stars and smoke some of those four leaf clovers. Yippee!

While I'm busy patting myself on the back for being able to exit a bathroom, let me bring us all back to the reality block party with the reminder that my interview was not finished and I had to make the ten million mile march of death back to the temp agency's office.

I trudged and I staggered my way back down the hallway from hell, bouncing from wall to wall as if I were trapped in a pinball machine. Visualize this as a low tech version of Tron. We'll call my version Tard and we'll just leave it at that. I tried my best to walk normally, but that's next to impossible when everything under your skin has been liquified and shat out of your body. I dreaded returning to the interview because I was so embarrassed by what had happened, but my embarrassment took a back seat to my empty wallet, so I swallowed my pride and shit it right back out as I reentered the office. I needn't have worried about my dignity, because I left my dignity at the bottom of a jar of pickles.

When I got back to Ms. Sexy Voice's office, it was with my tail between my legs, but she acted as if nothing had happened and I followed her lead. She offered me the job and I realized that to her, I was just a number and she was only interested in making the numbers. Any monkey would have been hired for that position. I idly wondered if I were still eligible for sex on her desk as some sort of bizarro signing bonus or maybe a little beej action. I should have asked.

Ms. Sexy Voice had me fill out some paperwork. I authorized a background check, credit report, drug test and proved that I had the right to work in these here United States. I signed this and I signed that, set up direct deposit, health insurance and an anal probe. Just kidding. I wanted a paper check.

As we finished up, Ms. Sexy Voice asked me if I had any questions, so I asked her to show me her tits. Okay, I didn't but I really wish that I had. I'm not ashamed to say that I like tits. Is that so wrong?

I had a real question, though. An incredibly important question.

"Just one," I said. "When do I take the drug test? Do I take that now?"

"Oh, no," she answered. "We'll schedule you to take that at another time."

Fuck. Me.

All of that struggle and effort, all of that pain and suffering; the humiliation, all of it, had been for naught. I had literally paid my pounds of flesh (so to speak) and it was all for nothing. I wanted to cry. I wanted to kill Chad. I'm not ashamed to say that I imagined his pain, suffering and ultimate death dozens of times that day. You'd be amazed at just how creative you can get with a jar of pickles. I kid, I kid. Chad's a lot bigger than me, he'd totally kick my ass.

Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, FUCK YOU, CHAD! That's his real name, by the way. That was some pretty shitty advice that you gave me. I'm not hiding your ass behind a fake identity; this isn't the fucking Witless Protection Program.

So, take this painful and humiliating little lesson to heart, DON'T trust your friends, they're full of shit and their bright ideas will be your downfall. Trust me on this.

One last thing...

Fuck you, Chad!