The Bank Job

Relationships are complicated things; they can either evolve and grow over time or they can fall apart in an instant. People can see things differently, change direction, or want something different from what is currently on offer. Unlike a contractual obligation, a relationship can be ended by either party at any time. One moment, everything seems to be chugging along just fine and it’s pure bliss, but the next thing you know, you’ve been kicked to the curb and you’re out on your ass. Welcome to apartment hunting, homeless-style. In this game, you try to win by tracking down the best appliance boxes to live in and remember, location, location, location. Location is everything.  Steam grates and fast food restaurants with an accessible dumpster are prime pieces of real estate in the homeless community, as well as an indicator of social status. Still, it’s a cold, cruel world out there and in the long run, it’s probably best to keep that miserable fucking bitch or bastard happy. I say that because having shit like electricity, running water, food, toilet paper, pornography and all of that other civilized crap are good things. At the very least, it sure as shit beats waking up covered in cat piss and pigeon shit, wondering where your next hit of Robitussin is going to come from.

As an aside, Walgreen’s is open twenty-four hours a day. Aisle 5.

Yeah, breakups are hard. Breakups are brutal, soul-killing and savage; a betrayal, a dagger through the heart. And while there’s no such thing as a good breakup, a truly bad breakup is devastating, leaving you adrift, lost and alone.

My bank broke up with me today.

That bitch.

I’ve been crying for hours, binge watching movies about bank robberies and eating Ben & Jerry’s. I even went through an entire box of tissues watching one movie. That one wasn’t about robbing banks.

Not really, but I was pretty pissed off. I’m not pissed off anymore, though. Nope, now I’m just humiliated.

It all started with a letter and it wasn’t the letter ‘P’ from Sesame Street.

I couldn’t believe the words as I read them, my bank was breaking up with me. I was stunned and heartbroken as I read the impersonal words contained on that single page of fine, vellum paper. No explanation, just a cold and brief note in the mail, informing me that the bank was closing my accounts and terminating our relationship. I couldn’t understand the reasoning behind their decision, I’d been a good customer, I’d never had an overdraft or bounced a check. Hell, I don’t even own a check, I do all of my banking online. I’d even been faithful, sort of. I had been seeing another bank. I had accounts elsewhere, but my bank already knew all about that. I thought we had an open relationship. As far as I knew, I had never done anything to incur their wrath. Could this be as simple as jealousy? A bad case of asset envy, perhaps?

Still, the questions nagged at me. Why? What the hell had I done? Deep down, I didn’t really give a shit about what I may or may not have done. I do all kinds of fucked up shit, so one more accusation of fuckery doesn’t really surprise me. Honestly, all I really cared about was my money. And that begs the question, what about my fucking money?

The letter from the bank informed me that Chase was closing my accounts because continuing their relationship with me created a possible reputational risk for them. In other words, Chase was politely saying the equivalent of, “It’s not us, it’s you,” and “We need some space.” I must admit that the form letter went to great lengths to show empathy for me, further informing me that Chase knew that this was not a decision that they made lightly and that the account closures might cause difficulties for me.

Difficulties. Yeah, no shit. Fuckers.

Chase also wanted to let me know how magnanimous they were and that they were willing to help me through this difficult time.

It would “help” me, if I would destroy the debit and credit cards for all of my accounts.

Any checks that were written on the account would be returned as unpaid, because the account was closed.

Direct deposits and recurring payments would be rejected.

Hey Fuckers, what about my money?

Oh, there it was, hidden in the middle of the fucking Dear John letter.

Funds may not be withdrawn from this account at this time.

Fuck me.

You dirty cocksuckers…

So, when do I get my fucking money?

After those motherfuckers verified all deposits and payments, I’d get a check in the mail for any remaining funds and that it would be ten days, before I’d get my coin, which is no problem, of course, because I’m independently wealthy and live a life of such fucking leisure that I was absolutely certain that the $4.37 that I had in my change jar would carry me through the next week. Oh, and sorry kitty, but that can of Fancy Feast belongs to me now, so back off, bitch.

Chase also let me know that they valued me as a customer and I’ll tell you, nothing could make me feel more like a valued customer than that letter did. Truly, it filled my heart with sunshine, happiness and joy. Assholes.

Once again, Chase informed me that they were reaching out to let me know that they were there to help in this difficult time and that if I needed to talk, if I had any questions or concerns, I should give them a call and we could hug it out.

Maybe sit in a big circle, holding hands and singing fucking “Kumbaya”.

Yeah, fuck that.

I had lots of fucking questions and concerns and I was just about to call those motherfuckers when I noticed a sentence that I hadn’t read, buried near the bottom of the letter. The sentence read, “If you are calling from outside of the U.S., please call us collect.”

You’ll never guess what I did.

I walked right out to the car and I drove off, in search of a pay phone. I didn’t have to search very long, as I came across one almost immediately, at a 7-11 that’s just a few blocks from my house. You bet your ass I called them collect.

Fuck that, let those bitches pay for my call. They were going to pay alright.

But pay they didn’t. Those motherfuckers didn’t accept the charges for the call. Wtf? Lying fucking liars.

And now I had to pee.

More than a little pissed off, I returned home, walked passed the bathroom and called the bank from my mobile phone.

Fuck. I forgot to pee. No worries, how long could the call take? I could wait it out.

The phone was answered with a chipper, “Good morning,” by an equally chipper gentleman and I feel the need to point out that I am nowhere near chipper, nor am I a gentleman in the morning and I most certainly do not say motherfucking chipper things, no matter what the time of day. Okay, that’s kind of a lie. I happily tell people to go fuck themselves all of the time, so I guess you could call that chipper. Anyway, more often than not, I’m just a heartbeat away from assaulting and killing chipper people who say chipper things and I want to kill them even more, when they do their chipper shit first thing in the morning. I smiled as I pictured disemboweling that chipper fucking bastard with my righteous anger.

And I really had to pee.

Anyway, the guy droned on…

“Thank you for calling Chase…” and whatever other scripted bullshit he was forced to say and that I didn’t pay attention to. He droned on, “My name is Richard. How may I be of service to you today.”

Gremlins were jumping on my bladder and I felt like I was about to explode. All I wanted to do was hang up the phone and run for the bathroom, but instead, I introduced myself and told Richard about the letter, telling him that I didn’t understand what was going on and asked for an explanation.

A very quick explanation. My kidneys were about to burst.

“I’ll be happy to be of service to you in that matter today. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll look into that,” Richard said. “I just need to verify your identity and access your accounts.”

My back teeth were floating. I started fidgeting like a spastic monkey, all whacked out on crack.

We went through the whole rigmarole and Richard accessed my account. Richard had kept a running banter of small talk going up until this point, but suddenly, he was silent.

“Oh…” he said. “You’re that guy. One moment, please.”

Well, that sure sounded ominous. What the hell had he meant by ‘that guy’?

I found myself on hold, trapped listening to what I’m sure was supposed to be soothing music, but I’ve always found the strains of “Afternoon Delight” to be somewhat enraging. Like, shank a bitch, enraging, but I digress.

I couldn’t hold it any longer, I was about to wet my pants.

It only got worse when Debbie Boone started singing, “You Light Up My Life.”

I was losing my fucking mind. I ran for the bathroom and made it just in time. No one’s calling my Pauley Pissy Pants. I let out a sigh of relief, and then Debbie Boone cut out in mid-caterwaul just as Richard came back on the line, which saved me from going apeshit and strangling someone with the telephone cord. Just kidding, no one has a landline anymore.

“Mr. Marandola, are you using the restroom?” Richard asked.

I had forgotten that the phone was on speaker. Oops.

I stopped peeing and held that shit. I was really dying now. Do you know how hard it is to stop peeing and hold it in midstream?

“Um… no?” I answered. “What? No, I’m not. Who does that? That’s disgusting.”

I couldn’t believe it; I’d just been caught with my dick in my hands. Again. This was the entire situation that I’d been trying to avoid in the first place and instead, I’d grabbed the bull by the horn, so to speak, not once, but twice.

Not that it’s any consolation, really, but at least my bad decisions are epic.

“Sir…,” Richard began.

Uh, oh. That sounded even more ominous than the last thing he’d said, which had been as ominous as fuck.

Maybe I had done something wrong, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it could have been. I mean, I do a lot of shit. I made a mental list of all of my recent wrongdoings and while there were a shit ton of fuck ups, there wasn’t anything that involved the bank, or that would cause them to terminate their relationship with me. Not in recent memory, anyway. I use the term recent memory very loosely. As I mentioned, I do a lot of shit, so recent memory only encompasses about a week; anything longer than that counts as the remote past, because ain’t nobody got time for all that. Life with me is like living in dog years.

Meanwhile, I’m still holding my pee. Not cool. So totally not cool.

“The bank has closed your account based upon your personal behavior at one of our branches,” Richard continued.

What? What kind of fuckery was this? Personal behavior? While I’d never doubt that my behavior might cause a ruckus, I hadn’t even been inside of a branch for months. Something to do with my general loathing for humanity.

“Have to pee. Have to pee. Have to pee.” I thought. It had become my mantra.

“I’m not sure that I understand,” I said. “What exactly do you mean by personal behavior?”

“Mr. Marandola,” Richard replied, “Do we really need to get into all of that?”

Well, since only one of us seemed to know what the fuck ‘all of that’ encompassed, we sure as shit did. So clue me in, motherfucker.

Agitated, I responded, “Richard, I’m not sure what you mean. Dick. I haven’t been inside of a branch in months. Dick. I can’t think of any type of misbehavior or faux pas that I may have committed that would cause the bank to terminate its relationship with me. So, Dick, perhaps you could explain it all to me. Oh, and do you mind if I call you Dick?

I think I might have rubbed Dick the wrong way. So to speak. I thought I sensed a little anger in what he had to say next. Poor guy, maybe he has anxiety, or something.

“Sir, I would have preferred that you saved yourself the embarrassment, but on Tuesday night of last week…” Richard started.

Tuesday night? Wtf?

Oh, shit…

And in a flash, it all came back to me. Fuck me, but I was fucked and I knew I was fucked, because I was guilty as charged and I was pretty sure that there would be no way for me to talk my way out of this one.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Last Tuesday night.

Of all the fucking things…

Last Tuesday night, I had worked until after midnight. It had been a long day, I was tired and I was trying to bust out the door as quickly as possible, because I still had shit to do before I could go home and all I really wanted to do was get my ass home and into bed as soon as possible. I ran out the door and into a downpour, jumped in my car and peeled out of the parking lot. That was when I remembered that I had to pee and it wasn’t just a memory, either. In my haste to get out the door, I had forgotten that I really needed to use the restroom before leaving and now my bladder was reminding me quite forcefully. I thought about going back inside, but dismissed the thought, thinking, “No worries.” I only had to stop at the convenience store and the ATM and then I was home free. It was only 25 minutes, or so. Surely, I could hold it that long.

Except, I couldn’t.

I wasn’t even a mile down the road before I started squirming in my seat, sort of bouncing in place, not to the music, mind you, but to the beating of my bladder. I thought about pulling over, but it was raining, it was late and I was tired, so fuck it. Plus, the road was a busy one and the last thing that I wanted to happen was for me to get caught on the side of the road with my dick in my hands. It just wouldn’t look right. It’s unbecoming, frankly.

And so is having to register as a sex offender.

Besides, I’m like a fucking camel and I can hold my water.

I made it into 7-11 without pissing myself and I asked to use the restroom and was refused. Fuckers. I really, really had to go and briefly contemplated pissing on the side of the building, but again, there was that whole getting caught with my dick in my hands thing, so that ruled out that bright idea. After that whole unfortunate incident with the lamb at the petting zoo, I just can’t go through all of that again.

Anyway, while I was in 7-11, I also bought myself, of all fucking things, a Big Gulp, because as badly as I had to piss, I also needed a drink, because my mouth was drier than a fucking desert. It was a fucking conundrum, let me tell you. I thought that I was going to piss that liquid out just as soon as I drank it in. I stopped drinking.

By now, I was pretty frantic, but instead of finding relief, somewhere, fuck, anywhere, I drove myself over to my local bank branch to use the ATM. My paycheck is a direct deposit into a credit union account that I still have in PA. The ATM at my bank not only dispenses cash, but accepts cash deposits, so every two weeks I withdraw money from my PA account and deposit some of it into my WA account. It’s fairly simple, if a bit of a pain in the ass. I arrived at the bank and jumped out of the car, running to the ATM and I inserted my debit card, keyed in my PIN and withdrew some cash. As I waited for the machine to reset so that I could begin my next transaction, I had to pee so badly that I started pacing back and forth, growing more frantic as the moments dragged on.

The ATM reset and I inserted the card for my local account and keyed in the PIN, hit the right buttons for the cash deposit, inserted my cash and started doing the pee pee dance. The dam was breaking, the water was rising and it wouldn’t hold for much longer. Desperate, I headed for the shadows; I needed relief and I needed it right then. I turned my head back to the ATM and it was in the process of spitting my money back out and that shit was flying everywhere, because, oh, you know, fuck me.

I ran back to the ATM and scooped my money up from the ground and attempted the deposit again. The machine accepted the cash and I couldn’t hold it any longer. I ran over to my car, which was parked in a pretty inconspicuous spot and I unzipped and just let it fly. I felt so relieved that I just wanted to cry tears of fucking joy and I figured that any second now, some cop was going to pull up and catch me with my dick in my hands and that might prove to be somewhat embarrassing. But it didn’t happen.

Honestly, who was going to see me?

Instead, while I was in the midst of pissing out what felt like 1,192 gallons, I turned my head back to look at the ATM and that’s when I noticed “it”. “It”, in this case being a very large and prominent security camera that was pointed directly at me.

Fuck. Caught with my dick in my hands and on camera, no less. I always knew I’d be a star, one day.

I did the only sane and logical thing possible.

I turned, looked up at the camera, smiled and then waved. Like a grinning fucking fool.

Seriously. Okay, the bank might have security footage of me pissing all over the place, but who the fuck would ever see it? Unless something happened at the ATM and they needed the footage, no one would ever see it. No one, watches this shit live, right? So, I should have been in the clear. Should have been.

The only problem was that I wasn’t. Oh, fuck no, I wasn’t anywhere near the clear. It was a bit more fucking opaque than that.

Who watches that shit? Why? Fuck me. Did they count how many times I shook it too?

All of that shit flashed through my head in the space of a couple of heartbeats and I realized that Richard was still talking.

Why was he still talking? What the fuck was he talking about?

Oh, yeah. That…

“And I’m sorry, sir, but the bank feels that it is in our best interests not to have a relationship with a customer who urinates all over our property,” Richard finished.

Well, why the fuck not? I didn’t ask him that, of course, but I really wanted to.

The way I saw it, I was just an innocent victim, caught up in the chaos and the bank was making me out to be the bad guy. I mean, there I was, innocently answering a call of nature, one that couldn’t be left unanswered by that point, if I may remind you and was it my fault that the bank did not provide restroom facilities for their customers? How is the bank’s lack of foresight and lack of concern for the well-being and kidney comfort of their customers my fault? Why do people always blame the victim?

Richard was still talking. Why? Why was he still talking?

Dick.

“Is there anything else that I can help you with today, Mr. Marandola?” Richard asked.

Help me with something else? What the fuck did you help me with the first time, you pompous little fuck? Oh, and stop with the fucking talking. Stop. Stop it. Sit down and shut the fuck up, I need to think, here.

I couldn’t think of shit, but then I thought about begging for another chance, but I didn’t think it would help and I wanted to keep my dignity intact. In my heart, I realized that it was really and finally over between us and there was nothing I could do that would fix things.

I remember sighing, resigning myself to my fate and then a great feeling of fuck it all, I mean peace came over me and I relaxed. And started pissing.

“Mr. Marandola, you’re doing it again,” Richard complained.

“No, I’m not,” I replied.

“Mr. Marandola, I can hear you quite clearly,” Richard accused.

“I am not,” I said in self-defense.

“Yes, yes you are,” Richard accused once more.

I hate people who point fingers. Where was his proof? It’s not like he had me on video. Again.

“No, no I’m not. It’s not what you think,” I lied.

“Sir…” Richard started, the exasperation evident in his voice.

But I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t know what else to say or do at that point, I was at a complete and humiliating loss. Instead, I just ended the call. What the fuck else could I do?

I consoled myself with the thought that the bank might have rained on my parade, but at least I’d pissed on theirs.

Fuck.

I have to pee.

Dick Breath

I was out and about today, running a few errands, taking it easy and trying to avoid any general fuckery, when this shit happened.

I had stopped at Target to buy a few things when I felt a sudden urge and took a detour to the men's room to empty my bladder. I walked into the empty lavatory, saw that there were four unoccupied urinals and took the one on the far left, which was also the furthest one from the door. This way, if anyone else should come in, they could use the one to the far right, which is proper urinal etiquette. It's all about positioning, every man knows this, you have to leave at least a one urinal gap between users and if you can't, you need to either use a stall or man up and hold it for a few. Choose wisely. I had just let out a relieved sigh and let the flow go when I heard the door open and another person walked in. No big deal, but then this fucking guy walks up to the urinal right next to mine, which is a major breach of the Bro code, unzips and lets it fly.  I'm totally stunned and like, "Dude, what the fuck?" and he's just totally standing there, blissfully unaware of his breach of urinal etiquette.

What the fucking fuck? Why did he have to pick the one next to mine? There were two other empty spots, why couldn't he have used one of those? It's all about separation. There was no need to invade my personal space. Was dude going to offer to shake it for me too? And fer fuck's sake, no peeking!

It was like peeing with George Michael, or maybe this guy:

But at least I didn't have to deal with this shit:

Feeling slightly violated, I shook it off and went to wash my hands. Freaky stand next to you dude finished up and I thought to myself, "I'll bet dude doesn't wash his hands," when he surprised me by walking up to the sink, turning on the water and getting his hands wet.

Sounds pretty normal, right? What happened next was anything but...

I watched stunned and horrified as, I shit you not, the guy cupped his hands, filled them with water and took a fucking drink. 

And then he washed his hands.

Wait. What? Holy fucking shit. I couldn't believe what I had just witnessed. This guy had just peed; held his dick in his hands, for crying out loud and then he just went and casually drank from those same hands. But then, and only then, after his dick had been in his hands and after he drank from those same dick filled hands, that were probably splashed with pee, that's when he decided it would be a good fucking idea to wash his fucking hands? What the fucking fuck?

Dude, you just drank dick! And pee! 

Why even bother washing your hands, at that point? It was like closing the barn door after the fucking horse has escaped. Why? Why would he do that? It was fucking disgusting. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Why not just stick your dick in your mouth? It's the same fucking thing, isn't it? Shit, don’t get me wrong, I’d suck my own dick if I could, but fuck, at least I’d wash it, first. Now this fucking guy is walking around all day long with fucking dick breath. Fuck. So fucking gross. Just picture it. Dude steps up and says, “Hello,” and you’re blasted with a face full of dick breath. Noooooo. It’s just fucking wrong. Dude, go suck on a blue mint or something.

Think about this the next time you go to kiss your mother; her mouth has probably had at least one dick stuffed into it. Just sayin'.

I walked around Target, trying to keep my mind focused on what I needed to buy, but I was still shocked by what I had just seen. I bought the things that I needed and left the store. As I walked outside, there was Dick Breath, locked in a passionate kiss with his girlfriend. I idly wondered if she might recognize the familiar taste in her mouth as I shook my head and walked away.

Hope they bought some fucking mouthwash...

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Get Thee Behind Me, Satan

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

Hosed

Dogs have been known throughout history as being man's best friend and this is mostly true, but sometimes, for no particular reason at all, they do some crazy ass shit, Yes indeed, dogs are fucking lunatics. Even worse though, are those dogs that are just straight up assholes.

Back when I lived in West Virginia and not long after I married me now ex-wide Medusa (I did catch my typo on ex-wife and know that it reads as ex-wide. I corrected it, but since she has become noticeably wider since our divorce, I decided to keep it the way it was), we bought a male dalmatian puppy that we named Caesar.

Not Caesar, but pretty much spot on in the brains department.

Caesar was a beautiful dog with an amazing spot pattern. When that dog stalked (Caesar didn't simply walk, he stalked everywhere), you could watch his muscles ripple along the length of his body. Unfortunately, those were his only good attributes. That dog was just a hot mess. Other than being a complete asshole of a dog, Caesar's biggest problem was that he was almost completely deaf. Oh, he could hear you just fine, sometimes, on a good day, if the wind was blowing just right, and if his head was turned just the right way and if you were screaming at the top of your lungs. Yeah, he could hear you alright. Almost on par with Caesar's lack of hearing was his incredible stupidity. Good Lord, that dog was as dumb as he was pretty. Caesar also liked to pee everywhere.

Caesar was also insane, he would chase bugs up the walls, attack shadows and bark incessantly, just because.

 Caesar was also very aggressive and could turn mean without warning. We kept him away from small children. Contrary to what the people at Disney would have you think, for the most part, dalmatians make terrible pets and are not always good with children. More than anything else though, Caesar was just a flaming asshole and a hell hound, but we loved him.

Devil Dog: Hound of Hell. The completely true story of my dog, Caesar, the sweetest dog ever.

One day, my friend Tommy came over to the house to hang out for a bit and he, Medusa and I went upstairs to my office to smoke a little weed, drink a little beer and to shoot a little shit. Tommy was a really nice guy, a bit of a hippy and he was about as laid back as a person can get without being comatose. Nothing and I mean nothing ever troubled Tommy. He had the ability to make you feel at ease and keep you laughing. Great guy.

The three of us were just hanging out, passing a joint around and engaging in true intellectual conversation by telling the filthiest of jokes. Hell, even old stone face cracked a smile or two. We were having a good time and laughing it up when Caesar made his into the room, looked at everyone as if he were sizing them up for a meal or a chew toy and then he made his way over to me and nudged me with his head. He wanted attention, so I gave him a little and then he moved on to Medusa to scam a little attention from her as well. Caesar sat down at Medusa's feet and he stared at Tommy.

Without warning, Caesar suddenly got up and padded over to Tommy, looked him up and down and started sniffing the poor guy. Suddenly, Caesar lifted his leg and pissed all over Tommy and let me tell you, that poor man got hosed. 

You could see the pee dripping down his legs and flooding his sandals. It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. No, I was beyond embarrassed, I was absolutely, positively mortified. 

I did the only sane and rational thing that I could do at the moment and I burst out laughing, loudly and maniacally and then Medusa joined in as well. I'm pretty sure that the dog was laughing at him too. Everyone was laughing it seemed, except for Tommy. I really didn't want to laugh at Tommy's misfortune, but I just couldn't help myself and there was no way that I could stop anytime soon. I kept trying to apologize to Tommy for what had happened, but every time that I tried to say something, more laughter erupted. I was laughing so hard that I literally couldn't breathe, I was coughing and choking; I had tears streaming down my face. I could barely make an articulate grunt, forget about trying to utter a word, a sentence or an apology.

When I could almost breathe normally again and I felt as if I might be able to form words, I tried to apologize to Tommy once more but that only served to commission a fresh round of laughter. I tried and I tried, but I just couldn't stop laughing. It was brutal.

While I'm sure that Tommy wasn't exactly jumping for joy after what had transpired, he was handling it very well. He wasn't mad, he didn't raise his voice, nothing. He just wanted to get cleaned up and I can't say that I can blame him seeing as I'm not a fan of golden showers either. Like I said, the guy's a champ.

We let Tommy use the shower to get himself cleaned up. I loaned him some clothes and Medusa took his soiled clothing down to the basement and tossed them in the washing machine. After Tommy got himself cleaned up, he hung out for a while longer and we drank and smoked a little bit more. Medusa and I couldn't stop giggling the entire time that he was there. We invited Tommy to stay and join us for dinner, which he did and afterward, we sent him home with his clean clothes and more apologies. 

After Tommy left and I closed the door, Medusa and I looked at each other and started laughing all over again.

Poor guy.

Just a random memory that popped into my head.

Thanks for stopping by and reading my stories. I really do appreciate your time and I hope that you enjoy reading them. Please feel free to leave a comment or a criticism below, because writers are very insecure people and we crave feedback so that we know how well we are doing. Thanks!

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

Check Yourself, Wreck Yourself

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