Author: Kara Mae Adamo.
Earlier today, I grabbed coffee with a good friend of mine. For the purpose of this blog, we shall call him…oh, say, “Ben.” I figure, since I don’t have a lot of guy friends named Ben, that it is a safe enough go-to-name.
So, briefly, let me explain how I know Ben. For Valentine’s Day last year, Rob bought me a trip to a really, really nice day spa where I was given the “Rose Petal Treatment”—which consists of a full-body massage and a pedicure. Ben happens to be one of the massage therapists at said day spa. He turned out to be wicked cool and we wound up staying in touch.
Recently, in an effort to emancipate himself from this day spa, Ben decided to look for a part-time gig as an on-call massage therapist at a new venue. He did the leg work and sent out his resume to some really nice places.
Ben is a massage therapist. As in the case of most servers I know, if you’re a massage therapist, marijuana is pretty much a part of your daily uniform. And so, figuring he was unlikely to hear back from these people for another four months or something, he went about his merry way enjoying the holidays in a green-tinted haze of herbal bliss.
Within a week, his munchy-inspiring fog was permeated by the sound of a phone ringing. He un-macramé’d-his ass from the couch to go answer it and found, to his delight, that it is one of the five-star hotels calling him back.
So he goes in for an interview and passes with flying colors. They like his resume and want to offer him the on-call job he is looking for…
…and they would like to schedule a urine test.
Ben’s brain nearly implodes. He’s been smoking several times a week for years—there is no way he has enough time to clear his system of the THC and residual weed. There simply isn’t enough Cranberry Juice in the world to pull this off. What to do, what to do, what to do?
Fortunately, a secret mad-scientist in civilian’s clothing happens to be around the corner when Ben is informed of the test date. The guy brings him over for a chat. He gives Ben a clear Macgyver-rigged flask with a strange liquid inside and tells him that it is synthetic urine.
All he has to do is tape this thing to his leg and squirt it out when it comes time to take the test. It’s basically vinegar, a few nitrates and some other random substance. It’s pretty simple and does the job. Ben is saved.
Now for the catch: if this man-made-pee doesn’t temp out at a minimum of 92 degrees, he fails immediately. His new mad-scientist-friend has thought of that, however. He hands Ben a hand-warmer that should do the trick.
So it comes time for the test. Ben wakes up bright and early and has a 1980’s Tom Cruise type of a morning. Everything is just clicking. He works out a little, takes a shower, makes himself some breakfast, shaves his beard, brushes his teeth—he can practically hear the hot-to-trot theme song playing in his head. He’s got this.
He goes to warm up his flask of pee…and the hand warmer doesn’t work.
He looks at the time. It’s still early: he can still make this work. He takes his flask over to the microwave and zaps it for about thirty seconds. It beeps and he goes to take it out only to find that it is now scalding hot. He can hardly grip his fingers around it. There is no way he can strap this thing to his leg so dangerously close to his, um, phallic friend.
So he grabs his roommate’s neck-thing that she uses when said neck hurts and wraps his pee flask inside of it hoping that this will cool it off. It does—but now it’s too cold. There is no way it’s testing out at 92 degrees. He looks at the time. Now he has to hurry. He zaps it in the microwave one more time and puts on a second pair of underwear hoping that it will keep the flask from scorching his nether-regions.
Now, Ben is a smart guy for the most part, but like most of my guy friends, there is still a strain of window-licker blood flowing through his veins somewhere. It doesn’t occur to him that the mad-scientist meant for him to use Duct tape to attach the flask to his leg. Instead, he uses the same roll of tape he used to wrap his Christmas presents. He goes to walk out the door and realizes that not only is his Piss Flask falling, but it is making a papery tape sound. There is no way he is pulling this off.
He takes the flask and puts it into a coffee cup and heads out the door. His neighbor goes to say hello. The poor guy was evidently not awake enough to handle the image brought to him, because he just stops and blinks and blows a mental fuse trying to figure out why Ben has a coffee cup holding a clear flask of pee inside.
Ben laughs nervously and jumps in his car and heads to the place. He gets there and re-straps the flask to his leg. The tape on his leg is barely holding the flask, so he keeps his legs closed together as well as possible as he attempts to walk inside the building. In his words it looked “like I had a dildo or something up my ass.”
He walks in only to find out that he got the time wrong. The appointment was for fifteen minutes ago. As a punishment, they make him wait an additional forty-five minutes while other people go and his fake pee gets cold. Now he figures he’s really screwed. There is no way this stuff is temping out at 92 degrees at this point but he really can’t leave, either.
So they call his name and tell him to take the cup and fill it and bring it back. He takes it into the restroom and attempts to “pee.” The flask is a man-made device with some flaws to it. It really only works once because the vacuum affect of squirting the synthetic urine out sucks in a decent amount of air in place of it. He manages to fill it to the line and even sprinkles some on the seat so that it looks real enough. He’s a detail-guy.
He brings the cup-o-pee to the woman and she smacks her forehead. “Oh, no! I told you to fill it to the wrong line! I need it this full,” she says as she shows him a slightly higher line. “Either you can fill it up or you can wait here for another forty-five minutes and I’ll tell them you had a shy bladder and you can come in some other time.”
“No, I think I can pee some more,” Ben says, cringing internally at the thought of doing this again.
So he goes back inside and shakes some pee out of his flask…and proceeds to “pee” on his second pair of underwear. Now it looks like he had an accident.
He walks in, still keeping his legs tight together, mind you, doing his best to hide the fact that there are now “urine” spots coming through his jeans. He gives her the cup and she doesn’t even check the temperature strip.
He then proceeds to avoid eye contact with anyone as he makes his way to the door to change his panties.
He calls back three days later figuring they’ve found him out.
As his father always used to say, “The Lord takes care of drunks and children.” He got the job. He’s been happily smoking weed and massaging people for almost a month now.
And all things are in their rightful place in the universe.