Tuesday, August 23, 2005

 

Last Dance with Mary Jane

I went to a lab today to get my urine tested. One of the temp agencies I had registered with called me about a job which would last a few weeks. The way it was described to me, all I would be doing is manning a table at a college campus in the city, passing out flyers and encouraging the students to save their hard-earned money at Illuminati Financial (*).

The Legal Overlords have determined that the folks doing this job must be unpolluted and pure as the exhaust from a
Prius. Now, I am not a privacy Nazi. Drugs and my life simply don't intersect, so I am fine with getting tested any time. If you don't want employees using drugs, and you want to pay top dollar to test them, be my guest. But I am pretty certain, considering the extremely peon-like nature of this job, that testing me is overkill. I am half-convinced that the testing is just a deterrent to potheads, and that they harvest the piss with no intention of sending it to the lab.

A guy came in as I was finishing, and he seemed a little... off to me. He was swaying and mumbling something about how he didn't feel like going. The attendant encouraged him by saying that as long as he was here, he might as well drink some water, wait, and give it a try. I handed her my jug of golden espresso and asked her, "What drugs do you test for?"

"Oh, they don't tell us," she said. "Only the bad ones."

(*) This name is made up. Or is it?

Comments:
mdma baby! awwww yea!
 
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