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The year was 2012. It was an interesting year. Jennifer Lawrence had just gotten famous and she wasn’t annoying yet, 50 Shades Of Grey turned soccer moms into disgusting porn addicts, and that “Gangnam Style” song was everywhere and irritating the shit out of us.
I had just graduated high school. And I was pumped. High school sucked, and it was a euphoric feeling to finally escape that frustrating hellhole. But now I needed a summer job. I applied to Best Buy because my favorite hobbies are wearing blue shirts and pretending to understand electronics.
I got the job. I was excited. Because, call me crazy, I love money. There was only one problem: I found out I had to take a drug test in a few days. Which I wasn’t… ummmm… prepared for.
I googled “how long does weed stay in your system,” and it turns that THC still lingers in your body for a minimum of eight days. This was bad news because I had just smoked eight minutes ago.
I had no idea what to do. I turned to google again for answers. I searched multiple things for research.
“ways to cheat in a drug test”
“how to get THC out of your system quicker”
“what’s the name of the kid in the Home Alone movies?”
During my oddball internet reefer madness homework, I came across a really innovative plan.
“To pass a drug test, find a friend that never smokes weed, have them pee in a condom, tie the condom up, sneak it into your drug test, carefully open up the condom and pour your friends pee into the cup.”
What can I say? Desperate times cause for desperate measures.
Was this disgusting? Absolutely. Gay? Probably. Weird as fuck? Of course. But I figured I had to do what I had to. People make tough decisions all the time. Do you think President Truman WANTED to drop the atomic bomb to end World War II? Of course not! But he had to. Just like I had to do this. (By the way, I’m not comparing my drug test to WWII, but it IS pretty close.)
So I decided to try it out it. I asked my good friend Mitch to pee into a condom. That’s a weird favor to ask but fuck it.
Like a true team player, Mitch did it. He peed into a condom and tied it up. He put the condom into a Ziploc bag, put that Ziploc bag into another Ziploc bag, and put that Ziploc bag into a huge paper bag. I took the paper bag and hid it under my bed.
Fast forward to later that night. My girlfriend is over. I tell her about my urinary shenanigans and she cackles at my endearing stupidity, the same stupidity that somehow, some way, made her fall for me. Go figure.
But later, we get into an argument. She mentions that her parents are going to a movie and that we should join them. I tell her that I’m too tired to go to a movie. She keeps egging me on. I eventually accidentally let it slip that I don’t really like her parents.
I was just being honest. It just kind of fell out of my mouth like spontaneous word vomit. But she got absolutely furious at me, and rightly so. I mean, it was a pretty shitty thing for a boyfriend to say.
So things explode, we get into a loud, intense argument. She’s screaming at me and calling me every name in the book. I keep trying to defend myself. I may not want to have a screaming match but I do have a boatload of foolish pride that I need to protect by any means necessary. Things get more and more and intense……….
And then…. The unthinkable happens.
She’s angry as shit, so she reaches under my bed…
I keep thinking “no, she’s not gonna do this, right?”
She pulls out the paper bag…
I’m still thinking “no… no no no no no… she’s not gonna do this, right?”
She pulls the Ziploc bags out of the paper bag…
“FUCK. She won’t really do it, right?”
She carefully takes the condom out of the bag…
“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK”
And drumroll please…
She throws the condom at me.
She hurls it at my face and it explodes like some kind of scatological hand grenade. I stood there in a traumatic shellshock. My girlfriend, a woman who is supposed to support me and love me unconditionally, just covered me in piss, straight R. Kelly style.
I stand there in a confused haze. I throw a cavalcade of curse words at her like an old George Carlin routine. I tell her to get the fuck out my house as I sprint into my bathroom to the shower. I must have washed myself off at least 47 times, scrubbing and scrubbing every centimeter of my body as I try to not to throw up on myself. Needless to say, we broke up the next day.
Now look, I wouldn’t tell you this disgusting tale unless I had a lesson attached to it, and don’t worry, I do.
The moral of this story is don’t work at Best Buy..
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