Nothing to hide.

From 2005 to 2008 I maintained a blog about my experiences working in the drug test industry. Every Saturday I revive one of those experiences here. The following was originally posted January 17, 2007.

Nothing to hide.

First thing’s first, I want to offer a quick apology to my readers (new, old and incidental) for the long stretches of time in-between updates. Truth is the drug test collections as this office are a lot less “fun” as in my old one, which means far fewer interesting stories. Rather than fill my blog up with off-topic posts or jamming it with filler, I think it’s better that I just stay quiet until I have a story worth telling. I guess this is just a “once in a while” blog. Put me at the bottom of your bookmarks list and check with me once a month or so.

That said, the dry spell is at least momentarily over. Today presented me with three most assuredly blogworthy anecdotes, which I’ll be doling out over the course of the next week. Anecdote the first is as follows…

This gentleman assured me, multiple times, that he had taken drug tests before and knew the procedure. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide,” said he, as I was opening the collection kit.

“That’s good,” I replied. “Go ahead and wash and dry your hands please.”

The gentleman is a Mexican immigrant, but he speaks English fairly well. He understands my instructions and can carry on a conversation, so the horror to follow was not a translation error or a misunderstanding on his part. He seems very intent on making sure I understand that he knows the procedure inside and out. Everything I tell him, he meets with a sagely nod and a muttering of “Yep, I remember.”

I ask the gentleman to empty his pockets into the lockbox, then turn around to finish filling out his paperwork. Name, birthdate, phone number, so on and so forth. I turn back around so I can lock the box and…

…he’s taken all his clothes off.

Hand to God.

Jeans, flannel shirt, and tighty-whities are sitting in a pile on the bathroom floor. The man is, and please pardon the expression, dick-and-balls naked.

“Sir,” I told him as I tried to look at anything other than his junk, “please put your clothes back on.” I couldn’t even believe what I was saying, as I was saying it. Several different variations of “You must flee!” were running through my head. It is actually surprisingly difficult to retain your composure when someone violates your comfort zone by dropping his scrotum into it.

The man did not get dressed. He excused his behavior with “Oh, I don’t want no one to think I’m sneaking anything in, or nothin’.”

I asked him a few times to please for the love of all that is good put his pants back on. He kept declining. So what could I do? I handed him the cup and showed him the line.

I went through the rest of the collection in something like a trance. After placing his full cup on the counter the man very casually got dressed, as though what had happened were the most natural thing in the world. Other than the sudden and unsolicited nudity, there were no problems during the collection at all.

Not really sure what to do, I figured that would be a really good time to take a break for a while and go get some lunch. Only now as I write this do I find it hilarious that, after such an encounter, I would have the sudden urge to buy a hot dog.

Any and all penis/hot dog jokes are appreciated. I’m sure you guys can come up with dozens.

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