Pen Pals

The Perils of Piss Tests

By Bert Burykill

I find it odd that people always say that the first telltale sign of a drug addict is denying they have a problem. From experience, I can attest that this is fuckin’ annoying, ‘cause you can’t win, even if you really don’t have a drug problem. The counselor calls you a drug addict ‘cause you’re in prison for drug charges and if you say, “Yes, I am an addict” you’re a good addict, but if you say “no, I’m not addicted to drugs” then you’re still an addict but now you’re a troublemaker, too. The frustration is maddening ‘cause you can’t deny this accusation, even if you know it’s 100 percent FALSE, or you’re in denial, and, therefore, a full-blown addict. I prefer to admit that I am an adamant drug abuser, but I feel I have more control than someone who is truly addicted.

Some years ago, after lame-brain counseling in prison, I got put on work release, which was much more bonerable than being upstate, but nevertheless mutated into a tremendous pain in the stinkin’ culo after nearly two years of it. They denied me parole while on work release, and they piss-tested me damn near every week. After working in downtown Manhattan, I would hop the 2 train to prison on 110th Street and 5th Avenue, where I’d obediently pull out my dizzle and attempt to make it drizzle while some creepy porkchop stared at my sheepish mutton-cock. Some crackers experience stage fright when another man stares at their meat, and some inmates never get over this pee-on-command invasion of privacy. We are given three hours to make piss in a cup, which is kinda difficult sometimes. I’ve seen convicts go to THE BOX when they didn’t produce piss quick enough, even if they did eventually produce clean piss.

Personally, I got too comfortable pissin’ in front of porkchops and started getting high all the time, and pushin’ it really close time-wise with the producing of the clean piss. I may or maybe may not have pissed dirty a couple times and got away with it or I might have pissed FILTHY once and spent the summer in THE BOX thoroughly despising myself for spending another summer incarcerated ‘cause of stupid, awesome drugs. At one point I got on the ball, and pissed crystal clean for over a year straight, but that’s doesn’t mean I didn’t sprout gray hairs from the stress. I would go HARD on the weekends and then spend two days doing a fast/cleanse by drinking gallons of water and tea and eating next to nothing. My stomach was a nervous mess knowing that a dirty dick would send me back up north. I have no idea what this did to my body, but I can testify that on at least two occasions my butt-hole squirted hot liquefied shitsaster down my thigh as I furiously, but fruitlessly, tried to push urine out my piping-hot urethra.

I guess I realized at some point back then that I am probably a drug addict. It seems kinda unfair ‘cause most of my peoples do drugs and have nothing to worry about, but I can’t really wrap my thick head around the fact that I fucked up and I’m different now. I wonder if everyone was getting’ piss-tested, how many would actually quit using? It really is sick, though, what I did to myself during that period. I was a fucking sweaty mess, and it wasn’t even the actual using of the drugs that was messin’ my head up—it was that cycle of gettin’ high and extreme cleansing. Eventually, I pissed dirty despite my efforts and went upstate, got lost in the system, and ended up doing two years.

So, here I am on parole a couple years later, and I go to see my PO last week. She wants to piss-test me, which is cool, ‘cause I’m clean. I should be ecstatic, but I’m still nervous. It’s ingrained in me. Furthermore, she’s a bitter, uptight fat broad and I don’t think she likes me much, ‘cause I’m a skinny cracker. I try to piss, but I feel a massive dook-rod stone-cold dwellin’ in the asscave begging to slide out, and that piece of shit is makin’ it very hard for me to piss, even though I have to piss so very badly. I need to keep the door open so my PO can watch me over my shoulder and through the reflection in a mirror. (I’m cool with that ‘cause I like flashin’ my dick on broads. It makes me feel like a man.)

What doesn’t make me feel like a man is that I’m trying to piss but I’m fartin’ up a stink-storm. Two hours later and on my third try, the mean lady is squawking threats at me that if I don’t piss this time I’ll be considered dirty, which puts too much pressure on me. I have no choice but let her know that I really need to shit something awful before I can produce the piss. She informs me that I can close the door and doo-doo down proper, but I need to save my sweet urine, which leads to me takin’ a nasty, semi-explosive dump while squeezing my sizable hog with a vice-like grip and attempting to courtesy flush all at the same time. This shit stinks, no doubt about it, and it’s a real mess to wipe. I’m wipin’ and wipin’ some more all the while clenchin’ my jimmy tryin’ to save the precious pee for the fat lady, and it just smells unbonerable. There were about five PO’s out there with parolees all waiting to piss, and I can hear them grumbling already about the foul stench.

I guess the good thing is that I’ve led such a disgusting shameful life that I don’t really feel shame anymore. I open the door lookin’ for my piss-cup, kindly apologizing for the odoriferous funk. Of course, I need to leave the door open to piss for the chunky broad and all the rest of the POs have cleared out by now. I piss clean, and as her fat ugly eyes peer over her sweater collar at the dipstick for my results, it is obvious that she was expecting a dirty. She thought I was trying to somehow pull a fast one, but really my body just wanted to shit and piss simultaneously this time around.

I have pissed in a cup at least 100 times, and I still haven’t learned a damn thing, except that the taxpayers sure waste an assload of money on these tests. I feel like most people know now that drugs aren’t that bad—I can’t wait for when the nonsense I’ve been through is finally considered nonsense by the overwhelming masses and everyone decides to suck my duck as a means of reparations.

Previously – The Right to Blow Loads

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