Today is Loser Day.

Loser Day is the day all the Losers come for their drug tests.

Not that I'm complaining; I love the Losers. In the daily routine at the pee clinic, the Losers are the best. The Losers never try to screw around during the collection. They never argue about what kind of ID they need or try to beat their chests when it comes to the collection process. They always empty their pockets. They always provide a good sample on the first try. They never yell, they never fight. They re-use the same cone-shaped cup for every sip of water they consume. They don't require seventeen paper towels to dry their hands. The Losers, as a group, are in-and-out in four minutes or less. It's a painless experience.

My working definition of "Loser" is someone older than me who is at a lower station in life. Someone older than 23 who still lives with his parents is, by my yardstick, a Loser. This sounds incredibly harsh until one realizes how many people could actively consider me a Loser; and that's fine. Everyone considers themselves enlightened in their own little way, I suppose.

The Losers are sent to me from construction companies. From landscaping services. From call centers. From any company that mass-hires anyone they can to accomplish tasks involving manual labor or reading from a script. These companies schedule hiring drives at regular intervals to counterbalance their high turn-over rate. Sometimes several of these companies will land at or around the same day, increasing my Loser influx significantly.

How to spot a Loser? Losers are predominantly white, unshaven males. Their hair is unkempt and their clothes are dirty (more likely due to coming in after a hard day's work than actual poor hygiene habits). They walk, bike, or bus here. They hand me a Florida ID card instead of a Florida driver's license. Sometimes I have to fill out itineraries for their parole officers. They never ask questions, they never try to prolong the collection process, and there is an air of desperation hanging around them. The impression I always get from the Losers is that they need this job badly and they need it right now. The understanding is that any idealogical opposition to drug testing, or any recreational use of expensive, illegal drugs can wait until after they've secured a paycheck.

The Losers always come in alone. Every other classification of people I see will occasionally come in with friends, family members or co-workers, but the Losers are always flying solo. I wonder sometimes if they don't have anyone to bring. Nobody to bum a ride off of. Or if they've simply turned down the offer.

I have a grudging respect for the Losers. They strike me as guys who have taken a hard hit or two all at once, and are scrambling back to safety. I like to think that the desperate job, the unkempt visage and the stone demeanor are all temporary stops on their road through life. I like to think that they're getting things figured out just a little later than the rest of us.

Loser Day isn't exactly a fun day for me. The constant stream of collections means I can't really focus my attention on other projects, and all the frowny faces and softspoken words can actually be fairly depressing. But a high-traffic Loser-filled day is easy and stress-free. Much easier than a gaggle of idiot high school girls who refuse to follow directions, or any of those old militant trucker guys who insist on making the entire process a hassle by scrutinizing and objecting to every step of the collection. It's an easy distinction between who needs a job and who doesn't, at the bottom line. The Losers harbor no illusions about being better than anyone.

That's a lesson I wish someone would teach to the rich car company brats. It's something I think all of us, in one way or another, could learn.

I play video games all day at work, and D&D on weekends. Does that make me a Loser?

¡Yo quiero una prueba de la droga!

It's not in my nature to be racist, but this job makes it very hard sometimes.

Many of the companies that do pre-employment drug testing are huge, faceless companies that hire scores of unskilled workers. In Florida, that means Mexicans immigrants.

Landscaping, roofing, aluminum siding, factories... all these companies hire armies of Mexicans to work for them. People who, just like the rest of us, are talented and hard-working people, most of them fairly educated, who just happen to lack proficiency in the English language. As you can imagine, this in turn hampers their ability to do simple things like provide a urine sample.

The collection procedure isn't inherently complicated, although it does assume that the donor can understand the simple instructions I give them. I take my job seriously and do everything in my power to ensure there is nothing wrong with the collection. After all, this is someone's job; if I screw up, this person doesn't work.

The problem arises when a company won't send translators with their Spanish-speaking employees. This is a collection I cannot do. And what's worse, I can't explain to the would-be donor why I can't do it, since they don't understand me. This leads to a lot of irritated and downright angry Mexicans throughout my work-week.

So when a pickup truck pulls up and five Hispanic guys jump out, each holding his own drug test form, please forgive me if I groan or curse under my breath.

There are, of course, various degrees of fluency in the English language. The bottom rung of course is the person who speaks no English at all. In this case, the person won't even be able to sign in. When I ask for ID, he doesn't know what I'm talking about. And when I shake my head, hand him his form and point to the door he assumes that the collection was a success. Attached to his form is a note telling the employer to send him back with a translator, but the employer will either ignore it or never see it. I once received an angry phone call from a landscaping company because they found out seventeen of their Hispanic employees had been turned away from the collection site in as many months. This company apparently never checks the results they receive, because it took them almost six months to realize they had a whole gaggle of immigrants working for them who had never, ever been drug tested. When I informed them to pack them all up and send them back with a proper translator they told me that fourteen of them didn't work for them anymore.

Now, that's the best case scenario. The real horror stories happen with the guys who speak either a small amount of English, or at least know how to fake it really well.

I've developed a nervous tick that causes a shooting pain down my spine whenever I hear the word "okay". "Okay" is the very first English word a Mexican immigrant learns. It's absolutely stunning how far you can get in a typical American transaction just by nodding and saying "okay" when the person behind the counter pauses and looks at you. I've gotten all the way to the end of a collection, after the urination has already taken place, before realizing that the person I'm speaking to has no idea what I'm saying. I've learned over time how to avoid this trap; throwing a few softball questions during the sign-in process, or asking about his employer, or asking him his birthdate (instead of just copying it off his ID) will do the trick. Again, a note to the employer, and someone who has to be turned away with no clear understanding why.

After the "okay" crowd are the people who speak a little English, but not well. These are the most irritating of all, since not only can they not complete their own collections, but they can't act as translators for others. Nonetheless, I see it all the time. People who speak enough English to understand me when I ask for a transltor are people who become angry since, essentially, I'm telling them their English sucks. I mean, I'd probably be a little frustrated and defensive too. As an added bonus, people who speak no English often come in with a friend or family member who speaks very, very little English, expecting them to translate. So I have to tell the translator that her English sucks, and then the translator tells the donor (in Spanish) that I told her her English sucks, and now they're both angry with me.

I distinctly remember one case when I turned a donor away only to have him returned the next day with a proper translator. His collection was completed without a hitch. The very next day the company sent a second donor, but instead of a translator sent the gentleman from the previous day, assuming he could process all the information. They both got turned away, and then came back with the original translator several hours later, all very angry.

I am embroiled in an ongoing war with one company in particular who adamantly refuses to send translators. Their excuses would be amusing if they didn't cause me so much grief. Their "it's just a drug test" excuse doesn't float because it would only take one positive result to blow up in their face. Take someone I can't understand, fake their way through a drug test, then have them sign a form they can't read? What does that say about me and my company? What does it say about the employer who allows it to happen?

I finally had one of my supervisors contact this company to explain to them the importance of translators and, very politely of course, assert that if they wanted to do collections at my office they would, in fact, have to send a bilingual employee to facilitate communication between the collector and the donor. The supervisor was told that the reason I'd been sending people away is because I just didn't want to do any collections. That's right, the company's response was to call me lazy. "He's even got a PlayStation up there!" said the man from the company... which, while true enough, doesn't really further his case since (a) my supervisor knows full well that I bring a PlayStation (and a DVD player, and a laptop) to work, and in fact encourages the practice, and (b) it actually takes longer to explain to someone why I can't do a collection than it takes to just do the stupid collection.

So, I tell myself not to hate these Mexican people, these hard-working immigrants who are trying to scrape out a living for themselves just like everyone else. I tell myself none of this is their fault; it's their stupid bosses who don't care enough to make sure they can communicate with the people they're dealing with. But despite myself, I die a little every time the van from the roofing company pulls up with this week's batch, fresh off of a ten-hour workday. I try to imagine what it must be like to work in the sun all day long only to have a scrawny white boy tell you your English sucks.

I took six semesters of Spanish in high school, and don't speak a word of it.

Freedom fighters.

There are lots of websites out there that will help you fool me.

Lots of them. Go ask Google; he'll tell you.

All you could ever want to know about passing a drug test (short of not actually doing drugs, of course) is at your fingertips, just one query away.

Small packets of bleach crystals you can hide in your wallet. Tricks on keeping a sneaked-in specimen the proper temperature by utilizing a condom, a rubber band and a piece of tape. Dehydrated urine, guaranteed clean, right off the shelf. Quick-result one-panel test kits. And for those pesky observed collections: prosthetic genitalia.

Go ahead. Look it up. Thousands and thousands of people want you to put one over on me.

Thousands of websites, each with a different product to peddle, each flying the Constitution as their banner. "Drug testing is an invasion of privacy!" they bellow. "The government should have no right to your bodily fluids!" And while you're at it, here are some helpful products to ensure you cheat successfully.

Because when it comes to drug testing, these freedom fighters are more preoccupied with passing their next test than actually changing the laws they consider unfair or unjust.

I can think of at least three good reasons that the "violation of your rights" arguments are totally bogus. Observe:

First, nobody's forcing you to do anything. While there are extreme cases where the contrary is true, for the most part you can not be forced to take a drug test. Especially not in the case of employment; if you don't want to drug test to get a job, don't work there.

Second, the argument is consistant with the popular non-smoking mantra: "Employees are entitled to smoke-free establishments so no employer has the right to allow smoking in his place of business." Flipped to drug testing: "Employees are entitled to their illegal drugs so no employer has the right to allow drug testing in his place of business." If your hang-up is personal rights, it's hard to argue the second without also arguing the first. Something tells me the anti-smoking people and the anti-drug test people don't have much of an overlap.

Third, consider the company that makes the little plastic wang to help cheat on observed drug tests. Or the company that sells instant "clean pee powder". Do you think these guys really want the big evil laws to go away? Do you really think these guys are praying for legislation to come and rip their livelihood out from under them?

And yet, I catch them all the time. Cold samples. Lame excuses. The distinctive odor of bleach. When they're actually here trying to pull off whatever-trick-they-read-on-website-x the story isn't "Drug testing is unconstitutional and I believe it is an invasion of my privacy," but rather "Well I have to go right this minute because my aunt is waiting in the car and she doesn't have an anklebone and I have to be with her so I can help her out of the car and we have an appointment in ten minutes."

I cannot remember one single applicant using the "big evil law" argument against me. They all just want to cheat and cheat fast.

I am, of course, not saying you shouldn't smoke dope. I don't disillusion myself to the point that I believe I can dictate what others ought and ought not do with themselves. Grown adults have to be left alone to make decisions for themselves, including the decision to partake of illegal substances. These decisions, however, have consequences; if you plan to shoot up regularly, you had better plan to work a job that doesn't drug test.

In the meantime, I'm here in the trenches dealing with your over-microwaved samples, your easy-to-conceal pills that dissolve instantly on contact. Use whatever excuse you like. If pretending to be a freedom fighter helps you get through your day, rock on.

You'll only end up here, after all.

(For the record, the story with the amazing ankle-boneless auntie was an excuse by an honest-to-goodness cheater. So that gives you a taste of what I'm up against.)

Sign in, please.

People don't know what to do with my sign-in sheet.

I'd say about 75% of my clientele fits into this category.

The sign-in sheet is not hard. It has three columns: one for your name, one for your employer's name, and one for the time. At the top in ginormous letters it declares "PLEASE PRINT CLEARLY".

But people don't print clearly. They furiously scribble their name in the first column and ignore the rest. They write their first name in the first column and their last name in the second. They print one and sign the other. They fill out all three lines with random stuff, then declare: "Where do I put the date?"

I like to believe that people are not inherently stupid. They, like me, simply do not take note of their surroundings sometimes. These are the same people who blow a gasket when their double cheeseburger is 38 seconds late or the person at the bank spells their name wrong, but right now they're just having an all-too-human brainfart.

My own paperwork needs to be done before I can take a collection, so I usually just let people figure out the sign-in sheet for themselves. When I'm done with my first page (containing the company name, my phone and fax number, my name and today's date twice) I'll check on them. I point out any errors they've made. I pretend the sign-in sheet is some kind of Mayan glyph puzzle that requires a degree in indianajonesology to decipher. I try not to make them feel stupid. I start my second page of paperwork. Most times I can finish before they do.

Sometimes people ask pertinent questions. "Do you want my supervisor's name? Or the name of the company?" Since the sheet only says "employer's name" I can see how this would be a sticking point. This is a person who has read the form and wants to make sure there are no errors. This is a person after my own heart. But these people are few and far between.

The time is a big sticking point. The only clock in my office is displayed conveniently behind the person signing in, so I either have to point it out to them or tell them the time myself. Sometimes they don't ask. They start scanning the walls, first right, then left, then right again, then left again, their neck craning a few more degrees with each oscillation, their waist joining in, until finally their impromptu aerobics reveals the clock behind them.

Then they write down the wrong time. Everyone writes down the wrong time.

I suppose people think they'll get rewarded for getting here a few minutes early (or punished for being late). If they show up at 2:15, they'll write 2:10. Even if they ask me, they'll shave five or ten minutes off their time.

People love to feel like they're getting away with something.

At one point my largest client, the one that makes me open a half hour early once a week for their scheduled testing days, decided they wanted me to keep a sign-in record for them in addition to the one I already keep. So now I have to juggle two sign-in sheets. It is not uncommon to hear me remark, exasperated, "Please print your name on both sheets. There are two sheets. You need to print your name on both."

We won't get into what the many illiterate or non-English clients I see daily do with the sign-in sheet.

The sign-in sheet acts like a gate; it tells me how slow I'll have to talk or how many times I'll have to repeat myself once we get to the harder parts of the collection process. This is where I determine whether I can breeze through your collection or if I'm going to have to hold your hand and take you step-by-step. The way I figure it, if you can't write your name properly there's not much hope for anything else.

In other words, if you screw up on my sign-in sheet I won't really think you're an idiot. But I'll still treat you like one.

Two years late.

For two years now I've been working at a drug test collection site. My job is to make sure you pee in your cup correctly.

It has been the best and worst job I've ever had. It has been endlessly entertaining and endlessly tedious. It has shown me a cross-section of people I had not before been exposed to.

I have been sharing my stories and experiences from the pee clinic on my personal blog the entire time, but enough people have dropped subtle hints about their entertainment value that I've decided to just start collecting them all in one place. I mean hey, what if someday I want to write a book?

So, welcome. My name is Ricky, and I am the Peemeister.