The Importance of Doing Things the Right Way

My last post left you hanging about one of the funniest things I ever did while serving this country. Hell, it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever done, period. I almost left this story for another time as I had been thinking about writing on a deep and philosophical topic. Then I remembered that the story of my last urinalysis test in the army reserve isn’t merely some humorous anecdote. It’s a valuable lesson on, um, the value of doing things the right way, I guess.

Generally, I’m not especially particular about doing things “the right way.” To me, it’s more important that things are just done. And I don’t want to suggest that you should cut corners or do anything morally or legally questionable, just to get something done, especially something done in the service of our nation’s dearest taxpayers.

Indeed, once while training America’s next generation of bureaucrats for the Department of Veterans Affairs, I was teaching how to ensure that a rating decision was ready to process—ensuring that service had been verified, checking that there was a substantially complete claim, ensuring that the veteran had been properly notified of the VA’s “Duty to Assist” in gathering evidence, and so forth. (The details of that training are not that important for this story.) I went through all the “steps” in a few different sequences because I wanted to show them that the sequence didn’t matter. It was just important to get it all done.

However, a few of the students wanted to know “the right way” to do it. I told them that they should find a routine that worked for them. The important lesson was that they check everything that matters before processing that rating. They were not thrilled with me. I still moved on.

Like I said, generally, I don’t give a shit about how things are accomplished, as long as they’re done, and on the day of my final urinalysis in uniform, I generally didn’t quite give a fuck about anything. I was consumed with an anguish I hadn’t fully come to understand, so I was kind of an asshole. I’m sure that Sergeant Beaman, who was administering that urinalysis would have—and well, did—disagree about that “kind of,” but this isn’t his goddamn story.

Anyway, there was this one fun thing that I had done at urinalysis tests throughout my military career. I’d make a simple request of the person administering the test—who wore gloves because there may have been dribbled urine on one or more of the sample bottles that had to be sealed and sent to the lab. I’d sometimes ask if there were an extra pair of gloves I could use because I didn’t know “where this thing had been.”

Of course, that was a joke, a bit of japery for my good Piss Test NCO. And for the benefit of any future Ted Perrin lovebirds out there who may be reading this, I know full well where this thing has been, and I have no problem whatsoever with gloveless urinating. I do it daily.

If anyone had asked me what kind of buffoonery I might bring to the table during my last urinalysis in the service of this country, I would have guessed that I might demand a pair of gloves to wear. Of course, that guess wouldn’t have accounted for the unpleasantness that had overcome me of late, nor would I have had any idea how unambitious that so-called “gag” would have been. I seethed with a torment still unlabeled.

The situation started simply enough. Beaman, ever the dutiful Piss Test NCO, had filled in the line on the form with my name and all the pertinent information about the bottle’s label number and whatever bullshit had to be on the form. Then, he asked me to sign it.

Normally, I would have just signed the block he asked me to, even though the column was labeled “Remarks.” I may have even joked about not signing it in the past, and whoever the Piss Test NCO was at the time may have even chuckled a bit having, you know, heard the same lame-ass joke a dozen times already that morning. But I wasn’t in much of a joking mood. Well, that isn’t entirely true. I’m almost always in a joking mood—even at the most inappropriate of times—and I probably was that morning. Only, I was also being an incredible asshole due to my unchecked bitterness.

“No,” I said.

“Come on, Sergeant Perrin,” Beaman replied. (I only remember the general gist of the conversation, but it went down pretty much as I’ll describe it.)

“No.”

“Look, everyone else is signing it,” he told me, pointing to lo these many signatures filling that “Remarks” column.

“I don’t care what everyone else did,” I told him, and deep down, I did not care. I may even have thrown in a “Have you not heard that I do not give a fuck?” If I didn’t actually say it, that’s a missed opportunity. Shame on me.

“Just sign it, please!” Beaman said, echoed by those who had been assigned to observe the day’s pissing.

Now, I don’t know what was required in that box. Maybe it was the pisser’s signature. I did go to the Piss Test NCO training. (Actually, the position was called Unit Prevention Leader, as in prevention of substance abuse, but I like the name I’ve given it.) However, I don’t remember what was supposed to go in that box. The regulation may have, indeed, called for the pissing service member’s signature in the “Remarks” column.

“I’m not signing this,” I said, “I’ll happily enter some remarks, though, because that’s what it says. It says ‘remarks.’”

“Look, can you just sign it!?”

Beaman and the Piss Observers were more than a little frustrated. I’m pretty sure I suggested that I could come back a later. No, I don’t have a clear memory of what was said that made me ask about pissing later in the day, but I do know what followed.

“No, Sergeant Perrin, you can’t come back later. We have to be done with this by noon.”

The thing was, see, they didn’t have to be done by noon, and I felt that it was my duty to remind them.

“Actually, Sergeant Beaman, you do not have to be done with this by noon. The lawful order read by the detachment commander this morning said that each member of the unit had to provide a sample by close of business. That’s 1630 or 1700. I have five or more hours left before I have to provide a urine sample.”

This was me in a "good mood"
during a fall 2012 drill weekend

They were so pissed at me, pun definitely intended. It warms the cockles of my heart just thinking about this. I had been in such a bad place for months, but this interaction was starting to cheer me up. It’s such a cherished memory—for everyone involved, I’m sure.

“Oh, come on, sergeant!”

Having drawn this out, I decided to offer a compromise, a little olive branch for my brothers in—I don’t know—piss?

“Do you want me to sign this?” I asked.

“Yes!”

“Okay, just line through the word ‘remarks,’ initial it, and print ‘signature’ over it. I’ll sign it.”

“Everyone else signed it!”

“That says remarks,” I said. “Should I write in some remarks?”

“Fine!” said Beaman as he crossed out “remarks,” initialed it, and wrote “Signature” over it.

“Oh, so just sign here, where it says signature?” I asked, certainly unable to fully contain my laughter and absolutely pleased with myself.

That, in and of itself, would probably have been a fine story to tell you about the time I was miserable and completely turned my mood around by deciding to be an asshole—but in a fun, self-important, and of course, technically correct way. But I wasn’t finished. No, I was not.

Beaman gave me my sample bottle, and I verified the numbers on it and that it was clean or whatever. Not important. I took off my jacket, as a pissing service member must do while participating in the hallowed tradition of the army urinalysis test, for there are sneaky bastards who secret such things as Whizzinators and containers of someone else’s unfouled urine as a means to foil the efforts of the army’s Substance Abuse Program that keeps the common soldiery off the drugs. Such perfidy must be prevented, so in just my t-shirt and trousers, I carried my sample bottle high above my shoulder for my assigned Piss Observer, one Sergeant Kevin Haefele, to see it as we entered the designated Piss Test Latrine.

The briefing for Piss Test Observers—among the least favorite of short straws—calls for one to observe the following “chain of custody”: flesh, fluid, plastic. No one wanted to volunteer for this, for someone who aspired to observe the pissing of the troops might make said troops a bit uncomfortable. (Of course, there were probably those who cherished their assignments as Piss Observers, but only in secret. I’m certain Haefele isn’t among them, at least on this day.)

Almost no one cared about dutifully focusing on that aforementioned “chain of custody.” Some people would make you stand at an angle, so they could ensure there was no tampering with the sample, or whatever. Most people, though, would just want you to hurry up, piss, and get the hell out of there. Even when I went to the Piss Test NCO training, the trainer guy—who was, like, the Northeastern Senior Regional Piss Master or something like that—he didn’t, you know, fully observe my “chain of custody.”

You’re probably saying to yourself, I wonder if Kevin Haefele was a dutiful young Piss Observer. Honestly, I can’t tell you what he would have done had I not been in a, well, mood, nor what he may have done with all those other pissing soldiers he was duty bound to observe on that cold December morning. I only know what happened after he followed me into that little one-seat latrine.

He stayed by the door, and I dropped my pants around my ankles, like a kindergartener, and I shuffled around to the side of the commode to offer my dear observer a full view of my “chain of custody.” Then, I started screaming at him.

“Watch me! You’re supposed to watch me, Kevin!! Watch me!”

Haefele, for his part, did not present any outward indication that he found my, let’s call it, “supportive display” at all humorous or even helpful at all. I mean, I was trying to make sure that he adhered to the army’s Piss Regulations. Integrity is one of the army’s core values.

“Watch me, Kevin! Watch me! Watch me piss!”

I kept that up for the duration, and I, well, have a rather voluminous bladder. My service in the army reserve once put me in a situation where there was no latrine in the building where we were drinking, and it was problematic to urinate out of doors. I overfilled a 32-ounce Gatorade bottle. So, I was there for a while, screaming, “Watch me!” at Haefele and just laughing my ass off. It took so long, I almost got bored. Can you imagine anyone getting bored of screaming “Watch me piss!” at someone who’s dutybound to watch? I sure can’t.

Such a sweet, sweet memory.

“Watch me piss! You’re supposed to watch me piss, Kevin!!”

Goddamn, that was hilarious. I was laughing so hard, I’m shocked that there was no big mess. Well, I probably could have used a pair of those gloves that I used to joke about, but I didn’t know what I was going to do when I went in that little pissoir with my man Kevin.

So that is what led the Piss Test NCO to talk to the First Sergeant about me being “out of control.”

“What happened up there?” the First Sergeant asked me. Only one of the finest moments of my entire career in the army reserve. You’re welcome, America.

Oh, yeah, there was something about an important lesson or it’s good to do things the right way or something like that? Who cares? That was just some rhetorical bullshit to draw you in. Just enjoy the idea, if not the image, of me screaming “Watch me piss!” at Kevin Haefele.

 

Epilogue

I just did some Googling, this form dated November 2014 does call for the pissing service member’s signature. I retired from the army reserve just in time.

And from AR 600-85 The Army Piss Regulation, Appendix E, E-5.l (p 129) “The observer must see urine leaving the Soldier’s body and entering the specimen bottle (or collection cup).” I was just doing my part to make sure the regs were being followed.