So if you love rigid, dystopian-level authority as much as you love gettin' high as balls, this is the career for you. Provided that you actually exist.

And yes, you can absolutely make it a career: I live in a city of about two million people, and my company runs just one facility here. But within a four-hour drive, there are three more cities that contain a branch of my old company, as well as several other stations. I talked to a woman one day that was finishing up a study at our facility by 9 a.m., then planned to go do a follow-up to a previous study about two and a half hours away by 1 p.m. She would then head to yet another city three hours away by 6 o'clock that evening to start a different four-day study. Granted, if certain people had known what she was up to she probably would have been turned away from all but one, but she definitely knew how to work the system. There are mandatory cool-down periods (typically lasting around a month) where subjects are not supposed to be allowed to participate, but there's no national database, and a lot of people don't follow that rule.

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"I'm doing studies for fertility and birth control."

For perspective: I once struck up a conversation with one of these regulars, and we ended up comparing paychecks. He, a professional pin cushion, and me, a college-educated and FDA certified nurse. On average, he was making something like $2 per hour more.

Maybe finishing your vegetables and having a bedtime again is worth it.

The money is important to the participants, sure, but so are the amenities. They'll usually have access to video games, exercise equipment (though your activity is strictly monitored), cable TV, Internet, and other such essentials to help keep their minds off of the experimental drugs rampaging through their organs.

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Except for the flatulence drug groups. They never forget.

But sometimes even comfy couches and video games can't prevent cabin fever, and fights will break out between the subjects. Yes, part of your job description at a drug-testing facility may be "break up the drug-fueled brawls." Just one more way Roadhouse is like male nursing. If it's not the fights, it's something else: Occasionally people sneak off to others' bedrooms for a little intimate rendezvous. Inter-participant diddling is more common than you'd think. When you've got a lot of bored, (typically) young people in a confined space and you pair that with inhibition-lowering opiates, you're on a bullet train to Pound Town. Imagine if the whole floor of your old dorm got sick and had to be quarantined at a hospital, and you've got a pretty good mental picture of a medical testing facility.

In one study we did involving an antidepressant, at least 70 percent of the participants became violently ill. The subjects had dizziness, fainting, racing heart rates, seizures, wrenching stomach cramps, vomiting, and diarrhea. The medical staff had to make some tough decisions and arrange people according to the severity of their illness, sending plenty of folks off to the ER. This study was supposed to last a week, but it was canceled after about six hours of everybody's insides trying to get outside.

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"Promises were made ... of the non-butt variety ..."

We require subjects to be healthy, but that doesn't mean they can take these trials lightly. There was one guy who took the same dose as everyone else in the study, his vitals were checking out fine, and everything was good. But then one night he came to complain that the circus in our parking lot was keeping him awake with the loud noises and lights. We might have video games and pool at the facility, but we do not have a clinic circus. The man had been in a completely dark, windowless bedroom. He was sent to the hospital and later to his personal doctor, and it turns out that he'd been hallucinating because the drug had dug up a latent mental illness. Imagine that: You sign up for some easy money at a drug trial for a few weeks, and find out you have a permanent mental illness just hiding in your brain like a psychological ninja.

Some companies allow for the testing of minors with a parent's consent, but ours took only adult subjects. Regardless, we'd still get parents trying to pimp out their children for these tests. On at least one occasion Child Protective Services was called because the children were obviously not being properly cared for. Oftentimes it was clear that the parents were attempting to sell their own children into medical testing just to fund certain ... habits.

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Damn you, Candy Crush. Damn you to hell.

One particularly scarring time, I was doing a pre-study exam of a patient with genital herpes. She'd also had an ileostomy, which is basically a hole your surgeon leaves open so your intestine can leak out waste. Already grossed out? Close this article. Now. Run away and never look back. Nobody is responsible for what happens to your brain in the next paragraph but you.

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Enjoy some parting puppies and be on your way. Last chance.

As I was examining her, I noticed the herpes had spread to her ileostomy hole. I took a deep breath and asked specifically how the herpes had spread to the hole in her guts. She confessed that she and her boyfriend (who gave her the herpes in the first place) use that orifice during sex.

Good luck scrubbing that mental image. If you're lucky, we have a drug for that ...

Isaac's mom is proud that he finally did something in the medical field, sort of. He's a Workshop Moderator here at Cracked and helps schedule interviews for personal experience articles just like this one. Shoot him a message here if you've got a unique story you'd like to tell the world.

For more jobs you probably shouldn't go for, check out 18 Professions That Will Make You Appreciate Yours.

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