PISSED AT STARBUCKS

There ought to be a law against people who go to a Starbucks bathroom, flush the toilet, turn on the hand blower, and then do not immediately open the door and leave.

It’s so rude to professional Starbucks pissers who are listening to the hand dryer blowing thinking they will be able to relieve themselves when the blower stops. .
Just the other day I stopped at my favorite Starbucks which is on my delivery route. I had a fierce urge to pee. My old bladder was bursting.

I walked in and looked toward the single bathroom door and I saw there was no one waiting to go in. Relief. I felt happy but only for seconds. Then, I turned the handle of the door and it was locked. “Shit,” I mumbled to myself. I heard someone  inside shuffling. 
I started swaying nervously waiting to hear the toilet flush. It did quickly. Then the hand blower started blasting away.

Oh. Thank goodness I thought. Relief was only a  few seconds away. I then heard the blower turn off and I already had my hand on my zipper in anticipation of emptying my bloated bladder.

But, the door did not open. Another few moments went by and I was sweating and swaying and getting crazy. I was about to pee in my pants. After all, I’m sixty nine years old. My bladder is no longer made of steel. Now, it seems to be made of tissue paper.

Another moment passed and I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped. I pounded hard on the door with both fists. Nothing happened. Then, I started kicking the door while still pounding away with both hands.
Still, no response.

I started screaming “ whoever you are please get out of there” “I gotta go bad.” Still, nobody came out. My bladder felt like would explode.The piss was just about to burst out. I grabbed my crotch. It was personal now. This bastard inside was trying to torture me. 

I screamed “get the fuck out of there, asshole, I’m dying here”.
The door finally opened and this little prick with a Chicago White Sox cap emerged. I felt brave knowing I was not going to get punched out by some nasty dude. 

As I roughly moved  past the little shit who was about four and a half feet tall and maybe eight years old I screamed at him ” Did you ever think someone was waiting to get in here?” He looked up at me as if he had never been talked to angrily before.

I emptied my tortured bladder, came out and started heading back to my van. Just as I was pulling open the front door this big, strong, heavily tattooed guys hand clamped around the back of my neck. Mr. muscle bound, scary looking guy growled “that’s my son you were hassling, asshole” pointing down to the little prick who was now grinning widely at me. I stuttered “umm, ah, I”.

The bruiser father interrupted my stutter. He said “You have three words your're going to say to my little son Tommy “Repeat them back to him or say goodnight.” He cocked his arm back and I stared at a big, ready fist”.”Say, I’m sorry Tommy”. 

I looked down at this little brat who was now roaring with laughter at me. Than, I looked into the eyes of his brute of a father. It was time to humiliate myself. My  thumping heart was sure daddy meant business.

“I’m sorry Tommy” I gurgled. “Haha” little Tommy cackled.
 
Big, mean daddy looked at me as I walked away  “Go get your bladder fixed shithead” he said. He waited for an answer.

I could only mumble “right” as I slithered out the door.