Showing posts with label starbucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label starbucks. Show all posts

Friday, September 10, 2021

PISSED AT STARBUCKS

There ought to be a law against people who use a Starbucks bathroom, flush the toilet, turn on the hand blower, and then do not immediately open the door and leave. It’s so tormenting for Starbucks bathroom users who stand outside the bathroom door listening for the flush and hand drier to sound thinking they will be able to get in and relieve themselves. Just the other day I stopped at a favorite Starbucks which is in the center of Chicago. I had a fierce urge to urinate. My seventy three year old bladder was bursting from driving my Uber for too long a stretch. I entered and looked at the single bathroom door and there was no one waiting to go in. Relief. I felt happy but only for a few seconds. Then, I turned the handle of the door and it was locked. “Crap,” I mumbled quietly. I started swaying nervously waiting to hear the toilet flush. It did. Than, the hand blower started blowing. Those are the sure signs that the person inside is ready to exit. Thank goodness, I thought. Relief was a few seconds away. I then heard the blower turn off and I already had my hand on the door handle in anticipation of finally emptying my bursting bladder. But, the door did not open. Another few moments went by and I was swaying, sweating and rocking in anger. An old guy with a bad prostate gland is in peeing hell when he has to hold it in. I have already urinated in my shorts a few times when I could not find a bathroom fast enough. I even carry a jug in my car in case there is a urinating emergency in my travels. I thought I would be okay this time so I did not pull into a secluded spot. That was a big mistake. I knew it was just a little time before I peed in my pants as I stood there. It had been about three long minutes waiting by the door which some of you guys know is hell. My bladder used to be made of steel. I could hold a ton of liquid for many hours with no problem. Usually, all night long. Not anymore. These days I urinate every few hours around the clock. My bladder seems to be made of tissue paper. I am seeing a Urologist who told me to get surgery soon. I'm trying to get mentally prepared to do it but I'm still too chicken. It is not a cancerous prostate but it is what they call BPH which is a prostate gland that is too large and interferes the stream causing frequency urgency. Another moment passed and I couldn’t stand it. I blew up. I started pounding hard on the door with both fists. Not a sound from within. Then, I started kicking the door while still pounding away. Still no one emerges. I started screaming at the person in the john. “Come on, I gotta go bad.” Still, only that closed door. My bladder was at its limit. The urine was just about to burst out. This was very personal now. I believed this anonymous person inside, whoever he or she was, was intentionally trying to torture me. I screamed “get out of there, I’m dying here. I gotta go.” I felt totally victimized and powerless. The door finally opened and this little freckle faced kid with a backward baseball cap on emerged. He looked so innocent and all American but I was infuriated at at the misery he had put me through. He brushed by me. He was about four and a half feet tall and maybe nine years old. He looked up at my six foot, large frame. He walked outside I took a whiz and regained my sanity. Then I saw him in the store. I bravely yelled at him. He was about half my size so I felt I was in no danger. “Young man, did you ever think someone was waiting to get in there pointing back to the bathroom.? You took forever.” He looked up at me shocked and scared by my verbal assault. He mumbled “Sorry Mr.” in a tiny voice. You should learn some manners.” I walked toward the front door glad the ordeal was over with Just as I was pulling open the Starbucks front door this big, strong, heavily muscled and tattooed arm clamped around my shoulder. This guy growled “that’s my son creep” pointing down to the little kid who was holding the guys hand. I stuttered “um ah, I”. The angry man, obviously the kids father, cut me off. He snapped at me “you scared him asshole.” “I had to go very bad and I thought he was done. Bad prostate, you know, I whined.” “I don't care about your prostate now buddy. You have three words to say to my little son Tommy. Repeat them back to him or say goodnight as he cocked his arm back ready to knock me out. Say, I’m sorry Tommy.” I looked down at this little brat who was now smiling widely and looking up at his big papa. I looked again at his serious father before I humiliated myself. No way was I going to get my head knocked off because of this trip to the bathroom just for pride. Besides, I grudgingly respected this guy for standing up for his son. People don't usually stand up these days. I’m sorry Tommy, I gurgled out.” “Okay” little Tommy said. Tough guy daddy looked at me as I opened the door walking away. “Prostate problem, huh?” “Here's my card.” It said Dr. John Scott. Urologist. University of Chicago Hospitals. I read it and only could only laugh “Go figure,” I said to myself and anyone else who would listen to that story.

Friday, April 9, 2021

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 Starbucks bathroom users who stand outside the toilet door listening to the hand dryer thinking they will be able to relieve themselves when the blower goes silent.

Just the other day I stopped at a new Starbucks which is in the center of Chicago. I had a fierce urge to take urinate. My old seventy one year old bladder was bursting.

 I entered and looked at the single bathroom door and there was no one waiting to go in. Relief, I felt happy for a second. Then, I turned the handle of the door and it was locked. “Crap,” I mumbled quietly.

I started swaying nervously waiting to hear the toilet flush. It did. Than, the hand blower started blasting away. The sure sign that the person inside was ready to exit.

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

But, the door did not open. Another few moments went by and I was sweating and swaying  and jumping up and down. Another older guy with a bad prostate gland in peeing hell. 

I have already urinated in my pants a few times when I could not find a bathroom quickly enough. I even carry a big jug in my car just in case there is a urinating emergency in my travels.

I knew I was just a little bit away from peeing in my pants as I stood there. It had been about three long minutes which is brutal torture to a guy like me who has to go.

My bladder used to be made of steel. I could hold a ton of liquid for many hours with no problem. Usually all night.

Not anymore.

Now, I must have a ready supply of Depends diapers to wear.  I urinate every few hours around the clock. My bladder seems to be made of tissue paper.

The Dr. says I need surgery and I'm trying to get ready to have it but I'm still too chicken. It is not a cancerous prostate but it is what they call BPH which is a prostate gland which is too large.

It is an age related condition that occurs in many older males. Your age grows and the prostate gland follows. Than, urinary frequency and all kinds of other problems may start.

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

I started screaming at the person in the john. “Come on, I gotta go bad.”

 Still, only the closed door.

My bladder was at its limit. The urine was just about to burst out.

This was very personal now. This anonymous person inside, whoever he or she was, was trying to torture me. I screamed “get out of there, I’m dying here.” I felt totally victimized.

The door finally opened and this little freckle faced kid with a baseball cap on emerged. He looked so innocent and all American but I was infuriated at him for the torture he had put me through.

This little kid brushed by me. He was about four and a half feet tall and maybe nine years old. He looked up at my six foot old mans frame.

 I yelled at him.

“Did you ever think someone was waiting to get in here?” He looked up at me surprised  that I had spoken to him so roughly. He mumbled “Sorry Mr.” in a scared little voice.

I emptied my tortured bladder, came out and started heading back to my car thinking it was over. It wasn't.

Just as I was pulling open the Starbucks front door this huge, strong, heavily tattooed arm clamped around the my shoulder.

This scary looking guy growled “that’s my son creep” pointing down to the little kid who was now grinning widely at me. I stuttered “umm, ah, I”.

The tough looking angry man, obviously his father, cut me off.  He said, “He told me you scared him.”

“I had to go bad and I thought he was done. Bad prostate, you know.”

“I don't care about your prostate now, buddy.

You have three words to say to my little son Tommy.”

Repeat them back to him or say goodnight as he cocked his arm back ready to knock me out.”

“Say, I’m sorry Tommy.”

I looked down at this little brat, scared no more, who was now laughing his snotty head off.

I looked again at his scary father before I humiliated myself. Daddy was serious. I looked in his eyes. No way was I going to get my head knocked off over this trip to the bathroom just for pride. 

Besides, I respected him for standing up for his son. People don't usually stand up these days. How could the kid or the father know about my medical problem anyway I rationalized. It did not matter anyway.

I’m sorry Tommy, I gurgled out.” “Fine Mr.” little Tommy said.

Tough guy daddy looked at me as I opened the door walking away.

 “Learn some manners.”

“Here's my card.”

It said Dr. John Scott. Urologist.

University of Chicago Hospitals.

I  read it only could come up muttering “amazing.”

“I walked out to the street in disbelief.

“Go figure,” I said to myself and anyone else who would listen to my story that I'm still telling.

I gotta write about this sometime. I just did.

Hard to believe.

It happened.

Wednesday, June 10, 2020

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 thinking they will be able to relieve themselves when the blower goes silent.

Just the other day I stopped at my favorite Starbucks which is on my delivery route. I had a fierce urge to take a piss. My old bladder was bursting.

I entered and looked at the single bathroom door and there was no one waiting to go in. Relief, I felt happy for a second. Then, I turned the handle of the door and it was locked. “Shit,” I mumbled quietly.

I started swaying nervously waiting to hear the toilet flush. It did quickly, Then the hand blower started blasting away.

Ah. Thank goodness. Relief was 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 just a little bit away from peeing 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. I snapped. I pounded hard on the door with both fists. Nothing happened. Then, I started kicking the door while still pounding away with my hands.

Nothing doing.

I started screaming “get out of there” “I gotta go bad.” Still, only a locked door. My bladder was at its limit. The piss was just about to burst out. 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 emerges, I felt brave knowing I was not going to get punched out by some nasty dude. As I roughly pushed past this 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 abused before.

I emptied my tortured bladder, came out and started heading back to my van. Just as I was pulling open the Starbucks front door this huge, strong, heavily tattooed arm clamped around the back of my neck. This big muscle bound, scary looking guy growls “that’s my son, asshole” pointing down to the little prick who is now grinning widely at me. I say “umm, ah, I."

The bruiser, probably his father interrupts my stutter. He says “You have three words to say to  little Tommy. “Repeat them back asshole or say goodnight as he cocks his arm back and makes a fist." ”Say, I’m sorry Tommy”. I looked down at this little bitch who was now laughing hard. I looked at the brute before I humiliated myself. He was mad.

I’m sorry Tommy”. “Ok” little Tommy says. The tough guy looks at me as I opened the door walking away. ” “Go get your dick fixed shithead” he says. He waited for an answer. I only could come up with “thank you.”

What a pussy I am. My OCD made me replay the situation over and over for days. The conclusion was “I’m a pussy!!!

GIGOLO OFFERS FREE TIPS ON DATING SERVICES

As a 71 year old gigolo who has been very successful on the dating site match.com and other sites I will share with you a sure fire method of finding out if will be attractive to women who inhabit on those meat markets.

It is still all about looks. Just like in high school boys.

Brains and sensitivity and all other attributes are very critical In the rest of your life. But, not on dating sites. If you care about hooking up with hot ladies your face and body is the ticket to ride. Maybe it's been a while since you were in the romance game? You may think that it is different now in this advanced world than it was when you were just a young man. Yes. It is different in many ways. 

But, no it is not different when it comes to your appeal. Looks still wins the babes whether you are 7 or 70.

Oh, one exception. If you have a ton of money along with that can make a difference. With enough cash that you should splash in  when writing about yourself in your profile let those women know you got a lot of money baby money. Do it subtly. You will start looking beautiful to some. 

Otherwise, you are going to be stuck in the wallflower section again. Sorry. 

So, the good news is that you can buy your way into a romance. Lavish that great looking sexpot with gifts and fancy dinners immediately. You will succeed. 

Or, you can sign up for one of the numerous match making services that cater to men with money. Just be careful because who can easily get hustled by gold diggers. But, you are sharp so play the game. It is all about sex for many.

If you do not know whether you will be a winner on a dating site like match or date than save time and find out. Use my system. It is free. Than, you will know where you stand.

It's very easy to use. I emphasize that success with online dating is all about looks. Shallow and superficial yes. But trust me, I'm right. So, do a test.

This is how it works. You will know how physically appealing you are on match.com or any other dating site very quickly. You get an instant judgement so you don't have to spin your wheels.

Decide on your requirements regarding age, location, financial status of your match.. You can set the search criteria to access only those women you are interested in. Write 25 emails exactly as I have written the sample below.

Then, do the following. Email the 25 ladies all at one time. Don't get fancy, don't try to be witty. Just copy and paste what I have written. It is what I have used effectively forever. You will know if you are going to be a player, a partial player, or a reject.

I'm interested ( in caption line above email box)

"Hi, I like your profile and I like the way you look. Let me know if you are also interested. Yes or no will be fine."  

Sincerely, David

Wait about 30 minutes after you have written the emails. Then, you should get some results. Click on the people who have most recently viewed you. Match them to the 25 you emailed. You can navigate all that on the match site. If you see a bunch of women you emailed looked at your profile you will know your fate.

If your inbox is empty or almost empty because no emails came back you are probably going to be a loser on  the popular dating sites. Live with it. 

If a few responses came back saying they are interested along with some messages you are in business.  Than, go to work on who suits your fancy. Many responses come from women who send outdated pictures. Many come from undesirable people for whatever reason. So, meet at Starbucks first. Easy place to use and nit's cheap. If your superstar shows up you will figure out what to do quickly.

If a whole bunch came back with messages indicating a desire to meet you, with some phone numbers included, then you are going to have a great time hustling all those endless ladies out there. Have fun. Go for it. But, start at Starbucks. Don't get sucked in with a hot phone call or message.

If you cannot  make a determination after those first emails try another 25  people. If you get no good responses you do not have dating site appeal. Start thinking of paying a service for romantic connections. 

Don't be shy. Get yourself out there. Either your looks or your money will work.

Guys, you aren't going to learn anything about yourself you didn't already know. You are just confirming reality. I have done great online. But it never goes fast or easy for me. I am ok looking and have a little money. 

Persistence is my answer. It works but it is so slow.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Pissed At A Starbucks Toilet

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 thinking they will be able to relieve themselves when the blower goes silent. 

Just the other day I stopped at my favorite Starbucks which is on my delivery route. I had a fierce urge to take a piss. My old bladder was bursting. 

I entered and looked at the single bathroom door and there was no one waiting to go in. Relief, I felt happy for a second. Then, I turned the handle of the door and it was locked. "Shit," I mumbled quietly. 

I started swaying nervously waiting to hear the toilet flush. It did quickly, Then the hand blower started blasting away. 

Ah. Thank goodness. Relief was 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 just a little bit away from peeing 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. I snapped. I pounded hard on the door with both fists. Nothing happened. Then, I started kicking the door while still pounding away with my hands.
Nothing doing.


 I started screaming "get out of there" "I gotta go bad." Still, only a locked door. My bladder was at its limit. The piss was just about to burst out. 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 emerges, I felt brave knowing I was not going to get punched out by some nasty dude. As I roughly pushed past this 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 abused before.

 I emptied my tortured bladder, came out and started heading back to my van. Just as I was pulling open the Starbucks front door this huge, strong, heavily tattooed arm clamped around the back of my neck. This  big muscle bound, scary looking guy growls "that's my son, asshole" pointing down to the little prick who is now grinning widely at me. I say "umm, ah, I". 

The bruiser, probably his father interrupts my stutter. He says "You have three words to say to  little Tommy "Repeat them back asshole or say goodnight as he cocks his arm back and makes a fist"."Say, I'm sorry Tommy". I looked down at this little bitch who was now laughing hard. I looked at the brute before I humiliated myself. He was mad. 

I'm sorry Tommy". "Ok" little Tommy says.
The tough guy looks at me as I opened the door walking away.. " "Go get your dick fixed shithead" he says. He waited for an answer. 
I only could come up with "thank you" 

What a pussy I am. My OCD made me replay the situation over and over for days. The conclusion was "I'm a pussy.