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.

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.  

Caught With My Pants Down

I had this girlfriend who was prominent and gave a lot of speeches. She got free hotels many times. One time she got this suite in a Chicago hotel. She gave me the key and told me to just lay around, order room service and have fun until she was done speaking. Then she would meet me up there for the sex with each other we were living for at the time. I roamed around this gigantic double suite penthouse. I walked through some doors and was very impressed with the amenities.

Suddenly. I had the urge to have a bowel movement. I opened the closest bathroom door and sat down for what I thought would be a very relaxing experience. Suddenly, I heard the outside door open to the room I was in. I heard people’s voices. I had thought I was in our main suite but I had wandered into an adjoining suite without knowing it. I was sitting on the toilet and too far away from the door to the bathroom to get up and close it. A second later a man and a woman were standing in front of the open bathroom door staring at me as I sat trying to finish this big crap. They looked at me astounded.

I blurted out that I had somehow ended up in this bathroom thinking it was part of the next room. I was sweating and apologizing. Worse, I still had unfinished business. It was so embarrassing until it got to be hysterically funny a few hours later. My girlfriend thought I was the world’s biggest fool as she listened to the story.

 The sex was even better that night.