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!!!