LITTLE BITCH BLOWS UP MY BURSTING BLADDER

 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 urinate. My old seventy one year old bladder was bursting.

I 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. Then 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.  Just 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 when 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 Doctor 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 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 Mister” 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 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 said.

“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.

 “That's ok, Mister,” little Tommy said.
 

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

 “Learn some manners,” he said

“Here's my card.”

It said Dr. John Scott. Urologist. 

University of Chicago Hospitals.

I read it, amazed.

I walked out to the street in disbelief.

It's stranger than fiction, I said to myself and now I'm telling you.

I gotta write about this sometime.

Do you believe it?

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 urinate. My old seventy one year old bladder was bursting.

I 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. Then 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.  Just 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 when 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 Doctor 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 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 Mister” 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 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 said.

“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.

 “That's ok, Mister,” little Tommy said.
 

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

 “Learn some manners,” he said

“Here's my card.”

It said Dr. John Scott. Urologist. 

University of Chicago Hospitals.

I read it, amazed.

I walked out to the street in disbelief.

It's stranger than fiction, I said to myself and now I'm telling you.

I gotta write about this sometime.

Do you believe it?