There is a special place in hell for the people at almighty Google who run AdSense. I have written to Google so many times begging them to explain why I have not been paid my Blogger money. I am an old man and do not have the understanding to read the AdSense blogger reports on what my blog is doing. I write and write cause I love to write. Someone click on my blog address and you may want to buy my work..
My site on blogger is kingdavidsplace.blogspot.com. I feel as if I don't exist.
Help already Google. Call me or write me .
David
Monday, June 11, 2018
Sunday, June 10, 2018
David's Place: Pissed At A Starbucks Toilet
David's Place: 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 immediatel...
PHONE HARASSMENT BASTARDS IN NEW YORK
Someone please do something about a scam phone operation called U.S.Pharmaceutical. They keep calling and calling all day long acting as if their orthopedic garbage promotional call had been requested.
The area codes from their seemingly unlimited phone lines all start with (718) and show New York as the location that the calls are coming from. Wake up New York officials or any other authorities who are aware of this abusive phone scam.
No threats or demands requesting to be put on the do not call lists are honored. These animals are locked into to their phones obliviously making unlimited calls all day long. They are a bunch of subhumans who relentlessly dial away all day long torturing defenseless .people.
I would love to track down where their call centers are and yank away their phones. Then, I would like to find their own numbers and keep calling these creeps around the clock. Finally, I would like to find a way to legally destroy their businesses and prosecute the owners for invasion of privacy and all related illegalities.
Someone contact me with information or anything else to get these calls to end. This is happening on a wide spread basis according to my research. Thesw bastards must be stopped.
I would love to track down where their call centers are and yank away their phones. Then, I would like to find their own numbers and keep calling these creeps around the clock. Finally, I would like to find a way to legally destroy their businesses and prosecute the owners for invasion of privacy and all related illegalities.
Someone contact me with information or anything else to get these calls to end. This is happening on a wide spread basis according to my research. Thesw bastards must be stopped.
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.
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.
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