You know what really burns my biscuits? Non-standard clothing sizes. Like how one brand fits all hungry hippo and the next is more sausage casing? Can’t there be some agreement to what constitutes a small, medium, large and so on situation? I don’t need to be tricked into a small fitting like a medium to feel good about myself or whatever. I want you to give it to me straight with no delusions of fake skinny grandeur chaser. It’s only that much more demoralizing when I have to size up for some other clothing line. If we can have self driving cars for good grits and gravy, surely we can have an industry standard on a pair of fricking sweatpants. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I’m gonna need another size.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Health care providers bleeding me dry “for my best interest.” Like how are you gonna try to retract my prescription because we didn’t do a follow up? It’s contacts not cancer treatment. I should be the expert on how it’s doing, not some fuckholio trying to cash in on my mother lovin copay anyways. Shady shit like this makes a laser cutting into my eye sound a lot better than this semi annual piss and beans shite circus those that correct my vision seem so unhealthily attached to. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Lazy ass companies. No, I don’t want to sign in to track my package. I want you to get your shit together and make this available from my inbox. Your competitors have figured this out. The technology definitely exists. It’s not some big foot back woods rumor. It’s more like some ill intended wet willy attack on my intelligence. Like do you think if I have to go to your shitty shitty blah blah website, I won’t be able to resist myself and like a doomed junkie will have to tie myself off with a purchase of one more whatever? One might argue that it’s not that big of a deal or that I’m being lazy. To that person I would say simply and kindly, please go fuck a duck. This is America, land of convenience and home of the entitled. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but *sigh.*
You know what really burns my biscuits? The common cold. Talk about a basic bitch. How can something so perniciously prevalent have no recourse beyond old wive’s remedies? Like seriously, we can do a jealous girlfriend drive-by of Pluto, but we can’t veto a virus? There’s a make it better menagerie available to band aid the symptoms. Can’t we put some brain power behind something a little more reassuring than cure me maybe roulette? I can’t be the only one over here thinking sure, let’s cure cancer. While we’re on it though, can we knock out these coke sniffles and dragon throat with something a little more 21st century than fluids and rest? Drugs are only bad until they make you better. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but colds come close.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Unnecessary commentary. If you think my face looks stupid, keep it to your fucking self. If you don’t like what I had to say, here’s a heads up that I don’t give a shit. Not everything is an invitation to a two way conversation. How exactly are you furthering the discourse with your unsolicited verbal bookaki? I’m a far cry from Pollyanna, but I can at least adhere to Thumper’s Law. Maybe, I think the seventeenth picture you posted of your baby, is just as ugly as the sixteen that came before. However, it’s not going to make either of us feel better, if I share that opinion. It’s just an opinion. Somehow, we have this idea, that whatever fart bubble pops up over our heads, is the law of the lame and everyone needs to know about it. Not so. Use your filter or I’ve got a piece of duct tape with your name on it. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.