ad addiction

You know what really burns my biscuits? The pervasiveness of advertising. When a dress I have coveted, turns up as an ad in a news story I’m fuming over, the only impulse it triggers is a burning need for a restraining order. Furthermore, does anyone actually watch an ad on YouTube? I feel as if like me, everyone spends that tortuous five seconds anxiously awaiting the salvation of the “Skip Add” button to deliver us from whatever-who-gives-a-shit-I-wasn’t-listening product. The intrusion into every aspect of our lives with this desperate straw grasp for relevance leaves the attempt for attention as impotent as that poor fellow walking on the beach after a game of tennis with his I swear I’m happy wife. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but too much is enough.

don’t stand so close to me

You know what really burns my biscuits? Supermarket crowders. When I’m pursuing the choice cut of meat I want in my belly or the peak level of ripeness for my avocado selection, I would appreciate a little space in which to execute my decision making. All of my faculties need to be directed at my food sourcing and not at how best to dispose of the human sized gnat invading my personal no go zone. I’m not talking about the two pump chumps who know what they want and are out before you knew they were in, I’m referring to those other assholes, that like me need some time for contemplation. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I mean really is it so hard to make a lap?

turn the car right now

You know what really burns my biscuits? Hesitant turners. Like do you need an engraved invitation to get the hell out of the way? I don’t expect one to slide in Smokey and the Bandit style at every change of direction, but the snail mail pace of some dead head drivers is too much to take. I shouldn’t be able to write a symphony to your suckiness while waiting for you to remove your foot from the brake and your head from the turd factory. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but t-t-t-today Junior!

working nine to numb nuts

You know what really burns my biscuits? Lack of professionalism. If you can’t bother to string together a comprehensive sentence with a modicum of politeness, perhaps you’d best be served sucking off the government teat and licking exhaust pipes. How am I even supposed to take one seriously, that considers using punctuation, only punctuation mind you, as an acceptable expression of a complete thought/inquiry? I can think of a single expression that fully embodies my thought process, in regards, to this lackluster and low witted attempt at communication. It involves my lonely little Malcolm in the Middle Finger, with a loaded suggestion to eat excrement and have a lovely day. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

a picture is worth the wait

You know what really burns my biscuits? Poorly prepared news segments. Like don’t tell me escaped convicts are on the run and to keep a lookout and then fail to provide a photographic point of reference. This isn’t some 1930’s radio static shenanigans. Video killed the radio star three decades ago, get with the program Helmet Hair Hannah and Spray Tan Stan. Isn’t a mug shot one of the first badges of honor one accrues when being hustled through the old pokey? It isn’t like we’re relying on some third hand witness sketch artist shit show to visually guide us through “Where in the World is the Slammer Skipper?” Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but pause the alert and do a Google search next time.