how low can you go

You know what really burns my biscuits?  This how low can you go limbo winner standard we have for our highest office.  Just because the Orange One didn’t fling verbal feces one time, doesn’t mean he’s “presidential.”  Can we please hold someone accountable for longer than an hour when giving out a thumbs up or down?  This isn’t 50 Shades of Grey, it’s the “Leader of the Free World” or whatever.  What scorches my biscuits the most, is that it’s the media that’s oh so willing to dish out praise like a battered boy/girlfriend.  They are so like, “He didn’t hit me this time, look at all the good words he put together.  Those are good words.  Ain’t he just the best?”  For the record, like based on his record, he’s not.  Furthermore, way to whore out the widow of a fallen soldier.  That doesn’t deserve kudos.  You would have to be beyond a monster to not applaud that woman’s sacrifice.  You don’t get brownie points for being a decent human being.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but being a lap dog does.

be ahead of the game

You know what really burns my biscuits?  A maintaining the same speed buddy.  Accelerate, decelerate I could really give a Big Betty White, just don’t keep pace with my pace you fecal funbag.  If you can’t figure out how this passing game works, maybe you should take up agoraphobia and save us all from your so very stupid self.  While yes, I did put a little extra elbow grease into this fierce, feeling myself exterior today, I don’t need you going full paparazzi at the cost of a claustrophobic panic attack.  I believe that the lionized savant Luda said it best when he implored, “Move bitch.  Get out the way.  Get out the way bitch.  Get out the way.”  Wise words indeed.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but don’t pin baby behind a Slowbi Wan Kenobi.

in the sting of the eye

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Onions.  Or really, just the unpredictably omnipotent power they have, to turn on the eye facets in the most monstrously moatmeal-esque ways.  Like how have we not tampered down the firepower of these beastly bulbs, that so perfectly pull together my culinary capers, while ruthlessly pillaging my tear ducts?  And why must I play blind me roulette?  I find their temperament as unpredictable as, a Gary Busey trip up coke mountain.  As the now dearly parted chunk of my finger will tell you, the threat is imminent.  This comestible bane of bulbous bitchassness best Take It Down Chris Brown, lest I put some onion powder in my mix and call it a day.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but onions might maim you.

hours of non-operation

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Willy-nilly hours of operation.  If I approach breaking the laws of physics and completely pooh-pooh basic traffic guidelines, to make it to one’s place of business, during stated business hours, I expect said place to be open.  While I enjoy a sneak out early Friday afternoon as much as the next glorified gadfly, hours of operation exist for a reason.  We haven’t quite reached the Mad Max-esque dystopian future that surely lurks on the bronzed horizon.  Let’s not act like savages people.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

cruel, cruel winter

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Chapped lips.  Since the thermometer first dipped below patio weather, I’ve consumed enough Carmex and it’s varied cohorts to supply at the very least, a small island nation.  And I do mean consumed.  I am fully aware that at this point my bloodstream probably has more petroleum based chemicals than red blood cells or whatever.  Short of acquiring a face mask humidifier, I’m at a loss, as to how I might rectify this very serious concern.  A girl can’t go through life with her head up and crypt keeper lips.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but chapped lips sure chap my ass.