You know what really burns my biscuits? Mitch McConnell. The way his mouth moves, like a stroke victim, that has had their jaw wired shut and the selfishly sinister chupasuckra that comes out of it, really makes me doubt the wisdom of the good people of Kentucky, who continually provide this turtle-like tit bag a reason to get up every morning. I know his speech is a little mumbly bumbly, but get a damn transcript people. Unless you’ve always wondered what it would be like to die from the black lung Pop, why would you vote for this smug civics strangling snapper? It’s not like you’ll have healthcare, or a decent wage or clean drinking water when this palsied poon pruner loggerheads his way right over basic human decencies. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but let’s try flipping that Kentucky fried tortoise.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Factual gymnastics. Now I have fully resigned myself to the fact, that maybe I really am just a stupid dumb idiot, residing in dumbass dipshitville population me. Mostly, I’m fine with that, so at the risk of alerting my illustrious audience of this not so dirty secret, I must say WTF? How is it that being “incidentally” captured speaking to foreign agents, is “Thanks Obama, Obama’s fault” again? Shouldn’t that raise some little red flags, that maybe you were talking to some of those people Mama always warned you about? Like isn’t this one of those self inflicted fuel to the fire situations? Much like when, one has genitally related to some undesirable and instead of sticking to Watch You Talkin’ About Willis, they lose their cool and through an unfortunate, agitated slip of the tongue admit some coyote ugly guilt? Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but if it looks like a turd and it smells like a turd, maybe it’s a turd?
You know what really burns my biscuits? Pathetic attempts from desperate companies to keep me ensnared. I don’t need to be asked seventy-five times whether or not I’m sure I don’t want to receive inane emails every two hours about some sale or crisis or special deal that is so special it’s advertised every other week. If anything, it makes me more sure I don’t want anything to do with the eager beaver entity ever again. No one stays in a relationship because watching someone cry and plead made them fall back in love, it’s because their guilt switch got flipped and they haven’t figured out how to turn it back off. If I want to cancel a service, I shouldn’t have to Nancy Drew that shit to practice what’s well within my rights. Please wipe your eyes, get off your knees yon beggarly buttheads and have a little respect for yourself. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but yes my decision if final.
You know what really burns my biscuits? The Tupperware boogie monster black hole that exists somewhere between my dishwasher and kitchen cabinet. This is a cruel cousin to the sock phantom that haunts the space between my dryer and bottom drawer. I fear the existential great beyond will consist of nothing more than mismatched socks and warped plastic lids in reds and blues with no bottom to be found. The Donald Duckers of the storage gig. It’s like some household items are meant to be a minus plus one for the rest of their miserable existence, until they’re banished to the rubbish pile or forced into a relationship with some fly by night tin foil or a discolored athletic sock. Burn biscuits never killed anyone, but making matches out of incompatible items might try my patience.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Punishing those that have suffered enough. While I too, have had those moments in morning traffic, where you curse the dumb ass that dared have a wreck and cost you an extra fiver, I can also recognize that dumb ass started their morning off with a wreck, so maybe I should summon at least a smurf drop of compassion. I don’t even consider myself that good of a person and yet, that’s a blindingly obvious observation. How then, can the state try to bill someone for damaging a guard rail in an instance of vehicular calamity? It’s not like they spray painted dicks on the sidewalk or some other willfully juvenile destruction of property. In the case that filled my Cheerios with pee pee this morning, the offender was deceased. Like really, how are you going to bill a dead person? Talk about bleeding the turnip dry or whatever. Can’t we just assume the cost like decent, tax paying human beings and let the dead bury the dead? Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but have some couth Tennessee.