the night time is the right time

You know what really burns my biscuits?  The sun.  Like I know it’s important for our survival and stuff, but some days that shit is dialed up way too high.  It’s dangerous.  And I don’t mean in like a UV rays are giving me cancer kind of way.  I’m talking in a “blinded by the light” kind of way.  Like this morning, making it to work was seriously an on a wing a prayer situation.  Does the sun really need to show off so much?  I get it.  You’re powerful AF.  You’re a nearly perfect sphere of hot plasma, with internal convective motion that generates a magnetic field via a dynamo process (thank you Wikipedia).  But with great power, comes great responsibility.  If you could say, take on a little cloud cover, so that I do not perish in a horrific car crash tomorrow morning?  That would be great.  Otherwise, fuck you sun and long live the beast.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but the sun might.


You know what really burns my biscuits?  People acting all Judge Judy.  Yes, I know we’re all guilty as charged.  However, some people really make a hobby out of it.  Like I’m pretty sure that rebellious scourge on the face of all that is holy matrimony, probably thinks her half sleeve looks killer standing up there at the altar.  Just because tattoos aren’t your thing, it doesn’t endow you head of the fashion police Midwest division.  I mean unless you’re time traveling back to 19-who cares.  Has it never occurred to you that home girl with the ink might have some less than glowing things to say about that 2000-and-late butterfly clip you have setting off your platform sandals/boot cut combo?  Give anyone five minutes alone and they can surely compile their own critical hit list of whatever is serving as a momentary muse.  I’m not saying close your eyes to reality or whatever.   I’m just saying maybe we should use our “inside our head voices” more when processing our surroundings.  No one wants a Siskel and Ebert rundown of their life choices.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but shhhh.

interview ghost

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Getting ghosted after an interview.  Like how can you not take five minutes to send out a rejection form letter?  I’m not saying you need to take me out for coffee and let me down easy.  It’s not like you’ve met my parents yet or anything.  However, an “I’m just not that into you” mass mail would be greatly appreciated.  It’s the least you could do.  I mean, come on.  I shaved my legs.  I answered your idiotic questions that are, forseriol, seriously ridiculous.  You wanna know about a challenging time in my life?  How about the time I’m spending sitting across from some mid-level, saggy chested, cuntacunday?  How about that?  It’s truly a challenge to refrain from asking you to stick your list of dumb fuck questions where the sun dare not shine.  Did that answer your inquiry?  Do I need to elaborate?  It’s insulting that you can’t even skim over that shit before I sit down.  At least then, it would look like the stupidity is leaking from your brain and into your mouth in an original way.  Could you really not think up something better on your own?  Now that I think about it.  Maybe I should be the one sending rejection letters to the gatarded gate keepers of the gainfully employed.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

rancho yucko

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Bottled ranch.  Like why is it always so gross?  How can I purchase some little packet of zesty MSG particles to mix with whatever creamy white substance I have at hand and make fat kid gold, but this can’t be done en masse in a bottle?  It always tastes like similar to restaurant quality plus one shitty secret ingredient to make it not quite as good.  If we can make space food, can’t we buy ranch off the shelf that isn’t mixed with ghost farts and chalk?  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but that stuff might.

forgiveness and fame

You know what really burns my biscuits?  The hall pass we give to the famous.  What exactly has Chris Brown contributed to our collective consciousness, that entitles him to a blind eye whenever he feels like playing the part of a terrible person?  While, like anyone else, I fully appreciate reinventing the spelling of “shorty” in as many collaborations as possible, but is this really a feat worthy of the record books?  At what point, is the behavior despicable enough?  Is being a knock off Usher triple threat enough to outweigh being a girl hitter?  Is being a second rate wanna be gangsta really an excuse?  What line has to be crossed, to vanquish a half ass hood rat back to anonymity?  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but Chris Brown sucks.