You know what really burns my biscuits? Health care or the lack thereof. After $200 and sleepless nights, I expect something a little more comforting than “Eat my veggies” or whatever the fuck Captain Obvious common sense gets spouted when there’s no clear solution to my bodily woes. Maybe doctors should start offering an “If I don’t fix ya, it’s free!” deal. At least then, I wouldn’t feel the need to reclaim the night, in solidarity to the violation of my bank account. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but “doctors” are marauders in white coats.
You know what really burns my biscuits? My fellow humans freaking out when animals act like animals. Charmin can try to make those fuzzy butted terrors cuddly dingle berry conquerors all day long, but I’ve seen The Revenant and some things you just can’t unsee. I feel like being viewed as a possible food source/chew toy is a far more accurate representation of bear thought processes than some nature variation of that “Coexist” bumper sticker every Whole Fooder worth their non-GMO tainted Pink Himalayan Salt has on their Prius is. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but bears do cause they’re bears.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Summer. Who needs it? Not me. I don’t like sweating, or bugs or yard work, which by the way, combines all of those things and let’s be honest, unless you’re one of those fancy sprinkler system people, by July you’re really just knocking down weeds over scorched earth anyways, so in the end it just totally sucks butt. And how about swimsuits which put on full display the shame of my cheese fetish for all the world to see? Can I one time find one that doesn’t inevitably try to creepy crawl up the dividing line of my mount booty back there? Gisele Bundchen may look cute with some bunching in her britches going on but my non supermodel body type, regretfully does not. To rub even more of my own sweat salt in my bitch of a mosquito bite wound, now that I’m an adult, I don’t even get this Season of Satan off to hibernate through my hangovers. So screw you summer, screw you and the revolution of this rock you came in on. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but my swamp ass induced rage might.
You know what really burns my biscuits? The elephant in the room whenever tragedy strikes. Plenty of people are religious, hate other religions, can’t wrap their brains around the fact that some people are born to love other people with the same bathing suit area equipment or think abortion is a ticket straight to hell, they don’t kill anyone. Some people think the other side of the political aisle is filled with brain dead fart fawners or that life is really hard because the one that they want tells them to eat a curb or that losing their job is the end of the world as they know it and they don’t feel fine, but they don’t kill people. We blame weaponry, rhetoric, video games, hate and even for awhile Marilyn Manson. The truth of the matter is that no one is living their best life when they decide to spend a Tuesday mowing down strangers with a car or a gun or a bomb or whatever happens to be handy. While no excuse, there’s certainly some screws loose when one is unable to recognize the evil of the deed they plan to do. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I fear ignoring mental health does.
You know what really burns my biscuits? News programs forcing us into televised rubber necking whenever some sort of tragedy happens. I’m not saying I don’t care about these occurrences, but for Holy Moly Anderson Cooper can’t they just break in when they actually have something new to report, slap a news ticker on the bottom of the screen and get back to regularly scheduled programming? It’s embarrassing for everyone involved, when hour after hour is spent rehashing the same scant facts, while admitting the situation is developing, which while true is also code for we have no fucking clue and the words we’re spouting may end up being trumpie whoppers so please don’t hold us accountable. One can stay on top of the story without smothering it to the point of irrelevancy. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone and two paces back never hurt.