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!
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.
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.
You know what really burns my biscuits? The numb nutted sadists that package picture frames. Why in the Lucy Goosey Gomorrah would one adhere an adhesive material that is incapable of peeling away without leaving a remnant, like advert herpes, to anything ever? I don’t give a shit about the fake family in the frame or whatever other cockamamie crap is hideously plastered to my purchase. While I might not be operating at genius level over here, I can figure out the purpose of a picture frame without a stock photo guiding the way. Most infuriatingly, it’s always just one little piece that remains like a middle finger to your smug preliminary celebration of properly removing all the unnecessary sticky icky that comes like an unwelcome interloper to every photo framing purchase. It’s seriously like it’s on purpose. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I’d like to stick those stickers where the sun dare not shine.
You know what really burns my biscuits? The blooming of the stinky diaper garbage carcass flower getting the same coverage as a possible international crisis or really the fact that it gets any coverage at all. If I wanted to huff some gag inducing odor, I’d stick my head down in one of the well trafficked litter boxes sitting in my 100 degree garage. The blossoming of some literally shitty flower, hardly deserves a second thought, much less mention in a top of the hour news briefing. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I guess the roses really do smell like poo-poo-oo.