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.