You know what really burns my biscuits? The American obsession with the British royal family. Isn’t that like the least “American” pastime one can have? Didn’t our fore mothers and fathers reject those assholes long ago for their system of vaginal racketeering? If whenever I lifted a finger to those in need the world acted two pumps away from a woody blowout, I’d probably be able to manage some charity work, especially since my only job was to exist in the first place. If every designer wanted to dress me, due to the womb I happened to incubate in, I’m sure that I could manage being a fashion icon when budget isn’t a word I’m familiar with. This idea of praising people without merit is a fallacy that you see playing out with every smart phone wielding dipwad live streaming every mundane minute of their mediocre existence. Find a cure for cancer and then maybe I’ll give a shit. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but like the Sex Pistols said, “God save the Queen … you made us a moron.”
You know what really burns my biscuits? The never ending O.J. saga. Can we just not? Did he kill people? Probably. I mean is the Cheeto in Chief a dip stick? However, do we have to parade out the same sad sack menagerie every few years like a bad Flashback Friday photo? Losing a family member in a brutal murder is a trial I hope to never tribulate, but if I did I hope I don’t spend the rest of my life with the accused perpetrator’s name in my mouth to anyone who will buy my book about it or put me on television. In my experience, the most effective clap back is a cold shoulder, not more exposure. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but the Juice is Loose.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Biscuit cans. How have we, as risk averse humans, not dreamed up a less heart attack inducing way to enjoy some butter tasting goodness? Additionally, why oh why, in the name of Naomi Campbell must I always resort to the dreaded spoon press? Wanna play some “Never Have I Ever?” How about, “Never have I ever peeled open a can of biscuits and it opened like the stupid, lying pile of camel dung directions said it would?” How about that? Due to this unfortunate chain of events my heart is forced to endure a prolonged state of heightened anxiety in anticipation of pop goes the Pillsbury so that I might enjoy a so called Breakfast of Champions or at the very least that of a lazy American, cause this girl only has time for that instant Betty Crocker lifestyle. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but opening those fuckers just might.
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.