black hole misfits

You know what really burns my biscuits? The Tupperware boogie monster black hole that exists somewhere between my dishwasher and kitchen cabinet. This is a cruel cousin to the sock phantom that haunts the space between my dryer and bottom drawer. I fear the existential great beyond will consist of nothing more than mismatched socks and warped plastic lids in reds and blues with no bottom to be found. The Donald Duckers of the storage gig. It’s like some household items are meant to be a minus plus one for the rest of their miserable existence, until they’re banished to the rubbish pile or forced into a relationship with some fly by night tin foil or a discolored athletic sock. Burn biscuits never killed anyone, but making matches out of incompatible items might try my patience.

suffer me this

You know what really burns my biscuits? Punishing those that have suffered enough. While I too, have had those moments in morning traffic, where you curse the dumb ass that dared have a wreck and cost you an extra fiver, I can also recognize that dumb ass started their morning off with a wreck, so maybe I should summon at least a smurf drop of compassion. I don’t even consider myself that good of a person and yet, that’s a blindingly obvious observation. How then, can the state try to bill someone for damaging a guard rail in an instance of vehicular calamity? It’s not like they spray painted dicks on the sidewalk or some other willfully juvenile destruction of property. In the case that filled my Cheerios with pee pee this morning, the offender was deceased. Like really, how are you going to bill a dead person? Talk about bleeding the turnip dry or whatever. Can’t we just assume the cost like decent, tax paying human beings and let the dead bury the dead? Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but have some couth Tennessee.

guess i’ll just go bleed to death

You know what really burns my biscuits? Band-Aids and specifically their lack of aid. I can find 37 different flavors of condoms and yet the old standard for the self inflicted boo boo only has like three basic sizes. Spare me the Sponge Bob, I’m no child. There’s not enough paltry advertising to distract me from the fact, that no matter how creatively I might endeavor, to cover the hatchet wound my devilish Lady Bic has inflicted upon my flesh, it’s only going to awkwardly bunch up and leave me when I need it most. Whoever is cranking out the bacon flavored condoms, should put that enterprising spirit behind bandaging my bloody bits. I mean, I may not be adequately equipped with the “meat I can now make look like meat” as the tagline shares so nicely and nauseatingly, but I feel mostly confident that the world could keep on spinning without that option. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but a poorly designed Band-Aid might.

can i help shoo

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Dumbasses off the street.  Specifically, dumbasses that enter my place of business, inquiring about the location of another place of business, that then have the audacity to look at me like I’m the asshole when I can’t help them.  I’m not human Google dipshit, so don’t get peeved at me for your lack of preparation.  Maybe, unbeknownst to me, I do look like the human embodiment of Siri herself and just like her, sometimes I don’t know what the Fergalicious My Lovely Lady Lumps you’re talking about either.  I may not be a directory, but I can think of somewhere I’d like to direct these meaningless mouthbreathers.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but go find yourself.

how low can you go

You know what really burns my biscuits?  This how low can you go limbo winner standard we have for our highest office.  Just because the Orange One didn’t fling verbal feces one time, doesn’t mean he’s “presidential.”  Can we please hold someone accountable for longer than an hour when giving out a thumbs up or down?  This isn’t 50 Shades of Grey, it’s the “Leader of the Free World” or whatever.  What scorches my biscuits the most, is that it’s the media that’s oh so willing to dish out praise like a battered boy/girlfriend.  They are so like, “He didn’t hit me this time, look at all the good words he put together.  Those are good words.  Ain’t he just the best?”  For the record, like based on his record, he’s not.  Furthermore, way to whore out the widow of a fallen soldier.  That doesn’t deserve kudos.  You would have to be beyond a monster to not applaud that woman’s sacrifice.  You don’t get brownie points for being a decent human being.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but being a lap dog does.