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.
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.
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.
You know what really burns my biscuits? A maintaining the same speed buddy. Accelerate, decelerate I could really give a Big Betty White, just don’t keep pace with my pace you fecal funbag. If you can’t figure out how this passing game works, maybe you should take up agoraphobia and save us all from your so very stupid self. While yes, I did put a little extra elbow grease into this fierce, feeling myself exterior today, I don’t need you going full paparazzi at the cost of a claustrophobic panic attack. I believe that the lionized savant Luda said it best when he implored, “Move bitch. Get out the way. Get out the way bitch. Get out the way.” Wise words indeed. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but don’t pin baby behind a Slowbi Wan Kenobi.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Onions. Or really, just the unpredictably omnipotent power they have, to turn on the eye facets in the most monstrously moatmeal-esque ways. Like how have we not tampered down the firepower of these beastly bulbs, that so perfectly pull together my culinary capers, while ruthlessly pillaging my tear ducts? And why must I play blind me roulette? I find their temperament as unpredictable as, a Gary Busey trip up coke mountain. As the now dearly parted chunk of my finger will tell you, the threat is imminent. This comestible bane of bulbous bitchassness best Take It Down Chris Brown, lest I put some onion powder in my mix and call it a day. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but onions might maim you.