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.
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.