escalator hold up

You know really burns my biscuits?  Escalator riders.  Really just escalators in general.  Who decided we need some hybrid stair/elevator situation anyways?  There’s this limbo of should I ride or should I climb and I’m over it.  Like seriously, someday I’m going to push somebody down or up it and I’m going to end up in the papers.  It’s not that I’m necessarily against riding in general, but if I’m eye of the tiger headphones in and in my zone, step the fuck aside.  Don’t step in front of me and then ride.  That’s beyond a dick move and someday I really hope your shoelace gets caught, like in my childhood department store nightmares.  I mean for shit’s sake, they’re moving stairs.  You don’t even have to step on the gas, to get out of the way.  You don’t even have to breathe deeply.  You don’t even have to break a sweat.  Not that you care.  You hijacker of my daily walks.  You’re the same person that pulls out in front of people, when there’s no other traffic, so you can go five miles under the speed limit cause you’re a shitty person.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

free the nipple

You know what really burns my biscuits?  This “Free the Nipple” movement.  Honestly, I didn’t even realize my nipples were oppressed.  In all my years, not once have I thought to myself, “Give me topless or give me death!”  Like I’ll never really live, until I stroll down a sidewalk with my tits bouncing in the breeze.  Thanks, but I’m good.  Of all of the injustices women suffer through on a daily basis, I have a hard time believing nipple freedom rises to the top of that list.  Never have I seen some shirtless man in a park or K-Mart and thought, “Damn, THAT is really living.”  Haven’t some brave and wayward souls already tried the whole “taking back our bodies” thing by flashing their cooters everywhere and dressing like a corner store hooker?  Correct me if I’m wrong, but hasn’t that only served to make it harder for the rest of us to be taken even moderately seriously as more than a flesh and blood blow up doll?  If you really feel the need to air out your fun bags go to a nudist colony or something for fuck’s sake.  Save your insincere indignation for something that’s actually a thing.  Put some pasties on those bitches and call it day.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

cell phone cry baby

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Musicians who take themselves a little too seriously.  Are the cunt bags waving their cell phone around during an entire show annoying as fuck?  Of course they are.  I wanna shove their iPhone up their respective bung hole too.  It blows my mind that people will pay an exorbitant amount of money to go to a show, only to watch from behind a screen.  It’s really, really stupid.  However, the artist making a big deal about it only ends up sounding like a whiny little bitch.  If you think your songs are changing the world, good for you, but none have yet to end world hunger or anything even remotely that important.  How about instead of chastising the people that are paying your mortgage, you adapt to the times?  At the heart of the overzealous ‘cell phone in your face’ craze is a need to share and connect.  There’s a yearning for inclusion, however pathetic you may find it.  Why not be inclusive?  Instead of throwing a bitch fit, why not get over yourself and do what you’re getting paid to do?  Like I’m so sorry your job is so cool people wanna capture a piece of it for themselves.  If you don’t wanna be filmed, go be a fucking janitor.  Otherwise get the fuck over yourself.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

late mergers

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Late ass mergers.  The people who ignore the three miles of warnings that their lane is going to end, just so they can get in front of three people they’ll end up sitting in front of during stop and go traffic, essentially not getting anywhere any faster than if they hadn’t been a self centered fuck stick.  Like, “Oh!  I’m so sorry!  I didn’t realize that YOU were more SPECIAL than every other fucking person on this road.”  Or how about those dumb shits that will literally almost have a wreck trying to get ahead of two people before their lane ends?  It’s not going to make a flying fuck on your overall arrival time to whatever hell hovel you’re headed toward.  Seriously.  You just look like a total dick.  That’s all you’re accomplishing.  Honestly, you should thank your lucky stars that prayer and voodoo are bullshit because, please believe, whenever you go around a line of twenty people because you’re too important to merge a mile back, every single person is wishing spontaneous leprosy on your sorry ass.  If this was some Harry Potter shit, I’d be bippity boppitying you into some kind of wild boar or poor fucking deer on Ted Nugent’s hunting lease.  You’d be running through the underbrush toward a certain death, because come on, as if you really stand a chance in front of some large caliber AR “hunting rifle.”  You’d be fucked like Chuck and on your way to being mounted on the wall of some fellow asshole’s hunting lodge.  Like for reals.  I know that’s dark and maybe it’s a little much, but isn’t being a self centered jerk off also a little much?  Kindness is simple and opportunities present themselves over and and over again every single day.  I’m not asking for your first born.  All I’m asking is for a little humility.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.

forced prescriptions

You know what really burns my biscuits?  Being forced into new prescriptions.  As a relatively intelligent, rational adult, shouldn’t I be able to make the decision of when I need an adjustment to my vision?  Like why do I have to pay some fuck with plaques on the wall two hundred dollars every year to give me basically the same slip of paper I already had?  It’s not even about stupid safety or anything.  I can wear my glasses until they rot off my stupid face, but since the supply of new contacts can be controlled, I have to take a fleecing for the privilege.  It really feels as if this situation is orchestrated solely to pad the pockets of interested parties under the guise of “my best interest.”  Perhaps, it would be in my best interest to offer lube and cab fare next time, you institutionally protected wallet rapist.  Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.