You know what really burns my biscuits? Radiohead. Specifically Thom Yorke of Radiohead. Like how does some Fraggle Rock looking motherfucker get away with being so terrible and yet still so famous? How is someone’s best shit older than a sorority girl but they’re still considered relevant? Why is the general public so willing to buy this wonk-eyed poser’s bullshit? Am I the only one that finds it to be pretentious dribble? Please Thom, do another interview about how HARD it is to be a MULTI-millionaire. Please write another screechy turd about how angsty and tortured you feel. Like you’re ever the pubescent girl dealing with her first period and too small tits. What’s worse though, is this idea in the media and general public that if you label something as “cool” like Radiohead, then the “haters” just don’t “get it.” What exactly am I not “getting?” “Burn the Witch?” Burn my fucking ear drums so I don’t have to hear that four minute piece of Pancho’s musical diarrhea. It’s like being absolutely godawful is the only way to get your hands on that ever-coveted mantle of hipness. *Cough* Dave *Cough* Grohl. Maybe let’s all calm down on making mediocrity legendary. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Getting behind some souped up sports car slumming it in “Granny Gear.” Like what the fuck is the point of getting some shiny new whatever, if you’re going to drive like you’ve got a mini van full of Girl’s Scouts? It’s embarrassing. It’s like buying a Triple Crown winner for your kid’s birthday party or something. Sure, it’s a horse, but isn’t it capable of more than halfhearted walks through your backyard? Aren’t you stymieing this majestic creature’s potential? When you purchase your own muscle machine, and then poke around like it’s a street legal golf cart, you’re doing the same thing. So maybe as a rule of thumb, if you’ve got a governor on your midlife crisis, maybe you should just stick with a sedan and a last call tattoo. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Mandatory email signups. Like maybe I don’t wanna sign up for your stupid spam mail. Maybe I just wanna look at your website and be on my way. Stop trying to force a relationship! It’s like trying to ask for a pre-nup just cause we made eye contact or something. Like calm your tits. How about the board members of these companies make their personal emails available? Let me flood their inbox with three year old jokes, from that one racist uncle, that live forever on the zombie email circuit. It’s the same thing as flooding mine with “Special Offers” that honestly really just aren’t that goddam special. Special implies uniqueness, as in, something uniquely for the individual. An email blast is basically the opposite of everything “special” stands for. Maybe “Ordinary Offer” would be more factually accurate. This isn’t just an online privacy assault either. Every fucking time I go getting my craft supply run on, it’s “Do we have your email on file?” No, you don’t and there’s a reason for that. Ever heard don’t call me, I’ll call you? Stop trying to force some minimum wage minion to invade my privacy. They don’t wanna do it. I don’t want them to do it. So let’s not do it. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.
You know what really burns my biscuits? Overzealous lane changers. Like how can you not see the stretch of Dixie Chick “wide open spaces” behind me? Why must you drift over and then go ten miles below my current rate of speed? It’s like this vehicular middle finger. Some asstard dealing with their power slave issues or whatever isn’t my problem. Like why not go kill some ants to assert your dominant position in the universe? I know it would make me feel a hell of a lot better, if I could pinch your stupid little head off, without ending up in an orange jumpsuit. Is opening your syphilis encrusted eyes really too much to ask? Can you not wait the three seconds it will take for me to pass you? Do you have like traffic diarrhea and have to go right now, right now? You know, I really hope you get real diarrhea in rush hour traffic someday and have to sit with the fumes of your stinky, selfish feces to keep you company. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.
You know what really burns my biscuits? People who don’t use their turn signal. Like if you wanna come over that’s totally cool, but maybe don’t be all rapey and presumptuous about it. Like if this is our first time fooling around, maybe give a heads up before diving into ass play. Don’t just take for granted that I’m gonna be cool with that. Feel me out first. You know? No one likes being violated. Unless said person has some kind of fucked up issues, I guess, but that’s a whole other bag of biscuits to be delved into at a later date. Consider the turn signal like a safe word or something. A code to ask permission. An indicator for future action. Unfortunately, mind reading isn’t a thing. Sorry Miss Cleo. So instead of considering your morning commute an expression of, like Donald Trump’s fly by the seat of your pants foreign policy. Gotta keep em guessing! Insert eye roll here. Consider being a little less unstable crazy pants and a little more normal person who has agreed to the unspoken rules of conduct we’ve all implicitly or explicitly signed onto by breathing the same air. Burnt biscuits never killed anyone, but I might.