If I ever finally snap I want you all to take up a collection to erect a fucking statue with a likeness of me (with an exaggerated large cock lump, of course) with the words "well, the bitch shouldn't have burnt the goddamn motherfucking cocksucking shitass popcorn" inscribed in stone for all of posterity to see. If funds won't allow an inscription this verbose, it will be permissible to omit one word of profanity. Anything beyond that would negatively impact the artistic value of the caption.
Holy mother fucking fuck. I'd rather have the festering, infected, seeping asshole of nancy pelosi positioned withing licking distance of my face for six hours on end, forced to stare into her abyss of a bacon ring, than smell burnt popcorn for 1 second.
If I were king of the world, burning popcorn in my presence would be punishable by ramming 6 feet of razor wire up the asshole of the offender and forcing them (via fire) to run away at high speed from the other end, which would be anchored into the ground by a 900 ton block of concrete.
While a small burden of blame falls on the manufacturer, with a bag design that torches itself into a likeness of the fires of hell upon overcooking the fucking shitty corn by 3 nanoseconds, the majorty of the burden falls on...the woman of the house.
That fucking stench is more persistent than fucking VX gas, and almost as deadly.
It's 15 degrees out; every single window in the house is open, the heat is cranked, and I have the whole house fan roaring away on high to clear out the toxic fucking fumes.
The environment will stay that way far past the point at which the stink goes away, as a dramatic symbol of my displeasure and as the 950th reminder to her NOT TO BURN THE FUCKING POPCORN.
Fuck.