Fair Warning

Everyone's been there. Everyone knows what it's like to want something so bad your better judgment takes the first bus out of town; when your stomach churns in anticipation, your eyes widen in excitement, and you sink yourself into a warm, moist nest of regret. And while the immediate satisfaction of the decision is clouded by the bitter aftertaste of Kentucky bourbon and a lack of patience, the consequences of those five seconds are truly felt the next morning when you stare the signs of your shortcoming square in the face.



I learned in law school that you can have a slippery floor in a supermarket that lends itself to the humorous downfall of clumsy, and likely elderly individuals... but Acme's liability is relieved so long as a yellow warning cone with that universal sign for "slip n kill yourself" is promptly placed at the site of the potential hilarity. So where is my warning? Absent the equivalent of a yellow sign hanging on my doorstep, how is a mere man, overwhelmed by his instincts at those late hours, when human nature dictates his subjection to his most immediate desires, supposed to channel the reason and brain power of his sober alter-ego? Let me tell you, people, it's an impossibility. Not even Bear Grylls has the willpower and self-imposed diligence to exercise the caution society thrusts upon us and expects us to demonstrate each and every time we, as humans with penises, confront the growling belly of temptation.


In fact, there is no two ways about it: those demonic creations that ooze with tastiness and seduce us with an adorable presence should be outlawed! Yeah, I said it, I think Hot Pockets deserve to die, and I hope they burn in hell!



They seem harmless enough. Wrapped nicely in plastic, with clear and concise directions, the picture on the box invites the drunkest individual to the freezer. The box practically whispers from the freezer... "oh, hey there hungry guy, why don't you indulge in some pepperoni, maybe even some processed cheese. Feeling dangerous? Throw me and my partner in a microwave for 3 minutes and 15 seconds and let's make a threesome out of it. Don't worry, the roof of your mouth won't burn into smithereens like a Move townhouse. I promise your tongue won't break into blisters like a Show N' Tel dancer's vagina. Go ahead, take a chance."



Well enough! I'm putting my foot down, throwing Hot Pockets in the room, and drawing a line in the sand. Never again will I be forced to scrub the solidified cheese/sauce off of a plate the following morning. Never again will I find myself digesting the skin on the top of my mouth for days to come. Never again, will I try to stick my penis in that warm cocoon. I mean, eat a hot pocket. Good riddance to you and your deliciousness.

And the critics say we only discuss sports on this esteemed blogsphere.