Sometimes hunger gets in the way of common sense and causes one to brave the wilds of their personal, fully functioning Fireball Gun/Oven…. which I’m tempted to hang a palque over, reading, “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”

That or a plaque reading, “I pooted”  which I recently saw on a bilboard on the side of the road.. it was the only thing on the bilboard.

So after trudging through all seven of the demonic circles of my oven to place a frozen Hot Pocket on the center rack (right next to Be’elzebub) and waiting the 28-30-minutes-or-until-ready length of time I was confronted with the strange paradox that hot pockets seem to taste better when bombarded by microwaves rather than being cooked in hell, er… my oven.

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