Hear Ye! Hear Ye!

From the woman who broke the timely news a few months ago that ENGLAND IS AN ISLAND, Val Thevictorian proudly reveals her newest discovery: Hot Pockets are HOT!

I know, right? Who would ever have expected Hot Pockets to be hot? Sure, you don't eat them cold. Any fool knows to heat them in the microwave (preferably one with an original door handle and not two round drawer handles), or warm them in an oven (preferably one with an upper AND a lower heating element). Yeah. That's where the name comes from, isn't it? You increase the temperature of that frozen treat until, in comparison to its frozen state, it's hot. And inside that crispy crust, there's a pocket of goo with flavor (in my case the Philly Cheese Steak edition) that gives it the other part of its name. Hot. Pocket.

Oh, dear. I have been spending time alone during the day, what with Hick doing an honest day's work, Genius doing all his work quickly and efficiently and then being used as a picture-hanger or other menial-task-master to justify his salary, and The Pony being away at Missouri Scholars Academy with his people, as he calls his fellow 327 nerds, getting smarter by the hour. Because I am responsible for nobody's lunch but my own, I have not been whipping up seven-course gourmet spreads suitable for the cover of Seven-Course Gourmet Spreads Monthly. I know that may come as a surprise to a few of you. My lunches have been consisting of, perhaps, a cold hot dog with a side of red grapes. A hunk of extra-sharp cheddar and an individual bag of Combos, with fresh strawberries. Or a Hot Pocket with celery stalks and Hidden Valley Ranch dip.

If you ask me, Hot Pockets should be renamed to reflect their true character. Renamed as Molten Lava Squirting Tongue Incinerators. Uh huh. That's more descriptive. Lets people know what they're in for. So they can have a tub of ice ready to prevent their tongue from sizzling like a slab of tenderloin on a hot griddle. Or have a phone handy with 9-1-1 on speed dial. Or have Jackie Chiles on retainer.

I am no simple-minded rube when it comes to food. Food and I go way back. I've been around the block a time or two with food. I know that when something comes out of the microwave or the oven, it needs to rest a bit. To let its molecules slow down. Dissipate that thermal energy into the atmosphere.

I did not grab that Molten Lava Squirting Tongue Incinerator Hot Pocket right off the pizza pan covered with foil that I took out of the oven with a mitt and pop it right into my mouth. No sirree, Bob! I let it sit for five minutes while I gathered up a bubba cup of ice water and my mostly-ice 44 oz. Diet Coke, and carried them down to my dark basement lair. And then, because my little Pony is away, I had to make another trip up to the kitchen to get my lunch. I fiddled about, squirting some horseradish sauce into an old plastic garlic butter cup from Little Caesar's. No ramekins here in the Thevictorian household.

Once I had all of my lunch items in place, I set to surfing the internet, broadening my horizons on all subjects but the blast-furnace temperature of Hot Pockets. It was a good twenty minutes after that Molten Lava Squirting Tongue Incinerator Hot Pocket came out of the oven until I took my first bite. Those who declare that Val Thevictorian has no taste are now literally quite right.

Tomorrow, I might go out for coffee with Cosmo Kramer and Stella Liebeck.