Let’s Learn Science: Love Hurts
Putting aside the obviously questionable culinary standards of the average Hot Pockets eater, we must consider the following: once it was determined that the beef in these nasty pastry meat pustules was not just unappealing, but actually unsafe, Hot Pockets continued to sell in my supermarket and they are STILL THERE TO THIS DAY.
Consider the scandals that have brought down many a celebrity. All Paul Rubens ever did was tug his weiner in a perfectly appropriate weiner-tugging venue, and yet even now, years later, the mention of his name brings about sexy, scandalized blushes. Well maybe not literally, but still. If you mention him, people think about jerking it. Fact.
To keep this on theme with the food element, Barilla pasta has been in the clearance section of my supermarket for ages, ever since President Pasta Barilla, the monarch of Italy, declared that he didn’t want gay people slurping his noodles. They never recovered from that bad press, as it should be. More power to Ronzoni, The Macaroni Gay People Proudly Devour, mother fuckers.
(This is what you get when you do a google image search for “Ronzoni Ranibow. Close enough!)
Yet Hot Pockets were able to pull out of the swamp of scandal and move on, and they continue to offend the palates of thousands of people who don’t know any better day after day, with their strange ham chunks swimming in “cheese” sauce effluvium, enrobed in a crust of moistened newspaper shreddings. It is as if people were willing to make the distinction and say, “Well, sure, THOSE SPECIFIC Hot Pockets might turn me into a diarrhea volcano, but these OTHER ONES won’t do anything worse than fill my organs with vaporized plastic molecules and whipped pig cock.” What gives with this illogical thinking. I do not understand.
There is a lid for every pot, as a crazy lonely person I used to know once said. In the context of her statement, this was meant to suggest that no matter how rude, ugly, and unappealing a human being (her) may be, someone (equally horrifying) out there is just right for them. But we can expand this philosophy to cover other pairings as well. There is a lid for every pot, and there is a substandard, unappetizing meal for every hunger.
Someone, or in this case, many someones, KNEW that the makers of Hot Pockets, in addition to being sociopaths, were also willing to take a risk on selling sketchy beef, and they just didn’t care. They had to get that vile meat pudding in a bread pouch into them, no matter the cost. The flesh clump lust was strong, and the satisfaction was worth the suffering.
Let’s talk about cat dicks.
I will never be a “cat person”.
I have gone over this and over this with my “cat person” friends, and whereas their hearts are warm and open and contain boundless waves of love and tolerance, I myself prefer not to have countertops flecked with poop morsels from between the toes of an animal that shits in a box in my house and then lovingly bats at my face while I sleep with its turd feet. And while the lower six inches of my house are fair game for dog boogers, everything above that point is well out of the weinerdog’s reach, so I can lick virtually any fixture in my house with relatively strong confidence that I’m not eating her emissions. I don’t do this though.
There is a gentleman named Tommy who lives in my neighborhood, who is prone to wearing threadbare undershirts as outershirts and what can only be described as “scrotehugger short shorts”. He is tall and lanky, middle 50’s, with long, pasty legs that hang from the leg holes of his IMPOSSIBLY SHORT SHORTS, so that anyone with even a passing interest can scope a hearty eyeful of the hairs on his body that are possibly leg hairs but also possibly pubes. Tommy parks his ancient car on the street and routinely fills it with garbage, and I’m not being judgmental about it - this stuff is literally trash. He keeps it in his car so he can get to it when he’s out and about, I assume. He doesn’t drive the car. If he would get in the car, you wouldn’t be able to see his pubic mound quite so thoroughly as he goes to and fro. Fucking Tommy.
He also loves cats. And his cats all love each other. A lot.
His house can no longer contain the volume of cats his existing cats have lovingly produced in tender moments in the middle of the god damned night, so they roam free throughout the streets of my peaceful burg, not doing anything about the rats and romancing each other, loudly, and vigorously. They sure make a lot of racket when they screw.
This is because cats have very sharp peens. See also Goran Arnqvist
, who does not have a sharp wang himself (I’m guessing) but famously studied this phenomenon in bugs.
Now why would cats have spikes on their love muscles? And given that they do, and how few of the cats out there in my neighborhood at least are virgins, why do they continue to get busy?
In part it is to make more cats, because we sure do need that alright.
But in larger part, it is because cat love is like Hot Pockets.
They know they’re going to suffer for it. They’ve been around the block before. Literally, I could hear them when I lived in my old apartment around the block. These cats are not novices in the way of amore. They understand that there will be pain.
But they keep coming back for it. Like a hungry man staring into the freezer at a snow-covered box of old Hot Pockets.
He doesn’t know the serial numbers affected by the recall, and while on some level he cares just a bit, the primal need outweighs the logical brain’s frantic urgings: “Do not put that thing in your mouth.” In the end, the savory flavor always wins.
Hot Pockets. Cat schlong. Love hurts, friends. Get to enjoy the pain or live a life devoid of the prospect of joy.
You have learned Science. Go in peace.