How Hot Pockets Lose their Flavor

“No, I’ve gotta do it.” Kelsi tells me. I try to ignore her and bite into the Hot Pocket.

Darn, nothing ruins a hot pocket more than having to think about making some dozy police reports.

“It was just a kid,” I tried to reason with her. “Kids throw things, it’s in their genetic makeup. You can’t stop kids throwing things, you just make sure it’s harmless stuff like oranges and not home made Coke-Cola bottle fizz bombs. That stuff really makes a mess of your hair.”

“But he was evil and mean,” Kelsi started to sob. “He called me nasty names, and he slaughtered a whole pile of oranges. Surely you can see that. He has to be punished.”

“Okay, okay.” I put the now flavorless Hot Pocket in the trash. “Get your coat and we’ll go deal with it now.”


“Well,” the police officer at the reception desk looked at us. “And how may I help you today?”

“Oh, it was so awful,” Kelsi blubbed. “He killed them all.”

“Murder?” I saw the startled look in the cop’s eyes.

“Slaughtered hundreds,” Kelsi nodded

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