An Open Letter to D. Richard Gordon of Hot Pockets

D. Richard Gordon
VP, Hot Pockets Division
Nestlé Headquarters
Somewhere, Don’t Care

Hello “D”,

I AM a frequent consumer of your stuff-filled, pastry-based, “Hot Pockets”-brand products, and as such would like to know what it is like to have no soul.

Please explain to me, “D”, why you have decided to make the new Spicy Hawaiian Style Pizza a limited edition. This is a worthy addition to the Hot Pockets oeuvre, and I see no reason why

So how do you like looking down on us from atop your pedestal, “D”? Your office is on the—what? The fourteenth, the fifteenth floor? It must be a relief to be so far from all the little ants… they might track their dirt on your precious product.

You sit your cardboard-crisper throne upon a mountain of microwaveable turnovers. The weight of your expanding waistline gradually crushes the pastries beneath you, that the entire edifice might be said to be slowly oozing cheese filling. You pay this no mind, however. Pile more on! Why not? This is Hot Pockets; we know no self-reserve here.

D. Richard Gordon: Artist's conception.

A mixture of saliva and cheese dribbles down your fat, pasty cheeks. Flecks of broccoli and scraps of D-grade ham dot your robes. You thrust your face into the air and open your mouth lustily, your eyes gleaming. Attached by her neck to the chains at your side, a secretary clad only in rags and fetters approaches with another steaming hot morsel to shove into your mouth. The dripping contents would burn her fingers—that is, if she could still feel anymore.

Meanwhile, the people so far “below” you have a simple dream: one of easily-attainable, cheap, microwaveable foodstuffs. There are the homeless in America whose microwaves go empty for want of anything to crisp in them. There are starving children in Africa whose flat rocks ache to be placed in the hot sun with an unhealthy frozen treat on them.

You know what, “D”? We do want a hot meal. And we want it without a big deal.

We oppressed masses wait at the bottom of your tower of Hot Pockets. And we are hungry.

Sure, for now you are out of our reach, contentedly sitting atop the mountain and licking simulated cheese filling from the back of a high-priced hooker. But your weight continues to squeeze more and more filling from those pockets, and soon we begin to lick at the foundation of your corporation. Our appetites then whetted, we shall begin to gnaw at the crispy, crunchy, tender, flaky crust… all that’s left of your crumbling empire.

Then, you. We will microwave your head, eat the boiling insides, and throw out the skull. Just like your delicious goddamn Hot Pockets.

When we come for you, we will not be dressed like this. We have more sense than these dorks.

You see, “D”, our pockets are empty. We have licked every last scrap of filling from the inside. We have scraped out each last delicious morsel. We have nothing to lose.

But your pockets? Stuffed full. , even. And we want what’s inside.

We have nothing to lose, “D”. And you have everything (also: to lose).

You know, “D”, as much as I hate you, I suspect that I am a bigger man than you. Why? Because I would never, ever go on the internet and urge people to burn your house to the fucking ground. Never would I point out the lax security in the area, nor that you will be away at Nestlé headquarters for two weeks next month. Nor that your wife and two young children (how is D, Jr., liking 4th grade? And Annie was so cute in the school play this year) will be home, defenseless, during this time.

I wonder, these days, what the Merage brothers are doing. You remember them, don’t you? They invented Hot Pockets? Built them up into a successful commercial enterprise?

I mean, on the one hand, $6.5 billion is a lot of money. Even to split.

On the other hand, now you run their company, so I can only imaging that they have shot themselves in their respective faces. Or each other’s faces, if it was a mutual suicide thing. Would that even work? I mean, one would have to still be alive to shoot the other. I suppose it could happen, but it’d be really complicated. Actually, nevermind. Dead, is the point. Both dead. By their own hands. Or by their brother’s hands, however they figured that out. I’d imagine if you could invent Hot Pockets you’d be a pretty clever person.

If you ever see this exact building, know that D. Richard Gordon is atop it, probably trying to spit out a window on you. Did you know that the acceleration of spit falling from a building like this means it will hit you so fast it will crack your skull? Now you do.

Not like you, you souless money-grubbing corporate machine. I can’t imaging how hard your staff must have had to work to convince you that “Soylent Pockets” aren’t readily marketable.

But you know what, “D”? You know what makes me feel OK at the end of the day?

Hot Pockets aren’t twinkies. They don’t last forever. I’ve tried, and they go bad after several months, even when frozen. Your product will rot. Your empire will fall. Eventually, you will die.

You’re going to die, “D”.

Put that in your pocket and microwave it.

In summary:

1. Please make the Spicy Hawaiian Style Pizza Hot Pockets a permanent addition to the Hot Pockets family.



Yes, The Shaun