Hand to God, I have no idea why any food contains microwave directions. None. There should just be a crudely drawn cartoon of a guy shrugging his shoulders with question marks floating around his head and the words “estimated cooking time between 90 seconds and your mom” scrawled across the bottom in bubble letters. At least that’d be more accurate portrayal of what your experience is likely to be.
Microwaves (oh, fun fact: my grandmother has called them Michael Waves throughout her entire life. Nobody knows why, and we’ve given up correcting her) are fickle, ill-tempered mechanisms, at times giving a window of opportunity lasting mere seconds in which your Pizza Pops go from warm-crusted pizzasicle to straight up detonating all over the place like a pepperoni landmine. But then the day comes where the practice pays off and you realize that you will never scrape cheese off of the kitchen ceiling or bite into a hot piece of ice ever again. The time comes where your confidence is so voluminous that you not only neglect to open the microwave door and fondle the Hungry Man dinner every thirty seconds, but you actually leave the room and wait for the beep. First. Try.
Visual representation.
Ambrosia.
Do this in a group setting and be prepared to have your friends gawk in wonderment as if you were a wise old sage that lives deep in the forest with the answers to life, the universe and everything (hint: it’s 42). And don’t even get the dialogue flowing about toasters. If you are a part of the 3% of the human race that have conquered the trials of both the Michael Wave and the nigh untamable toaster, then you have truly achieved ultimate nirvana, which means that you win a three-course meal at Applebee’s with the deity of your choosing (alcohol costs extra). I chose Thor, partly because he’s dreamy but with the ulterior motive of hoping to meet Robert Downey Jr.
It didn’t pan out.
dougengland 