Yes, I Am the Personal Chef Included With Your Luxury Airbnb, but for the Umpteenth Time, Go Microwave Your Own Damn Hot Pockets

I get that you’re on vacation at a destination AirBnB that includes a personal chef, for which you dropped some serious coin, nearly as much as I still owe for those two post-high-school years I was “finding myself” as a philosophy major.

But I am a top-notch professional chef and you have opposable thumbs, so, like I’ve told everyone before you, you can go fucking microwave your own damn Hot Pockets.

My ingredient selection is exquisite. My technique is flawless. And my signature dish? One customer texted me years later that she still channels her memory of the multi-sensory experience of my barramundi-and-pheasant-stuffed pastry every time her billionaire eighty-six-year-old husband begs her to orgasm.

This refusal to microwave your damn Hot Pockets has nothing to do with the fact that I understand that part of my gig means providing execrable comfort food to horde after cretinous horde of gold-plated, silver-spooned, lead-palated philistines like you.

You want pizza? Fine. I can make any style, even top it with my own spin on that abominable ranch dressing shit you eat, and bake it in my brick oven outside that runs hotter than your wet dreams of Russian porn stars.

Kids craving chicken nuggets? I’ll slaughter and pluck the bird, grind the meat and shape it, and fry it up so good that your brats will just shake and bow their heads for the rest of their pampered nepo-baby lives every time they get driven by a set of Mickey Fuckin’ D’s golden arches.

Hell, even taquitos, I’ll make the tortillas myself, fill them with world-class ingredients, and roll that shit up so skillfully that when you wrap your lips around one of those suckers, it feels better than smoking, depending upon your preferences, a two-inch-thick 40-year-old primo Cuban stogie, an enormous joint of world-class cured Jamaican ganja, or a tumescent Leo DiCaprio’s undersized fuckstick.

Look, I do understand this hankering. Everyone loves Hot Pockets. There have even been times when I’ve gotten home and downed one or three myself after a long shift catering to over-privileged, under-appreciative, and precisely perfectly unbearable shit-asses exactly like you.

And I grant that getting Hot Pockets just right, uniformly warm with the inside melted but the outside still crisp, that ain’t easy—I know as a chef I shouldn’t admit this, but sometimes, just the thought of the slight resistance my teeth feel before piercing the skin of a Hot Pocket, then the sensuality of the ham cubes’ weight on my tongue as the luscious cheddar gently caresses it, gets me more turned on than Lauren Baubert in a crowded movie theater.

But I am not your errand-monkey-slash-Man-fucking-Friday, who on cue will throw any shit in the microwave like it’s tossing a six-week-old turtle carcass in your neighbor’s trashcan (not that I’ve ever done that).

If that’s your thing, next time rent an AirBnB that includes a personal servant, tip him a couple hundos, and he’ll microwave your damn Hot Pockets as if his shot at getting a visa to escape his shitty job on this godforsaken Caribbean speck depended on it.

Better yet, slip him a few thou, and he’d probably be willing to keep your Hot Pockets body-temp warm 24/7 by cutting them in half, stuffing them in zip-lock bags, swallowing them, and then, whenever you’re hungry, shitting them out on command drug-mule style. Hey, whatever floats your boat, or, in your case, whatever floats that glass-bottomed vessel you’ve rented for an hourly rate more than my quarterly fucking apartment lease so you can gaze down at bigger versions of the same damn fishes you could see in the office aquarium of your bucktoothed kids’ two-grand-an-appointment orthodontist.

So, ask me to chef up whatever the fuck you can imagine—animal, vegetable, even fucking mineral. Name any three ingredients and I’ll cook that shit so good you’ll need a cigarette afterwards. But if you want your damn Hot Pockets, you can go ahead and nuke them your own damn self.