Where there’s smoke, there’s a nuked Hot Pocket

Today we discovered that there are no smoke detectors in my office. Here’s a protip, courtesy of Billie: do not, under any circumstances, put a Hot Pocket in the microwave, hit the “infinity” time button (99:99 should be a close enough approximation), and then forgot about it. Especially do not do so in a hermetically sealed office.

And never be dumb enough to do something like that when Brent can laugh at you. Because he will. A lot. Your dignity and the microwave will join the carbonized Hot Pocket as casualties of your absentmindedness.

My boss had a more measured response: first priority to vent the smoke; second priority to make sure the perp got a new microwave before lunch tomorrow—on the company dime, mind you. That’s “the cost of doing business.” (I can’t help but grin every time I think about this bizarre event being a cost of doing business. Dang.)

[Everybody suffered. It was quite horrible, actually; you could see the smoke throughout the office, though the bulk of it was obviously centralized in the break room. (Think the extreme end of smokey bar.) More than one person was coughing the rest of the time I was there.]

The last laugh was on me, despite my enjoyment of the absurdity of the situation: I had a meeting to attend, and so couldn’t flee the smoke. Consequently, my clothes and hair stunk to high hell by the time I got home.

That’s a high price for humor.


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