Death Takes 2 Minutes in the Microwave on High

My name is, Smith and I'm a homicide detective. I've seen all kinds of death, but what I witnessed today was a first. The call was a body found at the Single Arms Apartments. It's one of those 1-2-3 complexes that cater to twice divorced men. You know, the bastards that marry once for love, twice for lust, and thanks to divorce lawyers, work three jobs to pay for the consequences in alimony and child support.

I arrived at the scene to find our M.E scratching his head. The body hadn't been moved yet. The victim's feet hung just above the floor, his obviously new jeans still around his ankles. The rest of his body lay backwards on his bed. His rigor-mortised face was strangely red.

"Hey, Bob, whatcha got?" I asked.

"Hi Smith," He grumbled. "Third one this week."

"Really?" I asked. "This makes a third murder?"

"Not murders." Bob replied. "Three middle-aged bastards who gave themselves heart attacks trying to squeezing their fat asses into skinny jeans.

Suddenly, it made sense. When will poor middle-aged bastards realize that no amount of skinny jeans can retrieve their youth especially when you add loneliness and a diet of microwavable burritos.