A Well-Done Felon

It was a dreary Tuesday afternoon—so unremarkable that even the weather seemed too disinterested to participate. The sun barely peeked through the clouds, as if it too had pressing business elsewhere.

Inside Joe’s Discount Grocery, a beacon of mediocrity and freezer-burned ambition, Earl Thistlebottom was plotting the world’s least inspired criminal escapade.

The enterprising fellow, with pockets as empty as his ambitions, had his eye on a prize–Hot Pockets. And not just any Hot Pockets, mind you—he wanted the pepperoni ones.

“The filet mignon of microwavable cuisine,” Earl thought.

With all the stealth of a raccoon rooting through a trash can, Earl slid a couple of Hot Pockets into his jacket pockets. He thought himself quite clever, though the crinkling of plastic and the suspicious bulge in his coat might have tipped off anyone with functional eyes or ears.

Alas, the store clerk—a wiry, underpaid philosopher named Jim—was not one to let such petty larceny slide.

“Hey, buddy,” Jim called out, in a tone that suggested he was more annoyed than concerned, “You gonna pay for those, or are you auditioning for a prison talent show?”

Now, Earl was not one to think on his feet, as thinking was a task he reserved for special occasions. So, when cornered, he did what any self-respecting fool might do: he bluffed.

He jammed a hand into his pocket, where the suspicious outline of a poorly concealed Hot Pocket resembled, at least in the dim light of Earl’s imagination, a firearm.

“Don’t come any closer, or I’ll—I’ll…” Earl stammered, trying to sound menacing but managing only to sound like he was mid-sneeze. “I’ll shoot!”

Jim, unimpressed and mildly curious, took a step back. “Sure thing, Wyatt Earp. Enjoy your gourmet feast.”

Triumphant in his victory over law and order, Earl strutted out of the store like a peacock who’d stolen a bag of breadcrumbs. Unfortunately for Earl, the police department had little else to do that day, and soon, a squad car caught up with him as he sauntered down Main Street, humming what he believed to be the theme song from Cops.

“Stop right there!” an officer shouted through the loudspeaker, his voice crackling with authority. Earl froze, though not out of fear—it took him a moment to realize they were addressing him.

“What’s the problem, officers?” Earl asked, feigning innocence so poorly that even a toddler could have outperformed him.

“Get on the ground!” the officer barked, suggesting he wasn’t in the mood for debate.

“I will not!” Earl declared, puffing out his chest in a show of defiance that would have been more impressive if his coat wasn’t leaking condensation from the pilfered Hot Pockets.

The officers, understandably concerned that Earl might be armed, decided to employ the great equalizer of law enforcement–the Taser. One quick zap later, Earl crumpled to the ground like a poorly built Jenga tower, twitching and mumbling.

As the officers handcuffed Earl, one of them noticed a peculiar aroma wafting through the air.

“Do you smell that?” the officer asked his partner.

“Yeah,” the partner replied, leaning in for a closer sniff. “Smells…delicious?”

They opened Earl’s jacket to reveal the Hot Pockets, now perfectly cooked to golden-brown perfection thanks to the 50,000 volts of electricity Earl had just received.

“Well, I’ll be,” said the first officer. “Guess we solved the mystery of why they call them Hot Pockets.”

As Earl sat in the squad car, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride. Sure, he was going to jail, but at least he’d proven one thing–you don’t need a microwave to enjoy a warm meal—just a little ingenuity and a poorly timed encounter with law enforcement.