A brunette, a redhead, and a blonde were in the middle of a poorly planned supermarket robbery late one quiet winter night—because of course, comedy legends always begin their careers in the produce aisle. The store was almost empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like nervous witnesses. They had barely filled their getaway cart when fate, timing, and authority arrived wearing a badge.
A police officer stepped through the automatic doors, the whoosh echoing like a dramatic sound effect in a low-budget action movie. Startled, the three women dropped the cart, scattered, and sprinted toward the produce section. In a moment of genius—or absolute desperation—they each stuffed themselves into empty potato sacks lying on the floor like discarded props from a vegetable delivery.
The officer approached cautiously, boots clicking against the tile. He knew something was off. Supermarkets at 2 a.m. were not usually full of breathing burlap.
He kicked the first sack.
“Meow,” came a small, timid voice.
The officer relaxed a little. “Just a cat,” he murmured, crossing it off his mental list of suspects.
He kicked the second sack.
“Woof! Woof!”
“A dog,” he sighed. “Figures.”
Then came the third sack. He delivered one final nudge.
A confident voice replied:
“Potato.”
The officer blinked, shrugged, and moved on, uncertain whether to arrest produce or question his career choices.
Days later—because blondes never give up, not even when rejected by electronics—our heroine returned in part two of her legendary saga.
She marched into an appliance store, finger extended with bold consumer intent.
“I’d like to buy that TV, please,” she declared.
The cashier looked at her wearily. “Sorry, we don’t serve blondes.”
Ashley—sorry, wrong blonde story—this blonde left without argument but not without a plan. Determination is stronger than stereotype, and she would prove it with hair dye and escalating commitment.
The next day she returned, hair hidden, darkened with charcoal like a DIY spy disguise.
“I’d like that TV,” she repeated.
“Nope. Still blonde,” he said.
On day three, she arrived salon-fresh, hair blazing red like a holiday warning light.
“I WANT THAT TV.”
The cashier leaned forward, sighing the sigh of someone who has seen this level of confidence before.
“How do you know I’m blonde?!” she snapped.
He pointed at the glowing appliance behind the counter and said calmly:
“Because that’s not a TV. That’s a microwave.”
Karma, comedy, and common sense had spoken.
