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"I got good news 'n' bad news," Harry said as we headed to Zonker's Tavern. "The good news is I suddenly has plenty of free time on my hands to go bass fishin'! The bad news is I got laid off work today!"

"That's terrible!" I gasped. Harry was a 35-year veteran of the county road crew and had even been promoted recently to Senior Double Yellow Line Painter!

"It's this economic mess the country's in," my bassin' buddy said glumly. "The county road commissioner says ever since the recession hit, people ain't buyin' gas-guzzlin' vehicles no more, therefore they ain't payin' them high gasoline taxes what goes for maintaining the roads and pays our salaries!"

"I'm feelin' the economic crunch my own self," I admitted. "Last week three of the mom 'n' pop markets on my snack delivery route closed their doors! I've been thinkin' of gettin' me a more recession-proof job. In fact, I was gonna check out Swill-Mart — they had a Help Wanted sign in their window, and the tougher things gets, the busier that place seems to be!"

"If they're hirin', we better get over there pronto before the jobs is all gone!" Harry suggested.

Swill-Mart was the enormous big box discount store out on the Onion City bypass. The Help Wanted sign was still in the window when we got there, so we asked to see the manager. "I'm Mr. Snodgrass," the Swill-Mart honcho allowed. "You say you're looking for work?

"Yessir, I just got laid off from the county road crew," Harry said pathetically.

"And I'm a route driver for a snack food vendor lookin' for a more challenging career opportunity," I chimed in.

"We both wanna be part of a recession-proof bidness," Harry added. "And judging from the number of cars in your parkin' lot, there's no lack of demand for shoddy foreign-made goods!"

"Do you have any special skills or interests?" Snodgrass inquired.

"We is both semi-professional bass fishermen!" I offered.

"Gentlemen, your timing is perfect!" Snodgrass announced. "I can put you both to work in our sporting goods department beginning tomorrow!"

"That's awesome!" Harry grinned, flashin' a mouthful of tobakky-stained choppers.

"But what about our bass club's annual March Madness tournament this weekend?" I wondered. "We can't miss that!"

"Heck yeah — I almost forgot!" Harry sighed. "Sorry, Mr. Snodgrass — reckon we'll have to wait till Monday to start our new careers."

"Saturday and Sunday are our biggest shopping days!" Snodgrass emphasized. "I've got a long list of applicants I could contact about the sporting goods jobs if you two aren't interested."

"Like I said, we'll be here tomorrow!" I replied.

We showed up at 7 a.m. and was given our official Swill-Mart shirts and hats by Mrs. Fern, the cranky human resources manager. "How do we look?" I asked after we'd donned our get-ups.

"Don't ask," she replied sarcastically. "And you, Skinny — you'll have to get some decent shoes if you expect to be a Swill-Mart associate!! Those sneakers you're wearing smell like a septic tank!"

She trotted us over to the sporting goods department and growled, "Snodgrass says you're both fishermen, so let's see how well you can straighten up this mess." She pointed to a 200-foot-long aisle of hooks, sinkers, fish stringers and such that was in hopeless disarray. "Any questions? Then get to work!"

"What a disaster!" I moaned, surveying the tangle of terminal tackle. "We'll never get all this perch-jerkin' junk back on the proper hangers!"

"Wait, I got a idea!" Harry winked. He sprinted to the nearby hardware department and came back with a shovel, which he used to dump all the loose tackle items into a bargain bin at the end of the aisle! "In the retail trade they call this 'creative merchandising!'" he chortled. "Stink bait and bobbers, 10 for a dollar! At them prices, even I might wanna take up catfishin'!"

About that time a female customer appeared. She asked, "Do either of you know anything about bicycles? I'm shopping for my granddaughter's birthday."

"This here's a dandy!" Harry replied, feigning knowledge of the product. "It's got two wheels … handlebars … even a gear-shiftin' gizmo!"

"I see, but how well do the brakes work?" she wondered. "I want to make sure the bike I buy is 100 percent safe for my precious granddaughter!"

"Lady, even a chimpanzee could stop this bike on a dime!" Harry assured her. "Allow me to demonstrate!" He hopped on and commenced to peddlin' the little pink girlie bike down the aisle. He teetered precariously at first, then picked up speed.

"Be careful, Harry!" I warned.

"Wheee! This is some fun!" Harry shouted. He made a hard left turn up the housewares aisle, sped past the mops 'n' brooms, then reappeared at the far end of the sporting goods department, shouting, "Man, this little sucker can fly! OK, now for the brake test! Ready? 1 … 2 … 3!"

He hit the brakes and SCHREEEECCCHHHH! the bike went from 45 mph to a dead stop in less than a foot, propellin' him head over heels into a minner bucket display with a resounding crash! "Harry! Is you all right?"

"I'll live, but I'd recommend a different style of helmet!" he blubbered as he jerked his head out of a bucket.

The woman turned on her heels and walked away. "No sale," I said.

"Forget her," Harry muttered. "See that fat guy over yonder lookin' at tents? Let's go sell him one!"

"Howdy pardner!" I offered. "Thinkin' of goin' campin'?"

"Yep, and I need a tent big enough for me, my wife and three kids," he replied. "Here's one on sale for $59.99 — do you think it's big enough?"

"For a family of midgets perhaps, but not for the discriminating plus-sized camper such as yourself!" Harry proclaimed. He pointed to a poster advertising all the various Swill-Mart tents and picked out the biggest, most expensive model: "I'd recommend The Excalibur — it's slightly more expensive, but it's bigger inside than the Super Dome!"

"Hmmmm — $399.99 sounds like a lot of dough for a lousy tent," the guy replied skeptically.

"But sir, you can't put a price tag on the precious memories you'll have of camping with your beloved family!" Harry insisted.

"Well … I reckon I could take a look at it — you got one handy?" he wondered.

"There's one!" I said, pointing skyward. Scores of boxes containing tents was stacked to the ceiling, and The Excalibur was on top of the heap. "I'll go get a ladder."

"No need for that — I'll fetch it!" Harry said. Before I could stop him, he was climbin' up the mile-high stack of cartons! "I'm almost there!" he hollered down as he neared the top.

"Harry, watch out!" I cried. "Them cartons is gonna tip over!"

"What?" Harry yelled back. But it was too late. The mountain of boxes collapsed and came crashing down, burying the customer, me 'n' Harry!

"What's going on here!?" Mr. Snodgrass demanded.

"Nothing, sir!" Harry replied as his head popped out from the massive mound of cartons. "I was assisting a customer!"

"You idiot!" the guy's muffled voice sounded from deep beneath the boxes. "Where's my cell phone? I'm gonna call my lawyer and sue this #%$# store!"

"You two nincompoops are fired!" Snodgrass steamed.

"Oh yeah? We quit!" Harry retorted. "C'mon, Charlie, dig me outa here! If we hurry, we can still get to that bass tournament in time to catch a couple lunkers and win the Big Fish pot! By the way, has we accrued any vacation time, Mr. Snodgrass? And is the Swill-Mart medical plan gonna cover my bruised elbow?"

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