Me 'n' Harry was a-sittin' out the drippin' November rain at rainsuits and brave the weather out on the Bayou, or to go over to the fillin' station and eyeball the cockfights out back. But, somehow neither idee seemed quite as appealin' as just a-sittin' and a-slurpin' suds to the tune of Porter Wagoner 'n Miss Dolly on Zonker's trusty five-plays-for-a-quarter jukebox. From the looks of things, some of the other Bass Clubbers felt the same dern way.
Mouse Mozzarella was bent on tryin' to snag a Japanese pocket- knife outa Zonker's ancient Arcadian claw machine, but the mo' he cranked the dad-blamed crane in the direction of the elusive prize, the mo' he just got him a scoopful of air.
"That polecat Zonker's got the stuff glued down," Mouse com- plained. "I done spent a hunnerd bucks worth of dimes in this con- founded contraption already 'n the only thing I managed to scoop up was a pair of wax lips!"
"How else d'ya think I turn a profit in this here saloon?" snapped ol' man Zonker. "Y'all owes me so much money on beers 'n snackin's, if'n I was ever to collect, I could spend the rest of my life baskin' on the beach in How-Are-Ya!"
"Awww, you knows we means well, Zonk!" chided Harry. "Uh- by the way, how's about fillin' up this here glass one mo' time? You can jus' put it on my tab!" Harry's tab was by now the size of the National Debt.
"Hey y'all!” cried Big Moe, blowin' Cheeto fragments clean acrost the room like yeller shrapnel. "Give you a listen to this!”
Big Moe was a-readin' from the new edition of the "Swamp Gas Corners Gazette," hot off the press. As his Dixie drawl filled the air, all us Bass Clubbers listened silently:
