Them boys at the county seat must've been right...

... about gas fumes and brain damage. Tell your momma I'm awful sorry.

A group of young men wander onto the premises. Almost immediately, they congregated around a display case grunting and hooting softly as they goggled at the wonders within. I kept a wary eye upon them in case one of them might be prone to lighting a ceremonial fire to appease the gods of kinky sex. At last, apparently surrendering in the face of the imponderable, the leader strode manfully up to my counter.

"Do you work here?"

No, the fact I am standing behind a bloody counter is purest happenstance. However, since I was already standing here, I decided it would only be the polite thing to do a little pro bono filing for the store. Merchants love it when strangers sort through company records. Oh and not five minutes before you asked me, I was ringing someone up at the register. But no, I'm not an employee of this establishment. May I assume your companions serve in the role of helper monkeys for when you frequently soil yourself or need to navigate in traffic? Surprisingly, yes I do. It's OK, I don't think his phylum comprehends sarcasm.

"Can I get an application?"

With that first impression, how can I fail to fall all over myself to facilitate you in your pursuit of employment here? Obviously you have revealed yourself as keen-eyed and savvy individual likely to have mastered the subtle and multi-faceted skills of retail customer service. Fortunately, my store maintains an effective line of defense. Unfortunately, we do not have applications, but if you wanted to drop off a resume, we do keep those on file and should a vacancy open up that fits your skills, we'd be happy to call you in for an interview. The eyes glazed over as soon as his dreams of being able to scrawl-in-the-blanks were dashed.

Perhaps he'll be ready for something besides a McJob in another ten years, but I'm betting on a fatal "bobbing for french fries" accident.