Fred and I sat at a bar drinking beer overhearing other guys drinking beer.

“I bet that that Mary The Pan wins the French elections,” one said.



“How so?” asked his buddy.

“’Cause she’s blond. Trump’s blond too.”

“But Hillary’s blond, and she lost,” his buddy said.

“I bet she wore a wig when she did,” the other guy said.

“No, that’s Maxine Waters, she does.”

“You mean if she put on a blond wig she’d become President?”

“She’d bleach it, then impeach it,” the other guy said.

“Noticed Putin’s hair’s blond?”



“I hear he’s auditioned for Fox News.”

“No kidding! Fox’s women are all blond; the men are bald or black-haired.”

“That’s racist,” a blond fellow butted in.

“Why? They all paint it, black or white,” someone else said.

“So to become President, you must be blond or paint your hair?” his friend asked.

“If you look at the primaries, only the blond ones made it.”

“But the former POTUS hair was black,” another guy said.

“Yeah, but he was black,” his neighbor pointed out.

“That’s racist,” the blond fellow repeated.

“You must be a liberal,” his neighbor said. “Only liberals call everything racist.”

“And you must be a white supremacist,” the blond fellow sneered, his voice rising.

“And you must keep your mouth shut,” his neighbor shouted, hammering his empty stein on the counter.

“Hey, guys, cool it, let’s have another blond!” Fred said.

Fresh blonds came along.

“I’ll have a black stout,” I asked the bald bartender.

“You must be a racist!” the blond fellow gibed.

“I knew you’d say that Blondie,” I said. “Go paint your hair somewhere else!”

“I stay right here,” the blond fellow said. “Free speech.”

“Free speech your ass!” Fred said. “You guys get always rude when you lose an argument.”

A blonde waitress behind the counter joined us arguing men.



“Gentlemen prefer blondes,” she said, handing me my black stout, staring down the blond loudmouth. “But for that, you must be a gentleman first.”

The blond fellow blushed and shut up.

“Hi, Amy,” one guy greeted her, glad that the ruckus abated. “We got an issue here.”

“Yeah, who wins the French elections?” Fred’s neighbor asked her. “I bet it’s Mary.”

“We just had elections, didn’t we?” Amy said.

“I mean that Mary The Pan in Paris.”

“Isn’t she a boxer?” Ami asked, holding up her arm and flexing her biceps.

“She wants to be French President, and she’s blonde like you,” Fred clarified.

“Like Hillary?” Amy said. “Then she must win.”

“But she’s extreme rightwing,” Fred’s neighbor said.

“I never eat wings,” Ami said, “left or right. Bad for your hormones.”

“Fred,” I said, “now she’s talking! I’m getting hungry.”

“I got nice spicy wings for you; just a minute,” Amy offered.



“But what about my hormones?”

“You’ve got white hair,” Amy said. “You won’t know the difference.”

“Right,” the blond fellow came back. “With that hair, you must be rightwing.”

Fred and I looked at each other.

“We’ll offer you another blond, Blondie,” Fred growled. “If you stop yammering. You guys lost.”

“Right-o,” Blondie cheered. “Blond trumps.”


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