On the




Fred and I sit at the counter of our favorite bar, listening to two women arguing.

“Better you follow those TV ads on eating light,” one says, pointing at her companion’s plate full of French fries.

“Do you think I need it? Look at your fat self!” her companion bristles.

“Oh, you! Don’t get uptight. There’re many fat ones like you who do.”

“You believe that TV stuff works?” asks a male friend at her side.

“They’re just selling food,” his neighbor butts in. “You ever watch those ads? Granola bars, dripping cheese, dripping lasagna, everything’s dripping, just to make you feel good.”

“It’s a fad,” Fred agrees. “They only want your money.”

“Like those ads on shaving,” says the woman with the fries. “Another new fad.”

“They want me to shave my mustache, my beard, my legs!” says her woman friend. “My bathtub’s red with blood.”

“You women also have hair on your teeth,” says the male friend. “How do you get rid of those? Look at them wild feminists at those rallies.”

“It’s all Trump’s fault,” says the woman with the fries. “He started it with talking pussies.”

“I’m sure he’d been taking too many testosterone pills,” the other woman says.

“You take those pills?” the male friend asks his buddy.

“Every day, to stay in shape,” he replies. “You take pills?” he asks the slimmer woman.

“Only one, if you’re interested.” She smiles at him. “How many testopills do you take?”

“Only one, if you’re interested.” He smiles back at her.

“Is this a pick-up call?” She eyes him intently.

“Right, but like that TV ad with the two bathtubs, the fine print, and without the blood.”

“You can start by getting me another Bloody Mary.”

Fred asks me, “How many pills do you take?”

“About twelve. You get these magazines how to avoid dying early. I’m a sucker.”

“Do they make you feel any better?” asks Fred.

“I wouldn’t know unless I stopped taking them. And because I’m afraid of dying early, I keep taking them. So I’ll never know until I die.”

“That’s the whole idea, of course,” Fred says. “It’s a billion dollar industry even though the small print always says consult your doctor first.” 

“Like those TV ads on medicine,” says the woman near us. “If you see the horror that could happen to you when you take them, you think twice.”

“Are your twelve pills all testopills?” the other woman asks me.

“Your friend over there says he takes only one a day,” I say. “So why should I take twelve?”

“Because you look it.” Everybody laughs at me.

Amy, the blonde bartender, comes by with new drinks and saves me from more embarrassment.

“The news just said the blonde woman lost,” she says.

“Mary The Pan?” asks Fred.

“It’s Marine,” says our pesky woman neighbor. “Trump’s blonde friend. Macaron won.”

“It’s Macron,” I say. “Macaron is a cookie.”


“Whatever,” she says, looking at me as if she’s ready to murder me. “Obama voted for him.”

“Come on, silly,” her fat friend says. “We can’t vote in France since we started calling French fries Freedom fries. Besides, Mackerel is not a socialist, they say, so why would Obama vote for him?”

“The name is Macron, silly, you just heard,” her companion bites back. “Mackerel is a marine fish.”

“So mackerel being marine fish, and Marine’s name being Marine, Macron and Marine must be the same.”


“That’s the most crooked analysis I’ve ever heard,” my neighbor tells her friend. “You should get yourself analyzed.”

Fred and I, having heard enough, are making a move to get up.

“Get your testopills, honey, before it’s too late,” I hear on our way out. “Obamacare is going broke.”




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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