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.”