Jens and Randi were in a pleasant Mexican restaurant in a small Texas town. “I’d like a margarita,” Jens told the waitress.

“Oh, this is a dry county. We don’t have margaritas.”

“What is this, freaking Iran? Give me a margarita, you heathen Mohammedan!”

Randi gave their agreed-upon distress signal. Jens desisted.

“Well, then, maybe you can help me with something else,” Jens said. “I’m looking for my friend. His name is Meth. Meth M. Phetamine. Do you know where I can find Meth?”

“Oh, sure, honey, just go down to the Meth Market.”

“I thought that said ‘Math Market’. I guess ‘Meth Market’ makes more sense,” Jens said.

They went to the Meth Market. It was busy. Jens bought some meth. He paid for it with Visa. “Every modern convenience,” he said. “Country living.”

A constable passed. Jens quickly hid his purchase, but the cop saw nonetheless. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that in these parts,” he said with a chuckle. “We love meth, ’round here.”

“Really? Do explain,” said Jens.

“Meth’s the best thing to happen to this town since the cattle industry!” said the friendly sheriff or whatever. “Meth paid off my ranch house. Meth paid off my F250. Meth is putting my kids through college.

“But the economic argument aside,” continued the friendly lawman, “this here is Real America, Main Street America, Tea Party America. We believe in small government, a government that doesn’t interfere with the rights of the individual.”

“Then,” said Jens conspiratorially, “maybe you can tell me where I can buy a margarita.”

The lawman stiffened. “Sir, I will pummel your fucking face.”

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Jens was at a party. He didn’t want to be. He ate some carrots and carrots and then some carrots.

“I need a new house,” said someone. “My old house is too old.”

Someone else said, “Have you heard about these new houses they’re building out in this town? They’re waaaaaay out, you can almost see this other town from that town. So nice, they’ve got a swimming pool and a golf course and oh my god.”

“Hello! Ghetto!” said the first someone. “When I think that town, I think dump.”

Jens ate some carrots. “I actually think the oil spill is a good thing,” he said.

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Jens, the smartest person in the world, was at the Public Health Center.

“Can I help you?” said the nice lady.

“I would love a tetanus shot,” Jens said.

“Do you want to finish your Hepatitis A shots while you’re here?”

“I don’t know. Is that a very common disease?”

“Every time you eat at Taco Bell!”

“I’m a Bueno man, so I guess I’m good. Are your needles clean?”

“Jens!” said Randi. “That’s offensive!”

“Sorry,” Jens said. “Are your needles clean, sweetheart?”

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“Hello,” said Jens, to the earnest young clerk at the Super Target, where he had no choice but to be. “I regret that I must register a complaint.”

“Uh?” the bright young go-getting clerk said.

“The sign advertising this display of bathing suits says, ‘More fun. Less rays.’ I’m sure you know that, since ‘rays’ can be described discretely, the sign should read, ‘More fun. Fewer rays.’”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps you would like to notify the management, to avoid embarrassment in the future,” said Jens.

“No problem,” said Jens.

“I think your haircut has gone all the way to your brain,” said Randi.

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Jens and Randi went to Super Target. They had to.

“Excuse me,” Jens said to the snack counter girl at the snack counter by the entrance. “I’d like an Icee. No. I want a Rice Krispie treat, an M&M cookie, a cheese pretzel, and a brownie, extra icing, all blended together in a blender. And for the solvent, America’s favorite beverage, Coca-Cola.”

“We have Pepsi,” said the snack counter girl.

“Disgusting! Just give me an Icee.”

To the helpful-seeming clerk, Jens said, “Excuse me. I’m looking for a cafetière à piston.”

“A what?”

“I don’t think everyone knows what that means,” said Randi.

“I’m sorry. I’m looking for a cafetière à piston kinda thing,” Jens said.

“He means a French press,” Randi said.

“Oh,” said the clerk, “they’re right over - ”

“Never mind, I found them,” Jens said. “Now, where are your shoes for straight men?”

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