Stooge
The blank page is staring me down, and I lack a Moe Howard prestidigitation clever enough to poke out its eyes. Even if I did, I’ll bet the wily page would pull the Larry vertical hand stunt along its nose and I’d bruise the web between my fingers. Then I’d be wordless, wounded, and faced with the philosophical argument of whether Curly Joe was a real Stooge or not.
Both Moe and Shemp might have passed for Hitler, given the right haircut, lighting and Charlie Chaplin mustache. (Now I’m grasping at straws and my desperation is showing through like parts of Jean Harlow straining against her satin lingerie — I’d better quit while I’m ahead.)
Obviously the strain of reality is wearing me down. Let’s call this an entry and be done with it. (Nyuk-nyuk-nyuk.)
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