In which Marilyn finds herself caught between a rock and hard place, or, to be more precise, an old-school gloved heavy and one of the million incarnations of Groucho Marx. It’s a predicament of cosmic proportions, and, in the background, a hatstand is observing. Both basic training and simple common sense have taught her never to trust a man in a cheap suit and black gloves. They never mean you any good especially if they’re holding a pistol. And yet the Groucho multiples are a danger in themselves, especially if you don’t know the secret word and can’t summon The Duck. With the Grouchos, you bet your life and there isn’t a sanity clause.
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1 comment:
I'd go with Groucho,at least he's funny,and has the wittiest book of letters. And most women love funny men. All you'd have to put up with is perhaps the smoke of a cigar and someone who thought what they did in 1935 is the greatest thing ever.
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