I don’t remember the last time I cleaned out the fridge in our basement. It’s kind of my fridge. Mary Ellen keeps her distance. She has her own upstairs. I’ve been heaving leftovers in the old appliance for a decade, like it is some kind of trash compactor. I don’t believe in wasting food, so it was just killing me yesterday to throw away perfectly good six-month-old tomatoes and what must have once been a very crisp cucumber.

It was when I finally removed one of the vegetable bins for a quick hosing that I first set my eyes on it. Now I know the excitement Louis Leakey must have felt when he gazed upon the skeletal remains of our early human ancestors. There, wedged behind Hidden Valley Ranch on the bottom shelf, was an unopened bottle of Three Stooges Beer. Moe, Larry and Curly were grinning at me after several years chilling out in the back of our Whirlpool. Yes, gentlemen, there once was a Three Stooges Beer. No longer. No Curly Light or Moe Extra Dry, either. Sorry!

The bottle was part of an assortment of exotic brews I received years ago for emceeing a fund-raising event. Why didn’t I know about this beer when I was in college? Why would I sprawl out on my dorm room bed with a can of Budweiser when I could have drunk myself stupid with the world’s funniest threesome?

So, what happened to Three Stooges Beer? Forgive me, but I blame the ladies. Stranded in the Sahara Desert, mouth parched, near death, no woman would drink a Three Stooges Beer. You know this, of course. We all instinctively recognize that women hate anything that has to do with The Three Stooges. If they won’t laugh at them, they certainly won’t chug them. You might as well offer them a Jerry Lewis Chablis. In fact, that’s why most of you men have never even heard of Three Stooges Beer. For years, a dedicated band of women were buying this product and dumping it at chemical waste sites.

When women shop for food, they prefer brand names likes Mrs. Paul and Sara Lee. But, honestly, ladies, did your Aunt Millie or Mama Mancini ever make you laugh?

So, in my opinion, more food should be named specifically after old-time comedians. Sadly, I don’t think Madison Avenue would take the chance of alienating women shoppers. I asked my wife if she’d ever buy Abbott and Costello Jello?

“Not a chance, Dick. I don’t want my food to taste funny. But I would buy Brad Pitt Olives. And I’d love some Idris Elba Macaroni. I already have stocked away 14 bottles of Paul Newman’s Own salad dressing.”

Personally, I’d buy Laurel and Hardy Beef Stew. Doesn’t John Cleese Cream Cheese sound good? And wouldn’t a bottle of Betty White Vinegar look good on your pantry shelf.

I know what you are wondering: “Dick, will you open that rare treasure and guzzle what might be the last bottle of Three Stooges Beer?

I might. But I’ll regret it. And then I’ll smack myself upside the head.