Thursday, September 18, 2008

If I drew cartoons for the New Yorker

So you know how there are those cartoons in the New Yorker which are droll and whimsical and you read them and chuckle and then there are ones that are certainly whimsical but you don't really get them and there seems not even to be a punch line and you wonder if maybe they aren't cartoons at all but some kind of illustration that goes with the story? Except the story is about the evolution of the home washing machine and the picture is a man looking at his watch and saying out of the corner of his mouth, to another man "Well, I guess that about answers it."

Anyway, the following cartoon is somewhere in the middle of the two.

A guy dressed as a pirate would be saying to another guy. "Yeah, I wrote all about it on Grogspot.com."

Wow, the amount of self-loathing I feel right now is hard to put into words. When puns go bad...

2 comments:

Joe said...

We need to commission Mr. Shamrock to do another sketch. I'd draw it but I have no artistic talent. I have trouble drawing stick figures.

But I was thinking that the second pirate in the cartoon could be typing on his Blackberry and saying, "Sorry Bluebeard, my Bluetooth isn't working."

See because a Blackberry would be out of place back in pirate days. And Blackberry/Bluetooth/Bluebeard... OK, I guess if you have to explain 'em they aren't that funny.

62 degrees in my house this moring but I stil haven't turned on the heat. I'm rugged. And cold.

Joe said...

OK, I know what you're all thinking... "That Joe guy the other day said 64 was the perfect temperature and today he says he's cold at 62. That's not very logical."

To which I respond there are 2 flaws with your thinking. First, no one ever accused me of being logical. Second, it's very different being outside doing things on a sunny day in 64 degree weather and getting out of a warm bed in a dark, 62 degree room. Very different, my friends, let me assure you.

So please don't judge me until you've walked across my bedroom floor on a cold morning in my old, worn out slippers. And little else.