CSotD: C’est le Weekend!
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Canada Day is this Tuesday and I don’t actually have a Canadian cartoon handy, but we’ve just further bollixed our relationship with our second largest trading partner — Mexico is first; we have a talent for not following the money — and things are beginning to sound like this Edison Lee.
When I was covering the Free Trade Agreement back in the late 80s, the piece of boilerplate I always added was that Canada, population-wise, was roughly the size of California.
Dear Leader doesn’t much like them, either. However, I try to limit myself to 1,000 words each day, so we can’t list all the people and nations that Dear Leader doesn’t like.
How simple foreign relations would be if everyone in other countries just adopted a sensible attitude and saw things his way.
It would be even nicer if nobody in this country saw things his way. Never mind. It’s Saturday and so let’s skip politics. And wish politics would skip us for a while.
I hope all the gatherings on the Glorious Fourth include a public reading of the Declaration of Independence. That ought to be good for some laughs, since the colonists’ grievances sound like the first three panels of this cartoon.
And this sounds like that fourth panel. We’ll get back to all that tomorrow.
Besides, even the funny stuff can be political, if you stretch the term to include wider choices our community makes. I don’t recycle plastic expecting anyone to turn it into anything, because that’s like thinking the Tooth Fairy has some use for human ivory.
However, recycling it ought to keep it out of the water systems, though I suppose somebody’s landfills are eventually burdened by it.
This has no political implications AFAIK, but it’s a brilliant take on an age-old gag. The nose sells it, but the shoes and gloves make it perfect.
Ingmar Bergman would be jealous, because this is way better than simple whiteface.
This one wins by virtue of triggering one of my favorite rants. The issue of cheese or no cheese is a minor rant because with cheese is the default, and if you don’t want cheese-like substance, that’s a special order and you have to go park in Spot #3 until someone brings it to you.
The better rant, rather, is that all the extra-large deluxe triple whatever ends up as a sandwich that’s about three times taller than it is wide, so you have to backstop the thing with your hand or it all squeezes out with the first bite and ends up in your lap.
The only way to eat one of these is to be able to disjoint your jaw like a python, which may be the next step in human evolution. I think we’re going backwards.
Caulfield brings up a good question, because we didn’t have many snow days when I was a kid, but when we did, whatever was happening outside was a pip. One benefit of a large family with one wage-earner was that a snow day meant hot chocolate and Monopoly.
We knew when school ended in June and it by-god did, but we never had the principal declare a snow day based on a weather forecast, so my kids and grandkids got more snow days than we did.
Dr. Zhivago wouldn’t have made it to the bus on some of the days we were expected to.
In Snug Harbor, the end of each school year is marked by Wallace hurling his shoes into the ocean, and this year’s spectacle made it hard to isolate one particular strip.
It began here this year and I recommend going there and reading the entire sequence.
Speaking of flung shoes, I saw a pair of sneakers on a power line yesterday and it struck me that I didn’t think it signaled a drug dealer in the area as it was originally intended to do. I also marveled in terms of the current cost of a pair of high-tops and assumed it was the work of a bully.
I guess the victim’s parents could call the utility company and try to get a team out there to rescue the shoes, which might work. They’d be more likely, I suppose, to go to the bully’s parents and demand the price of a new pair, but whatever then happened to the bully would be visited upon the victim the next day.
My eldest turns 52 this summer. All this sturm-und-drang is very much in my rearview mirror and his as well. Age has its consolations.
I’m so old that I can remember the days of listservs and newsgroups, and the term “spelling flame,” which was considered, in those text-based times, the lowest of petty insults. If you can’t argue with the substance, criticize the orthography.
While out here amongst those of us who work without editors to catch our minor failings, Kim is feeling burned out and that she hasn’t got anything to say anymore, or, at least, not at the moment.
The fear of someone doing your job better is a prime reason workaholics don’t take vacation time. I’ll admit when I worked in an office, I’d work ahead before vacation to avoid not being missed, so I sympathize with her, but, then, I don’t believe in writer’s block.
Which is, I guess, a symptom of being a workaholic.
Back when Younger Son was a senior in HS, I asked him if he thought I was a workaholic. “You mean to the point where it interferes with your social life?” he asked, and then broke into laughter.
Medusa gags are a dime a dozen, but what struck me about this one is that, while most such cartoons are about the snakes, this one focuses on the original myth, and how her horrible face turned anyone who gazed upon her into stone.
Except Wayno made her a cutie-patootie.
I’m glad he scheduled it for today, because if I’d seen it yesterday, I’d have tried to work it into the Bezo/Sanchez nuptials, which, BTW, continue for a second day.
Assuming there’s anyone left unstoned.
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