Bring Out Your Duds
I don't know about where you live, but in my neighborhood, this past week sure has brought out the hack in the editorial cartoonists. Every day I open the paper that the kind folks at the deli were good enough to wrap my sandwich in, there's the same basic set-up: Gabriel at the gates of Heaven, consulting the book in reference to his newest applicant, to see if he should swing wide the doors or call the bouncer. One day it's John Paul II, another day it's Terri Sciavo ("Here, honey, have some water."), even Johnny Cochran ("We don't usually get lawyers up here..."), until all I could think of was that story that The New Yorker cartoon department once cleaned out its closet by running nothing but desert-island cartoons for one whole issue, and nobody even noticed. The Pope was a gimme, but I'm betting that if Pauly Shore had keeled over last week, he'd have been shuttled into position with the others. Sometimes you hit too comfortable a rhythm and it's just too hard to stop.