NOTE: Worn-down but still affable, Daniel Radosh tells us on his blog today why he did not post a New Yorker cartoon for anti-caption contest #195. (Something about being busy with real work, yada, yada.) As it happens, I seldom visit the actual New Yorker site so I simply assumed the magazine's staff took a week off to sun themselves in the Hampton's or whatever. I figured last week's toon was a two-fer. (Veteran anti-cappers have seen this before. We know not to panic.) So, as someone who is not nearly as busy as Mr. Radosh, I am adding the most recent New Yorker cartoon here and inviting you to submit your anti-captions in the comments section. (And don't you just love how D.R. found a naked-woman-tombstone to evoke death, and how he, always the writer, equates inertia with death?)--al in la
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26 comments:
"Christ! You're late."
"You saw 'Angels and Demons' without me!"
"Halo! If it ain't me old flame, Palmer, come to cherub the old gal."
"Don't tell me; you've been out rapturing with your buddies again."
"You'd better have a good explanation for this, Mr. You'll-Have-to-Convert-to-Satanism-If-You-Want-to-Marry-Me."
"Jesus, Larry, you're tracking in clouds all over the fucking carpet."
"Fine. And now you're going to tell me you forgot my loaf of bread."
"I've had it with your 'holier than thou' attitude."
"Do you see a welcome mat? I don't see a welcome mat."
"Aren't you a little old for trick-or-treating? Also, it's 11:00. I ran out of candy hours ago."
"$600? Next time take a regular cab, instead of hiring the tiny winged monkeys to carry you home."
Potential real entry: "I specifically said 'Go to HELL.'"
For Daniel: "You finished your book a year ago, so getting drunk with angels no longer counts as work. Now get back to blogging!"
A tie and a short-sleeved shirt? It was embarrassing enough when you died masturbating. Now you've gone and got a job at a Kinko's.
"Not even the power of God can veil your infidelity. Or the lipstick on your pants."
"Lemme guess, you can't do the dishes because you've got the stigmata again."
"That's very impressive, but I still don't want a Kirby vacuum."
"Well, well, well. If it isn't God's gift to mid-level managers."
The ass scent of man into my little piece of heaven.
Floater!
I knew you were light in the loafers!
"That's pretty good, but I'll still beat you with my wiccan broomstick."
"Go to hell!"
"I told you not to bring any friends home, Arnold. And no smoking hands in the house. But if you want to have sex on the kitchen floor, that would be OK."
Could you please pray that the anti-comedy gods grant you wisdom commensurate with your hubris?
You Jehova's Witnesses are getting more and more aggressive. Michael Jackson tried to chloroform me yesterday and I woke up with an itchy nutsac.
Didn't I see this on the Carol Burnett Show?
Don't drink the lighter fluid1
That's a nice Segway.
Christ, what an ass scent!
Earl! You've been teleporting drunk again! You must have hit a man on bike who was screwing a sheep. You forgot to use lube while masturbating and your palms are ablaze. These guys who brought you home are real angels. Did you bring me some lotion for my ungodly sharp heeled duck feet?
You look immaculate-can you conceive this?
I'm on the rag. Want to part the Red Sea, Miracle Man?
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