The New Yorker

It’s long been considered to be a thinking person’s magazine. 

Their thoughtful, in-depth essays are intended to engage your brain, cause reflection and make you just a little smarter than you were before you read them. 

There’s also a fair amount of poetry.  Much of it too obscure for the likes of me.

And, alas, the book reviews gravitate to subject matter that will forever be over my pay grade.

And yet, we are subscribers. Again. We lapsed for a spell but are back in the swim. I originally subscribed only for the cartoons. This time around, I was committed to being more engaged and indeed I am, but primarily because they’ve added a crossword puzzle.  Many of those lengthy articles remain unread.

But an earlier issue from this year really took me by surprise.  There it was, right near the back where I usually begin.  It was a cartoon which I simply didn’t understand. I was shocked to the core. If I can’t at least “get” the cartoons, I said to myself, then why am I still subscribing? Then I took a longer look and now I can’t stop laughing.  Here it is for your viewing enjoyment. Or for your confusion and consternation. Whatever the case may be.