Wednesday, 18 July 2012
I just might die with a smile on my face after all....
We came home from Running Club this evening to the sight of our cat, flat on her back with her legs akimbo, showing her foufou to a couple of passing strangers. Slut! When she saw us coming, she tried the same trick with us, but when you know that she lets it all hang out for complete randoms, you're much less likely to be seduced by the little harlot's charms.
The New Yorker seems to like cats too, as these cartoons demonstrate. It's not just high-brow profiles of people you've never heard of that have been keeping me away from my Joseph Heller, you know.
Of course, this being the New Yorker, they do sort of spoil things by somewhat over-analysing things. Even after quoting E. B. White’s famous adage that “Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind.”... they still come up with this graph.
Hmm. On reflection, maybe it's because of things like this that I like reading the New Yorker. You might not have noticed as I think I hide it very well, but I'm a smart-arse, you see.
Of course I do.