We'll start with what is not only the best 'toon of the day, but surely the least intended to set me off, this Cartoon Movement piece by Moroccan cartoonist Jalal Hajir on Brexit and the now-approved Scottish referendum.
The cartoon brilliantly recalls the rivalry between Celts and sassenachs by putting Theresa May in chain mail with British heraldry, and using Mel Gibson's unforgettable portrayal of William Wallace to represent Scottish nationalism.
Mel Gibson's unforgettable, ridiculous, ahistoric, overwrought cheesy portrayal of William Wallace, who never would have painted his face that late in history nor worn a kilt that early in history and whose lady love in the movie was barely born at the time and whose appearance raised the important question of how he could be clean shaven and have hair so teased and tangled?
I mean, even if they hadn't invented combs, they obviously had razors.
Which is far from Hajir's point, but he reminded me that I wrote something I can no longer find, back when the 1995 Oscars happened, in which I described Gibson's big hair and grimy face as making him look like a Texas Cowboys cheerleader given an exploding cigar.
I went on to point out that, while its history was completely cattywumpus, the movie was authentic by Hollywood standards because everyone was covered with mud.
And that this rule even applies in Westerns, which take place in what is largely desert country where, historically, having enough rain to create mud would have been a marvel, but where, in good Westerns -- the ones that win awards -- everyone is up to their ankles in perpetual slop.
And I suggested that the reason "Braveheart" beat out "Babe" for Best Picture was that they washed the pig.
It was an epic rant. Nothing at all to do with Brexit or this cartoon.
But rants are not scored by relevance.
So here's the cover of the New Yorker, which Michael Cavna discusses with NYer art editor Francoise Mouly in his column, and which is animated for tablets and such, and which sparks yet another irrelevant musing which, as it happens, also concerns a movie set in the Middle Ages with very little historical accuracy.
Artist Malika Favre explains that the cover depicts her final impressions before undergoing anesthesia at five or six years old.
My own experience going under differs, but what this does evoke is waking up in the hospital this summer, not just post-surgically but repeatedly over several days as I was still somewhat doped up.
Dartmouth-Hitchcock is a teaching hospital, so that I would regularly be gently wakened to find myself surrounded by medical students on rounds, faces, as in Favre's cover, of young women, these in long white lab coats, whose voices would come to me through an opiod-induced haze of slight echoes.
And much as I respected them and liked them and was in no condition to think bad thoughts, it did occur to me that I had perhaps been transported to Castle Anthrax.
Which isn't terribly noble, but I blame the drugs and would add -- upon sober reflection -- that, if you think medicine is dominated by old white men, you must be wonderfully healthy, because I spent most of the past summer in and out of the hospital and now return weekly for regular non-interesting medical care, and I see damn few white men of any age except for other patients.
And, by the way, the men who did the most to save my life were immigrants.
Aided by a fair number of Muslims.
And a phalanx of bright young women in white lab coats.
So, Mr. President: I know which part of my thinking is pure fantasy.
Wake up, pal.
And then there are the damned leggings, as seen in this Clay Jones cartoon and as yakked about all over the Intertubes.
This is such a steaming pile of bad reporting and stupid thinking and nonsensical piling on that Snopes and Fact Checker and an army of eager deconstruction workers couldn't straighten it out.
It doesn't help that the original report came from a busybody who tweeted her outrage without bothering to find out what was going on, and that it was then picked up by clickbait vendors who dashed off their own faux-journalistic versions of what they thought they heard somewhere.
Which is that three or one or two ten-year-olds or 'tweens or teenagers were kicked off a plane and we hate United those sexist bastards.
Though apparently the two teens actually involved were flying on the company's tab and understood the policy and complied and life would have gone on uninterrupted if the acronym MYOB were not so outdated.
Meanwhile, what I really want to know is how many of the people attacking United for having a company dress code are the same people who complain about the people sitting next to them on the plane not meeting their own impeccable standards?
I agree with Jones that the increasing compaction of passengers is a bigger issue, but then that leads to the observation that the seats today only recline about two inches, which is barely enough to take the weight off your spine but certainly doesn't stop compulsive whiners from bawling about it.
I suspect the loudest of them fly first class where the seats still recline measureably.
They are wise enough not to mention that, since who would sympathize with them then?
Or, put another way, they keep their asses covered, despite how leggings enthusiasts feel about doing that.
Wait -- what?
Did today's Luann just slip one past the editorial goalie?
I don't mean that Pru is a lesbian; we've known that for months.
I mean that last exchange.
I'd add a "That's what she said," except I think that is what she said.
Now here's your moment of blue leggings:
CSotD welcomes opposing viewpoints from responsible spokespersons whose eyes are up here: