RWO: Not classics, but they will be

To say it again, timing is everything in comedy, and when the first of these Rhymes With Orange comics appeared last month, it put me on the floor but it also happened to coincide with the verdict in the Jerry Sandusky trial, which demanded more urgent cartoon commentary.

So I filed it away because I wanted it for my own collection and, besides, some day it would be a classic.

Well, she did it again yesterday: Put me on the floor but on Nelson Mandela's birthday, which cartooning event I could hardly set aside.

Heureusement, I'll be posting some "classics" over the next several days because I'm headed out of town (Note to enterprising burglars: I could use the clean-up. But, if you have to rent a truck, you're going to lose money on the deal. Still, you might as well go for it: It's only gonna be a misdemeanor anyway.).

So I'm going to start the parade of oldies with these two recent Rhymes with Orange panels, which are hardly old enough to be considered "classic" but which one day will be.

This, from June 23, echoes a lament of mine. For that matter, it has hints of something I've complained about in the past week. Twice. So recently that I'm not going to link it -- you can just scroll down.

There was an article in the paper a year or so back about "martinis" that was all about appletinis and all those other gagworthy concoctions and that never mentioned gin once. I dropped an email to the writer, who replied that, yes, he knew there was no logical connection between those silly things and real martinis except for the shape of the glass, but it was out of his hands.

Society had spoken. Alcopop is king.

I suppose the decline began back when James Bond, the epitome of cool, adopted the vodka martini, which he famously prescribed should be "shaken, not stirred."

Well, considering that the entire "don't shake it" mystique was built around the admittedly fanciful concept of "bruising the gin," it really doesn't matter if you shake a vodka martini, does it? Make the damn thing in a blender if you want; you've already ruined it.

Now everyone -- purist and vodka-drinker alike -- is upset because, thanks to a product placement deal, James Bond is about to start drinking Heineken. Well, chin up, there, bubby. At least he's not slamming down Mike's Hard Lemonade.

In any case, I'm not as upset by whatever nasty swill the Carrie Bradshaw crowd is pouring down their silly throats as I am by the fact that, if you want a damn martini, you have to specify "gin" when you order.

And to continue the previous days' topic of sending things back, just tag along and watch me send something back the 40 percent of times that an order for a "gin martini" produces an vodka martini anyway. Track how well I do in following the rule of not blaming the waiter for the bartender's error.

No, please don't.  

And speaking of a congenital inability to carry out simple instructions:

This is yesterday's comic and it did, indeed, knock me out of my chair. 

We were discussing cats at the dog park the other day. Some people there are pure dog people, others are animal people, but we all agreed that you don't buy a cat.

Cats just happen.

Cats appear on your doorstep and it is the first and only time a cat will appear at the door and then behave decisively when that door is opened. Unless you are painting the porch, in which case it will dart out through even a slightly-opened door and onto the fresh paint and blame you.

The way cats stay alive so long is by being totally paranoid. Someone holding a door open is surely setting a trap. Someone attempting to close a door is surely springing a trap. 

Of course, some cats have a right to be a little paranoid about what can happen when you walk through the wrong door. Shortly after our divorce, a furry-but-disheveled tomcat showed up at my ex's new home and walked in. The kids were delighted and named him Jack Flack.

So, after he'd been there a few days and obviously was staking a claim on them, their mother cleaned him up a bit, bought him a collar and tag and Jack became the kids' cat at Mom's house.

Until, a few weeks later, he slipped out an open door and disappeared, and, behold, there was great consternation.

But, a week or so later, there was a meow at the door, and in walked Jack. He'd lost his collar and tag, and his fur was once again a mess, but at least he was back, and, behold, there was great joy.

However, it was decided that this shouldn't happen again, so she cleaned him up again and, this time, took him to the vet not only for shots but to be neutered, since a neutered cat is not so likely to wander.

Except that he did. He slipped back out the door and was gone for a week or so and, once again, there was great consternation.

But then, a week or so later, Jack showed up on the doorstep once more, and, once more, his hair was a mess. And, oddly enough, he was wearing his old collar and his old tag.

And his old balls.

Anyway, I  adore the idea of God saying, "Fine! Go back, then!" but I even more love the little inset cartoon in the title panel. 

This cartoon will someday make a lovely cover for Hilary's next collection of pet cartoons, which can't come too soon. (Though, in the meantime, she does offer some lovely alternatives.)

Comments

[Mat]

The alcohol complaint reminds me of one constant source of annoyance in drink ordering. If I drink hard liquor, I drink whiskey, with no ice. However, I'm finding that the familiarity with drinks of the serving person and bartender vary quite wildly.

I'll say "Jack Daniels, neat" and I'm confronted with a quizzical look. Or, I may say "Jack Daniels, no ice" and I get a snooty response about how it's called "neat" and I have to explain that more often than not, saying "neat" tends to prolong the ordering process because most people I've encountered are confused by the term.

Really, it just demonstrates that who I've dealt with is either really good at pouring Jagerbombs and removing bottle caps, or hates their job.

[Mike Peterson]

... and tips.

[Mat]

Speaking of tips, I remember TWICE now being harassed because I was too drunk to do math well enough in my head to calculate tip. I'm going to have to stop frequenting that bar.