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When did criminals stop wearing those cute little taxi-driver caps, a Lone Ranger mask and a striped, long-sleeved T-shirt? Probably around the time banks stopped printing dollar signs on the sides of their money bags, but if I was going to commit a crime, I would definitely dress that way because people would never guess you were actually a criminal. They’d just think you were going to a costume party or something. Furthermore, if I was in jail and relegated to wearing one of those bright orange jumpsuits that say “PRISONER” or whatever across the back, I’d only escape on Halloween night. You could saunter down the street, even stop and chat with cops, and nobody would suspect a thing. A Halloween parade would be an excellent getaway vehicle. Also for a murderer covered with blood and carrying a chainsaw.
If you find yourself wanting another cartoon to read, look no further than a half-inch (0.000 012 7 kilometer) to the left of these words. If you’re not from the U.S. and unfamiliar with our incredibly high-class ways, we have an enormous franchise restaurant/sports bar here called “Hooters.” I went to one once back in the 90s because it was the only bar in town playing a particular hockey game that my buddy, Hector, and I wanted to see. I expected it to be awful and I was not disappointed. In fact, I was in awe of how truly awful it was. They had maybe three things on the menu and two beers, both of which are tasteless American swill. But the reason these bars are so popular is that they hire as waitpersons young, female hotties with ample, upward-pointing udders and dress them in super tight terrycloth hotpants and tiny tanktops. I’m not against scantily clad hotties per se, but they are not enough to get me to put up with lousy food and crappy beer. Though the Hooters logo has an owl in it, the obvious reference of the name is bosoms. I guess some people call women’s breasts “hooters,” though I have always preferred my own nickname, “Schlammenfloobers.”
I would now like to direct your attention to the third cartoon in this post. “Talk to the hand,” is a common expression in the U.S. (I’ve no idea if it has escaped to other cultures or countries, if so, my apologies) and it means that you are tired of talking to someone. The actual gesture that goes with this phrase is to hold your hand up flat with your palm toward the other person, as if you were telling them to stop. I suppose the idea is that you are no longer listening, so if they keep talking they’ll just be talking to the “stop” hand. This seems ridiculous because unless your arm is more than 100 yards long (91.44 meters for my readers in Canada and Europe, .0.018 939 355 888 leagues for those of you at the bottom of the sea,) you’re probably still going to be able to hear what they say. A single hand is not a terribly good sound damper unless you place it over your ear and cannot hear out of the other. Just my two cents.
For more cartoons that you like and want to have on various objects in your life, go here now.
For more cartoons that you like and would like to own in a collection that sits next to your toilet, go here now.
For more cartoons and thoughts from the inside of my head, come back here in a day or so.