Sunday funnies.

Three men seated at a table. Left: a dark-skinned man in a t-shirt, with no plate in front of him. Center: An older white man in a suit and tie, with a plate in front of him stacked with a mountain of cookies. Right: a white man in a hard hat and a safety vest, with a plate in front of him containing one cookie. The man in the center points at the dark-skinned man and tells the white working man, "Careful. That immigrant wants your cookie!"

If you like dark humor (is there any other kind?) there sure is much to snort about in this cartoon. Of course by “cookies,” I think it’s safe to assume the cartoonist is referring to special treats like nourishing food, a secure home, unpolluted water and air, access to education limited only by one’s abilities and aspirations, and no fear of police, of bullets, of medical bankruptcy, or of indentured servitude to predatory financial institutions, among many other “cookies.”

However, …the artist apparently “forgot” to draw women and people of minority identities other than Dark Immigrant Man kneeling and crouched on the floor all around the table, waiting and hoping for cookie crumbs to fall. You know, like dogs.

And well-behaved, very good doggies at that, because we all know what happens when the dogs start getting uppity assertive, never mind demanding. Crip Dyke can certainly tell you about that.

Or, perhaps the interchangeability of the identity of Dark Immigrant Man could have been illustrated in some other way. Then, the dude with aaaaallll the cookies could have warned White Working Man of an all-inclusive threat to his cookie – namely, everybody else. “Careful. They all want your cookie!”

Regardless, it brings to mind the enduring maxim, “If you are not at the table, you’re on the menu.”

But what the fuck do I know? I’m no cartoonist.*


Two boys, one in high school and one in middle school, have been corresponding with me ever since they could write. No, scratch that: before they could write, they each went through an earlier period of expressing themselves to me via crayons, markers and many, many stickers. And yeah, I’m talking old-school, snail mail involving envelopes and stamps Mom, even though they both have access to devices that enable instant electronic communication.

This week I received missives from them, on their trademark colorful paper, and I thought I’d share these excerpts with you:

From C:

I hope you’re doing well. Here’s a joke: I’m afraid for the calendar. Its days are numbered!!

From S:

Dear Math, grow up and solve your own problems.

laugh cry emoji

Dear Lard, I love those boys. And I love their mother, who has the unenviable task of raising them into men who bear zero resemblance to Mr. Full Cookie Plate up there.

Enjoy your day or at least some part of it, your week, your year, your life. Otherwise, conservatives win.

*Except for that one time I told you guys about my cancer via webcomic. HAHAHA! Well, I thought it was funny.