The New Yorker is infamous for publishing cartoons that are absolutely impenetrable. If you don’t have an Ivy League degree, you scratch your head to try to make sense of the joke, fighting the urge to track down the cartoonists so he can explain it to you like Elaine did on that one episode of Seinfeld. If you do have an Ivy League degree, you sorta chuckle a little, hoping that you’ve gained the acceptance of your high society friends while little realizing that they’re doing the exact same thing.
That’s not to say that humor has to be spelled out. I’m a big fan of old school Mystery Science Theater, where each episode where full of obscure references that still manage to make me laugh. And it’s true for the works of Kate Beaton, whose work is delightful, funny and endearing even if I have no idea what in the world this crazy Canuck is referencing.
