So either this is as funny as I think it is or I am at about a 3 degree slant to the rest of the human world.
I mean, not to kill a joke by analyzing it, but everything is just right here, down to the abortive sexual innuendo of “incredibly hot” (aborted by the peekaboo of its sayer’s bellybutton as much as by the campfire) and the stroked irregular royal purple edge of the sky where (oh dear visual poets in my care do take note) the cartoon reminds us its sublimity is a cartoon’s sublime.
Also I feel I have been in the burning schlub’s place more times that I can number. Eyes on the wonder of the mind field and feet in the good rough bad peace of the real. Thank you, New Yorker, to which I’ve never before looked for spiritual correction, and probably still won’t, but.
the art of compost 