Two years ago I submitted an entry for the cartoon contest run by The New Yorker magazine. They had begun providing a drawing each week and inviting
their readers to submit a humorous caption for it. The judges (all
sober, or so I assumed at the time) would then select three finalists,
and the readership would be allowed to vote on those three selections.
I was keeping my eye on the drawings, but holding off on participating until I felt I had a quality caption worth submitting. When the drawing above appeared, I immediately thought of a caption that pleased me, and I entered. There wasn't going to be any doubt about the matter, so I informed my students that they could watch for my winning entry within a few days.
I have no idea what kind of payola one would have to shell out or whom one would have to know in a biblical sense to have a caption selected for one of these cartoons, but my cartoon caption didn't even make the top three. The people, my fellow Americans who are, rightfully, outraged about being kept out of the decision-making process in this country, didn't even have the chance to vote for my caption.
Which entry won? I don't recall. But here are the three captions selected for the voting:
"She told me she had protection."
"The ultrasound says it's a keg of Bud Light."
"No one expects an immaculate conception until it happens to him."
Well, I shall not denigrate my fellow participants for their attempts at that sacred thing we call humor. The third submission above was my favorite of the three released into the world by the mind-addled "judges" at The New Yorker. But, frankly (and why would I lie to you?), I don't like that caption as much as I like my own: "As it turns out, I really have the hips for it."