The New Yorker is open, just like the New York Yankees are open. All you have to do is hit it over the right-field fence.

Now we have to devote the rest of our lives to cross country to validate the clothes.

I mean, picture this: You're in the middle of reading a very important article in The New Yorker, and then you're laughing because you got distracted by a cartoon, and you have to go to the bathroom because of all the laughing ... come on people, please keep the humor at a minimum.

Once you cartoon for a few years, you can't possibly do anything else. Everything else just feels like work.

It turned out to be more than just me falling down over and over again.

It was one that came from real life. I was having trouble getting through to a fellow cartoonist. He kept blowing me off, and I said those words on the phone.