Foghorn Leghorn is proof positive that roosters should not have free access to explosives.
That’s the conclusion I arrived at while sprawled across the couch, watching part of an all-week Looney Tunes marathon, and wishing I had a big bowl of some mega-sweet cereal that raises your blood sugar by 10% with every bite. I don’t normally get these cravings, but they seem to come with the territory when it comes to early morning toons. I settled instead for a steaming bowl of Malt-O-Meal, while curled up in my fuzzy robe.
I read an article recently arguing that comics (and by inferred extension, cartoons) are junk, and should have no place in our lives. But an opposing article summed up my opinion pretty well. Yeah, its junk, and we love it. (Although I do draw the line. It’s gotta be clean, otherwise, it’s putting poison in the medicine.)
Turns out that cartoons are something of an escape. And if there were ever a week that I needed an escape, it was THAT one. I had been spending the morning attempting to wrap my mind around political science. I’d be ready to put my fist through the nearest Congressman, walk into the living room just in time to watch good ‘ol Wile E. Coyote get pounded into the ground by a piano, and start to feel all better.
Ergo, anvil therapy.