ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF ONE OF THE MANY MANY CARTOONS I WOULD SUBMIT TO THE NEW YORKER IF ONLY MY PARENTS WOULD'VE CARED ENOUGH TO ENCOURAGE MY DRAWING:

     Two panels.

     Panel One:  

     A rather homely looking middle aged couple sits on the couch in the office of their marriage counselor. The man is a bit overweight and in desperate need of some styling. His posture gives us a sense of futility, of defeat (round, weak shoulders, head down, hands in pockets while he stares at his feet- think Paul Giamatti in American Splendor), while his, at least, better groomed wife sits erect and eager, dabbing a teary eye with a tissue. The counselor sits crossed legged in a swivel chair in front of them, her hands resting upon the clip board in her lap. She appears to be in her 60s, stern, no nonsense. Her gaze here is directed at the woman who has just finished speaking. The counselor is quite shocked by what she has just heard. Her left eyebrow is raised high, peeking out above the frame of her horned rimmed glasses. Above her on the wall hangs both her master's degree from Colombia and her undergraduate from NYU.

     Panel Two:
   
     The only difference in the action of the two panels is that the counselor is now looking angrily at the man who is still staring at his shoes.

     Counselor: "I can't believe you, John! After all the work we've done, Sally finally agrees to give you oral sex, and you go and do something like THAT? I mean, really, John, you plugged her NOSE?! That's just downright mean!"