Just Too Dumb for The New Yorker

I was sitting in my dentist's waiting room searching through the worn collection of stale magazines when I found this old New Yorker:

I rarely understand today's artsy-fartsy New Yorker covers but I'm a product of New York's public schools and the State's university system. I don't know how to pronounce Dowton Abbey and don't give a damn about a bunch of toothless British nuns. I started reading a New Yorker article once...

But this cover from 1939? I got some ideas. Clearly, these were simpler times.

Two guys leaving a bar.

Two seriously daper guys -- pocket hankies, bow tie, white suits and that is one limp-ass noodle of a wrist. Subtext aplenty. The dude with the beret has an erect finger and the dude without the beret looks like he's about to lower his lips right down on it, right down until those knuckles are bouncing on his chin.

Really, I'm not the kind of homophobe that sees gay stuff everywhere -- but then there's the name of the bar, Sloppy Dick's.

I think that might be code for "Alternate Lifestyles Tolerated." And this following depiction is outrageous, even by 1939 standards.

Yikes! There's nothing subtextual about that image. If my thing moved does it mean Rick Santorum and Jesus hate me?

However, just when you think you have the thing figured out, The New Yorker fucks with your head. Just another nice watercolor of two guys hooking up in a bar and heading off to the beach, until you notice this guy.


He looks pissed. Could that be Richard, the owner of the establishment, who happens to be a messy bartender?

I left the best for last.

It's been awhile since I've seen one of those depicted on the cover of a magazine. I'm talking about the blowgun.

Is this the gayest and most racist New Yorker cover ever or is there another explanation?

And yes, I noticed the cat. That cat is either very shocked or very aroused, or both. And so am I.