There is a sweetly fatalistic appeal to pitching drawings to the New Yorker. Being aware of the overwhelming odds and the ridiculous array of talent one is up against, consolation for failing to make the cut is almost built into the process, and comes not as a slap in the face, but as a vaguely sympathetic pat on the shoulder. Like, thanks , but really - what did you expect? Almost soothing in it's familiar inevitability. Anyhow, here's one that had a good run for a short while, before Ed Sorel threw his hat in the ring and cleared the room.