A cartoon from the January 4, 2010 issue of The New Yorker, by Jack Ziegler:
The visual in this comic has some potential for a funny gag about different/convergent tastes in music across socioeconomic and cultural strata but instead opts for a stale and unsophisticated "uh-oh", which the reader is to understand as: Look, honey! Punks about to play that racket they call music!
Some people listen to loud and obnoxious music and when you want to enjoy your eggs benedict, well, it's a real bummer if they decide to indulge at that particular moment. To truly find this cartoon humorous, however, you would need to identify with the sterile suburban couple whose male half wears a sweater vest to brekkie. What sort of music are we to believe excites this man?
Also: What sort of disastrous music choices are even available on the quaint diner's jukebox that warrant such an ominous attitude? Cannibal Corpse? (That, along with the bizarre placement of some napkin holders, could explain the lack of other patrons.)
In reality, the cute punk couple--drawn with less imagination than the dreadful white couple--is probably going to choose the one good tune in that jukebox every finds agreeable, such as an early Elvis Costello number. Imagine the opening bars of "Radio Radio" filling the diner and someone objecting. You can't, can you?