We’ve Lost Eustace

It’s that time of year again, when the grim graybeards of The New Yorker cede their control of the magazine to the lighthearted loonies and let them run the esteemed asylum for a change. What does this mean for you, the reader? Laughs and games and gags and goofs! And don’t grumble too much—we’ll be back to our regularly programmed coverage of the apocalypse next week.

Stumped? Take a peek at the Answer Key.