In 1982, Sunday morning cartoons were never the same as the Saturday ones.  There was a sense of creeping, of trying harder to be quiet, of that sweaty type of peace that comes tiptoeing on its sticky feet about 6.30 a.m.  There was no “after these messages, we’ll be right back” ditties, no School-House Rock, no brown owl guessing how many licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop. 

Sunday cartoons were rounded – without essence, gratuitous violence, or puddy-tats.  Characters whose mouths didn’t quite fit the words they were saying.  The rest of Sunday followed pretty much the same way.