Let the seam stay visible
In 1997, a tiny paper town arrived with crooked hats, flat snow, and the confidence of a photocopy made one pass too late. The heads were circles, the coats were blocks, and every seam announced the hand that cut it. Nothing asked to be polished before it could be funny.
That roughness is a design decision, not a missing finish. Keep the robin's-egg sky broad, let kelly grass stop at a hard white edge, and give each bright shape a dark marker line. The result feels immediate: a story assembled at the kitchen table, still warm from the scissors.
The cut is the point. A crooked edge gives the eye something to hold onto, while one loud color keeps the scene from dissolving into noise. Leave evidence of the hand, and the joke lands faster.