It's New Year's Eve, and what better way to celebrate than by dressing up like Abe Lincoln and playing the tuba? Owner-Man can think of a lot of things, like getting drunk and boning French Maid Owner Woman, or jumping over Pac Man. Jealous that he can't do any of these things, he yells at Heathcliff in front of his adoring public, who have no problems with the tuba playing, Lincoln mocking tabby cat who wears bunny slippers. Perhaps he's also a bit miffed that Heathcliff dropped the tuba on his leg, breaking his ankle. The funny way he walks has become the subject of much laughter, and as such, pisses off an already enraged man.

I can't wait to see who makes out with who tomorrow.

Heathcliff's lawer thought it'd be funny to draft up Heathcliff's New Years Resolutions, and boy were they right! In all the panels where Heathcliff can be seen, it looks like his face was stolen from Cathy, especially the one with his tongue hanging out. Also, what the fuck is with Marcy from Peanuts suddenly appearing. Is she some kind of Deus ex machina? "Oh fuck, somebody has to say something, and they can't just say it to themselves! I know! I'll just plug in Marcy! And I'll forget to draw hands! And I'll leave 'Schomey' with only two paws!"

When I realize there's a paycheck at the end of all that, I envy legacy comic artists.

Yesterday



Some random chick with manga eyes pets Heathcliff, who got a hot new cell phone for Christmas. In an effort to get in with today's generation, he sends a text message relating his glee, or perhaps hatred of this woman (cat speak is hard to decipher, even in text message format). She should be lucky: whenever I get a text message, it's from some random hood rat who is all like "Yoz, I ususally jak peepz shitz 4 lezz dan dis -_^ wut wut, playah?" I'm sure that's what "purr" really means.

I love how shocked Owner-Lady is that her cat is using a phone. I'd be more shocked that he's giving the middle finger.

Today



Spike, tired of losing to Heathcliff on a constant basis, called up Barry Bonds and asked for a hook-up. After weeks of a carefully supervised training regimen and even going so far as losing dramatic snowball fight reenactments on purpose (I guess that'd be why it's a reenactment), he decides that now is the time for Heathcliff's comeuppance. Heathcliff and Owner Boy are thusly challenged to a boulder throwing fight. Thinking it a joke, they pack snowballs. Spike lifts and hurls a boulder. Guess who isn't fucked.

Meanwhile, instead of sparing his grandson and cat from their gristly fate, he comments to a new neighbor about the state of the game. And possibly how gay Spike's scarf is.

This, truly, is as good as Heathcliff will ever be.

Heathcliff bones a skunk, then takes her out to dinner. She's not extremely classy, so she orders a femur, while Heathcliff settles for the fish. Pac Man sings "Bella Note" while the skunk inquires as to Heathcliff's condition, presumably because he sneezed off panel.

To be honest, I'm not entirely convinced that that's a skunk. It might be a cat that wound up getting paint dumped on her, ala the object of Pepe Lepeu's desire. It looks more like a cat than a skunk, and other than the fact that she's eating a human bone (seriously, a serial killer must be in that neighborhood...look at the contents of those garbage cans!), but cats are also known to hate humans and eat them. Skunk? Cat? Meh...she's certainly up several levels from Heathcliff's previous chick.

Heathcliff was tripping on Nog when the shit went sour, and he started having visions of sugarplums dancing through his head. If I were Heathcliff, and I saw dancing sugarplums, I'd probably enlist the services of a sad fucking shrink, too.



That's what a fucking sugarplum looks like. All I know is that when I'm waking up at five in the fucking morning for some doorbusters at Best Buy, I don't want any fucking California Raisin abomination smiling and dancing at me. Shitty fucking shrink (is he a post-holiday meme with Peter or something?) had better hook my boy up with some anti-depressants, or he's gonna get the claw.

Heathcliff furiously shreds Christmas presents open, looking for that elusive Nintendo 64. Owner-Man quips that they appreciated the wrapping paper, to which I retort that they did not, and that, in reality, nobody does. It's all a bunch of shiny paper with fat Santas and crucified Jesuses, and really, who the fuck cares about any of that? It's all about the gifts man, the $30 hunk of plastic with the lead based paint that takes the form of date rape when left in a cool, dry environment. And Nintendo 64s. Fuck the other shit though, and especially fuck the wrapping paper.

'Twas the day before Christmas
And all through the house
Peter Gallagher was fuming -
By God what a grouch!

Today's Heathcliff was drawn
By ghost artists with care
In fear, perhaps hope
Their slave wages would be there.

Mad Mr. Gallagher did laugh with a wink,
For a bad jokester, he's much smarter than you think.
"Pete" they cried, "we need money for presents!"
"Nonsense!" he yelled back, "help me feast on these pheasants."

They cooked, they cleaned, put the feast on the table
And Gallagher ate it, as quickly as able.
"Sir!" they screamed, "What about our share?"
"I'm the king of this castle, I'm eating what's fair."

"You didn't do a damn thing for this strip," a challenging slave replied.
"Good! It sucked a flaccid cock anyhow," the Boss said, stripping them of pride.
"The wallpaper's plaid, the tree is bent, and why no block letters?
The fuck's in those boxes? Some old ratty sweaters?"

"Well sir," he said, with a curious grin,
"It's a parody of sorts, with the kids it will win."
"Well fuck that," he said, "that cat should be eating those mice,
I'm tired of this strip being kid friendly and nice."

Then Gallagher rose, flinging his chair with such a clatter
And crushed his elf's head with his fist - what a splatter!
"Get back to work, you fucking miscreants!
Fuck your mothers tonight, its Christmas, I'm spent."

EPIC SPIKE BEATING MANEUVER~!

Heathcliff and Spike decide to celebrate the holidays by beating each other like Agent Smith and Neo. Sadly for Spike, he has a glass jaw and is easily defeated by Heathcliff's Dragon Punch. After ringing his bell, Heathcliff brings out the wrapping paper and does a job worthy of a Malaysian sweat shop before dumping poor Spike at the feet of the Dog Catchers, who always seem to ignore the fact that Spike has a collar (hence the name) and a tag.

What the fuck kind of name for a cat is "Tiny Cat?"

Heathcliff, under the impression that it's still Halloween, dresses up as a zombie football player and goes door to door. Sadly, he knocks on the door of some nutjob who happens to tote a Bible from his couch to his door. The cult leader takes this opportunity to lecture our hero, who stands steadfast in the hopes that he might end up with a full size Snicker, or at the very least, a glass of Kool Aid. Pathetically out of touch with reality, the fundamentalist mistakes Heathcliff for the kicker, and alludes to the fact that he needs forgiveness, even though he's a cat, and even though he has done no apparent harm to anything.

And honestly, since when does "field goal" get a hyphen?

Heathcliff has hooked an entire DJ booth up to a rolling stage. He has the turntables, the expensive headphones, the 12" of "Umbrella," the obnoxiously large amps, and Pac Man on the lights. This, apparently, is like caroling.

Except for the fact that it is not a fucking thing like caroling. Caroling involves a bunch of bored, rich, Anglo-Saxons punch drunk from the nog going out in awful looking sweaters with nerdy earmuffs and hastily printed sheet music on the Eve of the Birth of the Lord to praise His name via poorly sung songs about mangers, magi, Mary, and depending on how cool these hip cats are, bullfrogs named Jemimah. This? This is a cat. AT A FUCKING DJ BOOTH ON WHEELS. Nothing at all like caroling, if you can dig it.

Heathcliff's Owner mistakes a broom for a tennis racket. It's a common error.

The Monopoly Man has hit rock bottom. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he was wheeling and dealing for fictional property, the Robber Barons swooped in at the end of the game, snatched up his property, and repossessed his top hat.

Seeing as his Xmas Fund has not yet matured, Uncle Pennybags has been forced into a new, humiliating job: being a Mall Santa. As if this wasn’t bad enough, he has to put up with rich matrons with joystick shaped hats dragging their cats into the mall and sitting on the poor man’s lap.

Monopoly Man: You’ve got to be kidding me! I’ve been the owner of Park Place! Boardwalk! Marvin Gardens! Now? Now I’m listening to gift requests from a housecat!

Heathcliff: Meow.

Monopoly Man: I hate Mondays.

So what else is there for an ex-pimp to do but lay down the harshest punishment a Mall Santa can level? None. Heathcliff might be a bit pissed off about it, but in all honesty, he knows it doesn’t matter. When those gifts are open and he sees what’s out, the only thing Heathcliff needs to do is bring out the claws, then it’ll all be his?

Monopoly Man? All he’ll have…maybe…is a bottle of Scotch and a bunch of unused “naughty” balloons. They’ll find him dead the next day in the slums of Baltic Avenue with fifteen or sixteen balloons worth of latex lodged in his throat.

End of an era…end of an era.

Heathcliff's journeys take him to a mall, where he is informed that being an animal in a mall results in a Technical Foul and a six week suspension. Citing the Rasheed Rule, Heathcliff gets into an argument with a Pimply Faced Referee who informs Heathcliff that he's only a sales clerk and doesn't know the slightest fucking thing about basketball. The stripes don't lie though...it'll be a long time before we see shopping's greatest warrior, Heathcliff, competing in the Mall Shopping League.

Is that a place? An actual place? Holy fucking fuck, color me excited! Now all we need is a joke that wasn't written ten years ago, and we're golden!

Heathcliff can't help but make fun of a man who has a meat cleaver for an arm. This would be dangerous, seeing as Meat Cleaverin' Nutritionist could easily skin Heathcliff alive, Baraka-style, but odds are, MCN isn't seeing anything. He's probably in an acid induced coma world, where orange tabby cats heckle him for his cleaver-arm. Seriously...who in the fuck is he talking to? His secretary is CLEARLY behind the block letters, which presumably puts her behind the glass.

Absolutely nothing in this strip makes sense. Heathcliff mocks a nutritionist...but why? For what reason? Because Heathcliff is fat, and the Meat Cleaverin' Nutritionist tries to help people with their weight and can whip up a mean protein shake? If he were really a Nutritionist, would the letters be so fucking fat?

You know what? Fuck this.

Heathcliff's Owner Woman has cut off Heathcliff's tail and has used the black fur to create a joystick shaped hat. Heathcliff is also nervous about some meeting with Santa...turns out that Jolly Old St. Nick is really a criminal who has been assigned to rehab.

"MERRY X-MAS" he said, with a machine gun in his mittened hands.

"Have fun in N.A." said the cop.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Man, Heathcliff has been on a shocking run of strips that aren't quite abysmal. Is Peter off the sauce?

This is a clever social commentary, and by clever, I mean if the joke were written in 1983, when Atari ruled the world and all you could do was break bricks with balls and jump over holes. Seriously, if this were written today, it'd show a murderous snowman gunning down a hooker who didn't cough up his pimpin' money.

And Heathcliff would be the final boss. The game is rated mature and impossible to beat.

This must be a stock comic. The punchline could have been anything. Anything at all. Instead of something clever, we get "It's Payday." What? Is Heathcliff whiffing at a delicious candy bar? I thought he preferred Baby Ruth, but he must be craving the pure peanut goodness hidden beneath that plain, unassuming wrapper. It must be that - what use does a fucking cat have for fucking money, and why would any cat follow the recipient of the money to the bus stop?

Also, nice 1930's lunch box, cockbag. I hope you have an enjoyable day on the girders of the unfinished Empire State Building.

Heathcliff's preferred brand of mouthwash is Live Minnow, which his dentist doesn't seem to think is working very well, probably because it's impossible to gargle minnows and it's tough for live fish to clean between teeth.

At the same time, what the fuck does a dentist know about cat teeth? Did Heathcliff tell the doctor to open his mouth and say ahh? What's with the random loop, line, and drill? Why would a door say dentist, as if dentists don't have their own offices? Why are Swedish Fish flying through the air? Why is the sky blue, why is the grass green, and which two questions can you answer before your head explodes?

See ya'll in ten minutes.

It was July 4th, 1776, when our forefathers decided that new nation was to be wrought from the ideals of democracy, but it wasn't until December when the badly out gunned rebels were able to gain an upper hand, by chucking rock filled snowballs at the oppressive Redcoats.

Heathcliff and Spike (yes, that's his name) honor that tradition every winter...by shooting fucking guns at each other. Is nobody concerned that Heathcliff and a bulldog have, in their possession, rifles with bayonets on them? Obviously not: alls fair in love and snowball fighting. Spike probably has the advantage, what with his awesome pope hat/shark fin deal atop his head. Of course, this will be for naught, because Heathcliff had taken the precaution to wet Spike's powder while he slept, which means that we're gonna have one dead bulldog on our hands tomorrow.

Thug Life, representing since 1776.

Heathcliff bought a set of clubs to hit the links over the summer, but sadly for him, every course in the tri-state area is extremely discriminatory against cats! Enraged, Heathcliff starts a fire in front of his owners and a new neighbor and chucks the clubs into the fire! Sadly, this will not work: no fireplace fire will get hot enough to melt that shit.

I'd rather have an unfunny, unexplainable strip than Monday's cockbaggery.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. This was the strip two Monday's ago. TWO FUCKING MONDAYS AGO. Look...I'll fucking show you!



Oh yeah, a pepper shaker has been added, but honestly, this kind of cockbaggery is inexcusable. I'm going to die. I'm going to fucking die. But not before I go to New Jersey and kill Peter Gallagher. I'm not above ax murder. I'm not above making him spaghetti and boiling the noodles in Clorox. I'm not above ripping his fucking head off and shitting down his goddamn neck.

This is insufferable. This is egregious. My God, why have you abandoned me?

Oh, and if you needed proof as to how fucking evil Heathcliff was, his first episode...

The Great Pussini


Kitty Kat Kennels


Now, there may be nothing inherently evil in what's going on in the cartoon (minus the annoying rhyme talk of one of the cats and the ungodly hotness of another), but look at the titles of the two segments. The Great Pussini? Kitty Kat Kennels? We're introducing our children to these characters via the seemingly innocent methods of pornography and the KKK. Fantastic.

Also, notice how this is the first episode, and it's already established that talking in rhyme and rhyme alone is incredibly annoying and will, in all likelihood, turn you into the bitch of a smarter cat who has a cooler hat than you.

I refuse to believe that this strip actually exists. Tell me I'm hallucinating. Please. Because the Westfinster Cat Show (WEST-FUCKING-FINSTER) was a month ago!

I digress though, and honestly, I'm probably being a tad of a nitpicker, because there are larger problems with this strip than the giant fucking hole in the space-time continuum. Seriously. So, explanation time!

Heathcliff attempts to win last month's cat show, only to be disqualified on the basis that he didn't brush his teeth. His Owner-Boy offers his condolences while thrusting his right hand down the front of his jeans. I think I'd rather imagine him handless, rather than imagine what Peter Gallagher imagines he is doing.

Honestly, they disqualified a cat for not brushing it's teeth? Look at those things! They're fucking massive! It's like Heathcliff is some fucked up version of Kafka, where he was an annoying, ham loving Brit who woke up a cat...only the process stopped because the teeth would have been too much work. Give the fucking cat a break...he's posing for you! POSING! What other cat at the prestigious Westfuckingfinster Cat Chow could possibly pose that well?

I'm sure that Heathcliff, upon losing, went on an off-panel rampage, screaming "ONLY HEATHCLIFF HAVE TEETH THAT CAN EAT HUMAN IN SINGLE BITE" while the owner boy had no choice but to bathe in the torrent of blood that followed. All that, and he only got 10th place.

And seriously...buildings are not named after the event that happens in them! Jesus, next time I go to Monster Jam, I'm going to have a fucking hell of a time finding the "Wrestlemania III Memorial Auditorium." But then again...at least it would be an auditorium and not just a fucking building with a label for what's going on inside.

I'm sure Tony is proud of the fact that he has five cats and has managed to keep all five of them happy, but we aren't fooled: the sign on the door is meerly a ploy to lure the neighborhood children inside. The parents aren't suspecting it, because "PETTING ZOO" in block letters is less of a give away than "FREE CANDY" in the hastened scrawl of a man days away from being on "To Catch A Predator." Needless to say, Tony's end will come when a kid tells their parent's how cool the trouser snake they got to pet was.

I'll see y'all in Hell.

Heathcliff is laughing at some Sloth-like abomination who doesn't understand what humor is, so he laughs too, because a kitty is doing it.

I think this is the comic where Heathcliff is revealed to be horribly fucking evil. He's laughing at the guards, probably because he plans to let the "lion" free. He's laughing at the "lion" because, well, just look at the fucking thing. It looks like a bear with a 70's haircut, but somewhere along the path to drawing this terrible vision, Peter Gallagher was visited by an Alien race who looked at the drawing and went "Oh no, you're doing it wrong." Gallagher shot them with his pistol and did some acid, at which point he decided that lions sit like house cats, have bodies that can float through the bars of a cage, and that said fucking cage would have a fucking sign that just fucking said "LION" in block fucking letters at the top. It couldn't be worse if Heathcliff were dangling a small child before the "lion's" jaws, which may have been the action leading to the guffawing. Perhaps it was a baby named Ruth, and the "lion" just kept going "BABY...RUTH! BABYRUTH! BABY RUTH!" over and over again until blood fell from the sky and the heavens were torn asunder. Or maybe Heathcliff is just a fucking murderer.

GUFFAW!

Heathcliff wants to get a single, solitary fish for his girlfriend and decides that the only way to do so is to "terrify the neighborhood." Well Heathcliff (Heathcliff!) does so, playing pranks on everyone. Pranks like...uhh...whipping a dog's ass. Then a trailer morphs into a car and into a boat, because of some weird, pimp hat wearing cat and his smoking hot girlfriend. Then there's a jubilee while some 80's New Wave guy spews cat propaganda.

I remember being a fan of Heathcliff in childhood...I think it was his supporting cast of gangster cats that did it. I'm sure that things could have been different though...



Oh God! Oh Jesus! My ears! My eyes! There must have been a government conspiracy to make children dumb as fuck in the 80's. It's quickly established that Heathcliff doesn't like dogs, but there he is, dancing with the biggest fucking dog in the world. Then we get a shot of Marm's face and Heathcliff's ass. Wonderful! Heathcliff starts a street fight, Marmaduke stops traffic. The animators insert children who can't believe what they're watching. Marm looks ready to rape the mailman. In fact, I think his "smooch" is a parting thank you to the mailman for a good time. I have no idea what "hot dog cat" or "pussy cat hound" mean, either. Meow-meow-bow-wow-owwwww!

Bow-wow-meow-ow-bow!

For some odd reason, Heathcliff is standing at attention for the crossing guard. Owner Boy decides to point this out to the guard, who, attention diverted, allows a bus to mow over a group of school children.

This is just a poor strip overall, so I guess I'll take another crack at re-captioning:



This one goes out to all of America's crossing guards. Useless though they may be in their stupid orange vests and heightened sense of power ("I CONTROL TRAFFIC!!!!"), they've provided a stone that many children have sharpened their wit upon, ever since somebody decided that as long as there were homeless people on street corners, we may as well trust them to protect our future. God bless them.

This is an epic clusterfuck. Let's sort things out.

1. Pac Man makes another guest appearance.

2. I've never been to a coffee shop that was named "Coffee Shop." "Highland," "Front Porch," "Canadian Moose," "The Mattcave," all of these are more acceptable than "Coffee Shop." They're more commonly referred to as "houses" anyhow, unless you're into that Starbucks bullshit, or you know something I don't.

3. Notice how many people are crammed into this small glass building. Six hundred. Fire codes? Fuck your fire codes.

4. Note that two human children have been left out in the cold while a cat has been let in.

5. Every building is made out of at least 85% glass.

6. Finally, take heed of the sign: Poetry Night. If it is Poetry night, why in the fuck is a cat standing on stage, twirling a basketball why dressed as a basketball player straight out of a Harlem Globetrotter's worst coke-off-a-hooker's-ass induced nightmare, speaking in symbols that look to have been stolen from a box of Lucky Charms?

The Short Answer: Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

The Long Answer: Peter Gallagher was watching MTV one night after snorting coke from a Harlem Globetrotter's afro when "YO MAMMA!" flooded his retinas. He figured that this is what poetry became (the last book of poetry he read being a first printing of "Leaves of Grass," the launch party for which he attended), and also heard that Coffee Shops were a popular hangout for poets, who dress in throwback jerseys and act like cockbags on and off the stage in front of the six hundred professional men and women who come to watch this spectacle.

With Pac Man as the MC, can you blame them?

Heathcliff wants a breast reduction, but there's a problem: that isn't a real cosmetic surgeon office. Seriously. That isn't even a real doctor. When was the last time a doctor's office featured clear windows? Odds are, somebody considering getting some work done isn't going to want to appear before the world as the ugly fucking fuck they are.

Fuck, the strip today was so bad that I've decided drastic measures are in order. I'm writing the strip, motherfuckers.



Heathcliff raped your sister.

Heathcliff somehow got a hold of a sword! For the love of fuck, run!

Or...just give him a bath. Sure, he's dressed as an admiral of the British Navy, and yeah, he may have a cutlass, but the Curse of the Black Flea is a greater threat than any presented by Captain Heathcliff Catbeard. In his washtub boat and with his first mate Mr. Bow Tied Owner Guy, Heathcliff is ready to referance any summer blockbuster involving pirates...in December.

SERIOUSLY, HE HAS A FUCKING SWORD!!!!!! A SWORD!! WHY ISN'T THE NEIGHBOR FUCKING CONCERNED FOR HIS FUCKING SAFETY??

*sigh* Where has all the rum gone?

Heathcliff's owner decides that taking his cat to the dog racing track was a good thing, and did so. To his shock, Heathcliff spent the entire time booing. Well, I'd be shocked, too. If a cat started booing, I'd probably kill it as a herald of the apocalypse.

In other news, when you go to a large auditorium, the sign atop it merely describes what is going on inside. It isn't Ford Field, it's "FOOTBALL." Churchill Downs? "HORSE RACING." St. Peter's Basilica? "BORING LECTURE." Yeah. This place shouldn't be named "DOG RACING," though, it should be called "INSANE FUCKING HILL WITH SOME BUSHES." Or maybe those are the stands. If you can't be bothered to put effort into your drawing, I can't be bothered to properly interpret it. So there. Cockbag.

More mouthlessness, more dumbass signs, total nonstop Heathcliff!

My mom used to do this thing when I was a child where she would blow me a kiss goodbye, and I'd do my damndest to catch it. She'd direct me, and usually, when I hit a door or something hard, she'd go "you got it!" and be out the door.

Here, Heathcliff's bitch is enraged that she lost a staring contest, and so blows a kiss. Heathcliff will not be one to lose his lover's affection to some guy sitting on a bench waiting for a bus on the way to some girl named Jenny's house, so he chases it. Two panels of running, one demonstrating Heathcliff's MAD HOPZZZZ (seriously, from mailbox to ground inches before garbage cans, to garbage cans, to the air...he's like a freerunner), and another showing how he gets the concussion that loses Tubby Owner Boy the game. He quips in front of a new, mouthless neighbor. In the next panel, we've got unnecessary quotation marks, and Heathcliff watching a nature show, when he clearly could have been eating bird DAYS ago. He's getting ready for the small game. Hunt. Ho...I can be as unfunny as Peter Gallagher! Where's my check?

Pac Man, pissed off that Heathcliff's cartoon show did way better than his in the eighties, decides to gain a measure of revenge by ruining his comic strip! What Pac doesn't realize is that he probably improves the strip, that nobody notices him, and that it doesn't work without the stupid hat anyway.



While his plan fails, Heathcliff and his bitch use their superfeline strength to build a tower out of garbage cans that they've presumably eaten out of. I have no idea how the quipping man would know this, unless he stood idly by and watched as two cats devastated his quiet cul-de-sac. His mouthless cowboy neighbor is clearly not pleased (look at those eyebrows), but left his six shooter in the car. Heathcliff and co. obviously won't be eating their garbage cans though, so he shouldn't be so pissed. It's only a five course meal. Not seven. Five.

Seriously...I'm not going to explain this one. The "joke" is pretty obvious. I am going to ask questions though.

1. Why would Heathcliff, as a predator who has clearly been established as sly enough to dress up like Jabba the Hutt to gain entry into a bird sanctuary, walk past two birds who were just SURE he wasn't going to eat them...just to get at some squirrel?

2. Has Heathcliff never heard the expression "two birds in the belly is better than dressing up like a fucking acorn?"

3. Since when do cats eat squirrels?

4. In 34 days, Heathcliff has been in costume seven times. In just over a month...this cat has dressed up as Super Grover, a crab, a pickle, a mouse, a baby, Jabba the Hutt, a football player, and now...an acorn. Out of these seven times, five have been in an effort to eat something. One of them has been successful, because ham is a processed meat that didn't stand much chance. So the question is this: when the fuck is Heathcliff going to learn that cosplay does not equal food? I don't care if it's mice, birds, fish...Halloween costumes result in mass candy, NOT in mass wild game. If I have to read one more strip where Heathcliff dresses up as something in an effort to eat something else, only to fail and have somebody fucking quip about it, I'm going to fucking bust a fucking gasket.

That being said, if the cat doesn't pounce on the birds for talking smack, I'll be disappointed in the laws of nature. Sorely disappointed.

Heathcliff ate a bucket of chicken and discovered that he gained the ability to fly. A man dressed as Big Bird with no home and no job outside of handing out coupons outside the Chicken Bucket witnesses this and questions his addiction to peppermint schnapps and heroin. I can't explain the "You Again." Maybe the man has fallen asleep at the job after a bender and is dreaming about his hooker ex-wife, carrying two children in each arm with another on the way. Maybe the Great Gazoo is telling him that he's a dum-dum. Or perhaps he's given his hallucinations a personification and is annoyed that they're causing him to see a cat fucking fly.

Also, please stop naming stores after what is found outside. It's boring. Fucking boring. And more than a little predicable. And it doesn't help, because the situations are already simplistic.

At least switch up the font.

Please?

Heathcliff is a goon out on the ice. If you try to step on one of his forwards, he'll high stick ya, real quiet-like. As a result of this unmitigated badassery, Heathcliff spends a majority of his time in the Penalty Box, which is conveniently labeled for those of us who don't understand one of the simplist things in hockey. Instead of playing the fucking game, Heathcliff's Owner Boy quips about a Wheaties box.

Well you're goddamn right Heathcliff isn't going to be on the Wheaties box. Seriously. No. Fucking. Shit. He's a cat, you idiot! Cats don't play pro sports. Cats don't participate in the Olympics. Cats just prance around the West-fucking-finster Cat Show and pose for funny pictures.

I hope God realizes that it's been too warm for a lake to freeze and you summarily drown.

Apparently Heathcliff is a fan of some random guy. I'd say that he's the head of the Department of Sanitation, but that really wouldn't make any sense: heads of departments don't take appointments with cats. Heathcliff probably got a BJ from the chick at the desk, despite her mouthlessness (women aren't important enough for mouths), hence his happy look. Otherwise, the balding man is just pissed: the woman was his wife.

Seriously...if this were anything but that, the office would be messy as fuck to illustrate how bad at his job he was. But no. We get inter-species erotica. God bless America.

Heathcliff only tries to eat the goldfish on Monday. despite there being no humans in sight and no possible escape for the fish, the same fish keep surviving to see the same ordeal every week. Why? Because they're mutants. Seriously. If they can remember things that happened on Monday, last week, they'd freaking have to be. Soon they'll have legs and lungs and sharp teeth, then it'll be Heathcliff who hates Mondays, and vengeance will be complete.

Heathcliff has a pretty bad acid trip, and starts imagining that the other animals (to whom Heathcliff is predator) keep saying "GOBBLE GOBBLE," rather than "TWEET" "SQUEAK" or "blub blub blub." Rather than preforming as predator and killing the things that annoy him, Heathcliff runs to French Maid Owner Lady, who asserts that it is Heathcliff's being sick of Thanksgiving leftovers that has driven him mad. This sends Heathcliff running, probably to get an ax.

I personally think that it's hilarious that French Maid Owner Lady opens the fridge to illustrate the point that it's THANKSGIVING leftovers that are the root of Heathcliff's problems. Since Heathcliff is on a bad trip, it must look like the maw of some great beast is being opened to devour him like the full turk-wait...full turkey? On Sunday? A whole three days after the Holiday? Aren't kids still starving in Ethiopia or some shit? What is a WHOLE TURKEY doing in the fridge, labeled as leftovers? And what's with all the blue shapes?

Oh damn, it's the return of the HAM Helmet!!

Why? Well, because Heathcliff is an offensive coordinator who just so happens to play defensive line. Being a terrible coach, Heathcliff has allowed his playbook to be stolen by his French Maid Owner Woman (who goes from zero-to-pissed in 3 penstrokes), who fucking takes the time to homemake cat food when it's fairly obvious that the orange ball of dickery will eat anything - even the garbage. This is way more interesting than the issue of Good Housekeeping that French Maid Owner Woman and Recurring Neighbor were previously discussing.

Heathcliff decides that the best way to shrug off Telemarketers is by playing bagpipe. I say bagpipe, because the notes are clearly coming out of one pipe. Seriously, Heathcliff puts so much effort into it...he's got the hat, the kilt, and a pineapple with clarinet coming out of the top...he's good to go! The best part about this mockery of the Scots? Heathcliff's owner confesses to a new neighbor that the practice is annoying: in pissing off telemarketers (fuck the Do Not Call List, Heathcliff's owner is from Nam and takes shit from no Pakistani), he's really torturing himself. Genius!!

Also, was I supposed to not notice that Heathcliff's new neighbor is pretty much the same as the owner, with a couple extra penstrokes? Way to be a lazy asshole, Gallagher.

Heathcliff's French maid of an owner has been in a coma since forever, because Heathcliff has been nothing but finicky. Honestly, I think the only reason why this strip was published was because Peter Gallagher wanted to bring awareness to the plight of veterinarians who don't have feet. Why else would he miss out on a GOLDEN opportunity to have Heathcliff wear a "TURKEY" helmet, rape some Indians, and get fresh with a cat from the Mayflower? There's more important things to worry about, people! Every single day, a vet with no feet is forced to stumble his stumpy ass to the table, hoping that the next thermometer he shoves up a cat's ass will be the one that pays for a new pair of feet. Every day. If you're going to be thankful for anything, be thankful that you can walk on two feet, instead of stumps.

Please, think of the footless veterinarians.

Heathcliff straight up murdered yesterday's dog lover with the fire extinguisher, and got his trial pretty damn fast, with thanks to due process. Heathcliff got off without punishment, arguing that since he was two (40 years ago), he's a juvenile. I'm pretty sure that all "Terrible Two" jokes are best reserved for 40 years ago. And who dresses a fucking baby like that anymore?

Hopefully, Heathcliff's Owner's pizza was free. Fucking Hutz is always late.

Heathcliff has identified the gene that determines whether you're a dog person or a cat person, and has devised an insane scanner to alert him to the entry of a new neighbor who likes Man's Best Friend, as opposed to Man's Most Useless Companion. As punishment for this, Heathcliff freezes his fucking face off.

I'm shocked he hasn't dressed as a Pilgrim and raped an Indian yet.

Heathcliff is very clearly possessed by the Devil, and is trying to warn his owners and their new neighbors. The neighbors are smart enough to realize that when a cat's head is on backwards and he is waving a huge flag around, it's time to leave. His owners are very clearly high, and just smile crazily as Lucifer prepares to make entry in their living room.

I love how Sunday Heathcliffs tend to be the worst of the week, even though they have the most space to be good.

In any case, Heathcliff dresses like Jabba the Hutt in an effort to eat the two or so birds living in the Bird Sanctuary (which I'm sure just has open gates to let the predators in). This measure promptly fails, though I'm willing to bet that it wasn't Jedi mind tricks that saw Heathcliff get defeated. Drunk on Jabba Juice, he imagines a worm talking to him in over sized word balloons, telling him that it is in fact the giant space-faring slug who gets the bird...and then a cat hangs from a screen door.