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.

Today, we are presented with a perfectly horrifying shot of Heathcliff's ass. Notice that he doesn't have an anus. I can't wait for the strip that explains how Heathcliff takes a shit. Also, we're given a bit of social commentary. We learn that organic food is for snooty people/cats, not people/cats who feel an obligation to see to it that the food they eat is produced without any potentially dangerous additives. Fuck that. More asbestos!

Heathcliff still isn't over Halloween, so he decided to dress up like Pig Pen from the Peanuts. This backfired when rolling in the dust to get the right look resulted in his floating. Freaked out, he goes to Pet Grooming Salon (in the world of Heathcliff, no stores have names that don't also function as a description) to wash the stuff out. Seeing as one of the groomers is a ghost who is passing through the glass window of the store, Heathcliff may never get clean. Her hands are apt to float through him.

Sounds kinky.

Heathcliff's new neighbor notices that a cat has set up a micronation in its owner's backyard and decides to notify said owners. Upon seeing that a flagpole and borders have been erected, the conclusion reached is that Heathcliff wants a belly rub. Needless to say, if she steps foot on Heathclifflandia, she'll be shot through the eyes.

Heathcliff's new neighbors (YES!) are into psychedelics, and believe that being on the far end of of the delivery range is akin to living in Kansas and being stuck in Oz. Heathcliff appears as the Wizard, if only because it's his fucking strip. Who are you to question Heathcliff?

I'm lost. Drowning, really. This...this is just bad. This is Blackout. This is Phantom Menace. This is Plan fucking 9. The Westfinster Cat Show? West-fucking-finster? Why not just do what you usually do and write "CAT SHOW" in those block looking letters that 3ed graders used to draw when the teacher got boring?

Oh...you did. Would a prestigious cat show honestly have such a pedestrian sign? Do owners of lesser cats bring said lesser cats to these shows in an effort to have them outclassed? DOESN'T HEATHCLIFF'S OWNER FUCKING KNOW HE HAD FLEAS? Look at the look on his face. He's so fucking pissed. That's what you get for allowing your cat to beat a bottle with a brush instead of chucking his ass into the wooden tub, asshole.

Why in the fuck did he have a wooden tub in the first place? Is this secretly the work of Brad Anderson? Comics like these make me want to punch children.

Heathcliff is taking provocative images of female cats for a calendar while two humans look on, unfazed.

Wait...what? I...I just don't know what the fuck to think anymore. Is nothing sacred?

...couldn't you have at least drawn a hot cat, Gallagher?

Peter Gallagher, in an unexpected moment of humility, speaks to us through Heathcliff and Family, revealing the reason the strip just isn't funny: Gallagher's mind being possibly more in a state of atrophy than the dude who writes Marmaduke. Even Kitty Korner is devoid of fucking inpiration this week. Oh shit! A cat who likes the sink! Alert the presses!

I'll be impressed when Charlie catches Bin Ladin.

Or when Peter learns how to draw a level box.

Heathcliff, FOR NO FUCKING REASON, beats the fuck out of a bottle with an oddly shaped brush, perhaps thinking that his owner was going to cram him inside. Said owner, long since convinced that there was little to no point in correcting Heathcliff's behavioral shortcomings, resorts to quipping to a new neighbor (the 341st in six days), who is already thinking about getting the fuck out of there.

Heathcliff's family doesn't use garbage bags due to an old-country superstition that gypsies toted away children in them. To ensure that gypsy scum don't intrude upon their garbage looking for BIG FUCKING BONES, the garbage is salted, pleasing Overlord Heathcliff to a great degree.

Heathcliff, tired of having sex with cats, has decided to branch out into other nooks and crannies of the animal kingdom, starting with mice. Heathcliff's owners, not up with the lingo, call this a "play date" instead of what we now commonly refer to as the "pre-date." This slightly embarrasses Heathcliff, and it drastically increases the chances of his needing to use a roofie to seal the deal. For those of you wondering, the only requirements for being a possible target or date of this lovable, orange-haired ruffian is that you have arms, legs, a brain, and something to fuck. At least three out of the four.

No fat chicks.

Heathcliff: 1
Mice: 1

Unsatisfied with the job the mice did on the front lawn Sunday, Heathcliff joined the Mickey Mouse Club in order to get that fetching ear-hat in an effort to disguise himself to gain his holy revenge. Sadly, the mouse drugged the cheese.

Heathcliff: 0
Mice: 1

Heathcliff is straight pissed because some fucking at the Elephant Ears stand explained to him that they weren't real elephant ears, just fried dough covered in sugar. Willing to give anything a try at least once, our hero attempts to pay in fleas, only to discover that the salespeople at the market were secretly giant fleas in human flesh (like Men in Black) and didn't take too kindly to that sort of thing, resulting in a flea vs. human bloodbath that only Heathcliff and his family walk away from.

Heathcliff, using a giant reverse-whistle, summons some Ents (off screen) to rain leaves down on a neighbor who is unfortunate enough to not like the idea of living next door to a cat who can summon Ents.

Surprisingly, there are more than two humans in the strip in a seeming effort to prove yesterday's Heathcliff Paradox incorrect, but seeing as they're part of the same family and presumably take the same drugs, I'm willing to guess that they're having the same hallucination.

Honestly, I don't know what the most offensive thing about my first Sunday With Heathcliff is. I suppose I should cover them in order.

1. A professional artist can't draw a straight edged box. I'm assuming he used a ruler and still cocked it up.

2. Heathcliff's fat owner screams "EEK! MICE~!" like she's seeing the four horsemen of apocalypse riding for her, then walks away as calmly as nothing happened at all. Seriously, look. She might even be dancing for all the blank backgrounds and puffs of dust. Matter of fact, I do think she's dancing, and much like Fred Astaire, she's figured out that dancing makes you float.

3. The mice are picking up ONE LEAF AT A TIME! What is this, a lawn service for ants?!?

4. The dude with the broom for a mustache is asserting that having a rat problem is better than picking up a fucking rake (or using his 'stache) to do the job his damn self. Don't they have a kid? That's like free fucking labor, instead of having neighbors look at you like you live in some section 8 crackhouse.

5. Why is Heathcliff aping Sonic the Hedgehog? Did he just defeat Dr. Robotnik? No. He just had a bunch of rats pick up one leaf at a time.

6. Kitty Korner: ...who gives their cat a glass to drink from? Why is "Sandy" in quotations, when it's the cat's fucking name? Why do I feel the urge to carpet bomb Escondido CA?

I would have preferred a DST pun. I think I'll go off and weep now.

I don't know why, but that French maid looks really fucking angry. I think she dusted off the bookshelf, rearranged a few things, walked off, and returned to see Heathcliff fucking with the order. Leaves of Grass filed AFTER The Little Book of Modern Verse? PREPOSTEROUS!

Ugh...seriously, unless Heathcliff has died in eight incredibly awesome ways, I don't see the memiors of a cat that makes Carrot Top look like Richard Prior would go for more than say...12 pages. Seriously, besides eating, sleeping, and getting mass pussy, what else does Heathcliff do? Wear helmets in preparation for ham? Paint lawn and leaf bags to say "Trick or Treat," as if he wouldn't receive candy in any kind of bag or because the gifters secretly hope for his demise via choking? Tackling dogs on a football field in front of a crowd of two?

Holy shit. I have broken the code. Heathcliff is an illusion. Like Hobbes, but completely shitty. One of the three main characters, after a Pine Sol drinking binge, imagines this fat cat doing something inane and decides to crack wise to the hapless person who wanders across this sad vision first. THAT'S why he wears helmets that say "HAM." THAT'S why he gets away with dressing as a lobster days before Halloween. Heathcliff is an illusion, borne of anti-depressants and Miller High Life. There is no intervention: just smiling, nodding, and the realization that nothing in life, not even one panel gag strips, are as simple as they appear to be.

The whole world just changed, just because a fucking cat starred at a bookcase.

The only way to properly convey one's love of something is via candlelight and serenade.

This strip reminds me of one Thanksgiving Eve where my uncle was preparing a turkey to be deep fried in a parking lot before the Lions got routed on National TV. He put on Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" and proceeded to rub spices into that bird by candle light while I contemplated all the crazy shit he'd seen in the line of duty (he was a cop) to drive him to this.

I wonder what kind of crazy shit Peter Gallagher saw before he decided that the only way he was going to earn money was by stealing his uncle's character for a comic strip. Has he turned on a TV in the past ten years? They don't do jingles anymore. Quills haven't been comical...since ever, really. And why is Heathcliff ripping off Rowlf? Isn't stealing Marmaduke's format enough? Isn't being somewhat of an inspiration to the eleventh plague satisfying enough for you? Passing this off as humor is one thing, but raping my childhood so you can wax nostalgic about Meow Mix ads is quite another.

I hope that the next time you're making tea on a gas top stove, your cat walks across the burners, is set aflame, and summarily burns your fucking house down.

Is Heathcliff...dressed as a pickle? I fucking hate pickles. Lets pretend that Peter Gallagher is an actual artist and say that Heathcliff is dressed as...a growth-stunted banana.

Wait...that doesn't work in the slightest. How many fucking costumes can a cat buy? First he's a lobster, then Super Grover, and now a growth-stunted banana? I wasn't aware that Halloween lasted for fucking days.

Also, I wasn't aware that analysts had so much trouble buying new BMW's that they needed to see cats. If I were a shrink, and this jackass were on my couch, I'd laugh. That's what I'd do. "You have cats as patients," I'd howl.

Then the failed, shitty shrink went home and committed suicide.

Score one for me.