Saturday, November 3, 2007

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.

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