Meat Cleaverin' Nutritionist has become a vet...oh no...wait...Pete actually drew a pocket. He also drew a Celtic Cross on a clipboard...and Marmaduke on the wall (Heathcliff/and Marmaduke/what a wacky pair!) So...

Heathcliff is pregnant and is about to beat the piss out of his vet for insinuating that it makes him look like a tuba, even though tubas, having the most curves and the most convenient hole, are the sexist of instruments.

Heathcliff spots a mouse! The mouse's nose alarm goes off, for lack of being a villain from Metal Gear Solid. A chase ensues, but the mouse talks his way out of it. Heathcliff's face becomes an awful amalgam of his own and Cathy's, and he walks away, confident that his kill will come later. Wait...I thought Heathcliff was nice to the mice.

Heathcliff is panicking because Mrs. Nutmeg and Marcy from Peanuts have caught him masturbating to an Animal Planet soap opera about fleas.

The Nutmegs have a pretty fucked up TV. Still using Rabbit Ears in this age of DVR, HDTV, and cable/satellite up-link, but why do the knobs (also: knobs?!?) interfere with the TV screen?

Oh yeah? Well it's probably more dangerous to drive a truck that doesn't have a proper cab or windshield, and even more dangerous to not look where you're going. Next thing you know, there's a bread truck, a sudden stop, And maybe 4000 dead kids and an equally dead cat, all because they didn't just say "Hey you fat fucks, we're out of Yummo Bars(?!?), so get away from our very dangerous truck."

When that front tire makes a half rotation, they're all likely fucked anyhow.

CAN YOU NOT SEE THE BONES AND THE CRUMBS?

For some reason, Mr. Nutmeg (that's his name, sho' 'nuff), is pissed that Heathcliff has been freelancing. Mrs. Nutmeg, free from the drudgery of housework for a change, is silent, like the good housewife she is.

The Catholic Church has fallen on hard times, and priests now grant plenary indulgences to house cats. Mr. Nutmeg assumes that Heathcliff has been touched in some awful way, and is pissed off.

A gypsy woman is pissed at Heathcliff because he's dressed like her to the last detail...all the way down to her hunch back, then he told her her fortune: That the Garbage Night Ape was going to have his way with her.

The Garbage Night Ape: Appears in daylight.

You learn something new every day.

Yesterday:



Heathcliff is hell bent on walking the batter.

Today:



Heathcliff has a huge ego.

Alternate Punchline: There seems no end to this economic crisis.

The owners lost their legs.

Heathcliff ate a pot of gold.

Heathcliff and Spike simultaneously spot a Hostess Cup Cake on the ice and decide to settle it like gentlemen: hockey fight. Heathcliff, being the less retarded of the two, wins via a Dragon Punch. Rather than eat the Cup Cake, Heathcliff acts a fool and cuts an Irish jig, it being close to St. Patrick's Day and all. The rules of hockey (and thus life) are then broken, and a disembodied arm high fives with a cat.

Uhh...wasn't it Spring two days ago?

Edit: Holy shit, the ref is blind!

This is Saturday's Heathcliff. As if you needed any more proof that Pete is phoning it in, this is also something like the fifth time Gallagher has inserted a lame joke into the stock drawing of Heathcliff floating down the steps with his lawyer, who always seems to be gripping the collar of his jacket.

Still though, Heathcliff is really good at pretending to cry.

It was 60 degrees wherever Gallagher's castle is, so he decided to make a spring joke.

It wasn't a good one.

Heathcliff's bitch is in heat.

I would pay money to see "The Lobster Queen" on Deadliest Catch.

Heathcliff, not satisfied with the cocktail shrimp on his head, asks for donations of minnows, clams, and squid. The customer is bemused as to how clams count as bait, and decides to do something sinful with the hand that's in his pocket.

Heathcliff has a money cape. A man with a huge nose wants it. Gallagher is an anti-Semite.

Owner Boy, being in "the position," shits his pants. Heathcliff, all the way on the other side of the country, hears, and runs home to make fun of him.

Heathcliff thinks that the best way to win a cat show (a cat show that seems to be run at least 32 times a year) is to bring a bunch of mice in as witnesses to his character as pretty much the worst cat ever. He was wrong.

Heathcliff is shocked to find that the ass-like growth on his head is, in fact, a tooomah.

Heathcliff, being to baseball what Barry Bonds is to baseball, decides to take his bat in for a tune up. The mechanic agrees, not wanting to upset the fat fucker (and also not being averse to an easy payday), so agrees to take a look at the ol' Louisville Slugger. The conclusion?

Heathcliff is fucking retarded.

Heathcliff is not a certified tax wizard.

Heathcliff decides to take his bitch out on a classy date. Rather than dropping a fat wad on some actual good food, Heathcliff decides to drop the same wad on garbage, because when you give a cat human features (like the ability to carry money and decide to go to a classy restaurant) and a choice between a 5 star dinner and garbage, garbage will win every time.

*Insert your favorite Catholic priest/bestiality joke here*

Monkeys: Part of the Grapefruit League since forever.

Also, the "mascot" shirt is cute. I want one.

An increasing number of Heathcliff's have defied explanation, like the one above. In the future, I'll avoid posting them, because I don't want to be all like "hurr...Gallagher don't write no good jokes." That would be the makings of a piss rag of a blog. Y'know...for e-piss.

In any event, the man usually wears his dog on his wrist.