Heathcliff wanted chicken. Heathcliff wanted liver. Meow Mix, Meow Mix, didn't deliver.

Some worms aren't free range.

According to the man-thing with the most glorious hair ever, Heathcliff is a natural. At what? Who knows.

Heathcliff is a cat.

Four Things About the Beach:

1. Water is sand.

2. Fishing lines don't snap taught when a fish jumps out of the water...they snap into a 90 degree angle.

3. Towels are sand.

4. Female cats, who usually prance around nude, are huge prudes at the beach, opting to don bikinis instead.

One Thing About Sprinklers:

1. They're great bukkake tools.

Heathcliff usually yawns to remain inconspicuous before the eyes of Mr. Nutmeg. Once garbage oxymoron breath knocks him out, H-Cliff has his way with the wife, hence the terror in her eyes.

Mrs. Nutmeg hires a Mexican to rescue Heathcliff from the horrors of sex.

An old man finally realizes that his truest, most faithful friend has succumbed to Alzheimer's.

Heathcliff and Spike want a ring to commemorate their fierce Battleship rivalry, but that sort of thing requires a jeweler to be badass. This jeweler, obviously, is not.

Future battleships will be sunk by Heathcliff and Spike with the gleam of an engagement ring in their eyes. How cute.

The mouse is clearly referring to her "pie" or her "roast beef" or her "split-top muffin," and man, does Heathcliff look hungry.

Heathcliff creates a massive bust of Robert E. Lee, commemorating the fallen Rebel General's sojourn through the world of small appliances in those dull post-Appomattox days.

Heathcliff, by virtue of spitting out the money shot, lets up a home run. Declaring his work done, he fucks off into the sunset, ala Mary Poppins.

Heathcliff has a penis where his paw should be.

Even Heathcliff is astonished at how retarded today's joke is.

Heathcliff is fat. His fatness requires three sets of the Nutmeg's mutant ACE comb hands to satisfy it. If I were Heathcliff, I'd require a near-naked Twi'lek and a scantily clad Princess Leia and a gay droid to entertain me.

Wearing watermelon on your head is a sure way to avoid birds shitting on your head.

Q: Reverend, why does God hate amputees?
A: God also hates cats. Get out of here before he smites you.

7/13/08


Heathcliff looks at his T-shirt with a crazy amount of superstition, not unlike a monkey at a monolith. The shirt magically grows the letter B and teaches the cat how to iron and then sprint like a human so that he could stand in line with a few other cats with similar magic T-shirts, only theirs have the letter O on them. They then let off some steam, soundless though hyperintellegent. Hmm. "B-O-O-O." BOOO. Booo. Oh! They're booing the guy, because, get it, CATS HATE DOGS! And Iggy owns a cat, SO HE HATES DOGS, TOO! And Iggy is a fucking asshole for reminding his Cat to stand at his neighbor's driveway, disturbing the peace and devaluing his property with all his orange fur and fat. And the Nutmegs wonder why they have a new neighbor every day.

In other news, William Nickel has an AMAZING cat.

7/14/08


Heathcliff is chewing the gum that came in 1988 Topps Trading Cards, so not only do they taste like steroids, there's a hint of Wade Boggs, cardboard, plant fumes, and the sweat of Mexicans. Steroids were not an issue in 1988 though, so all that sweet anabolic flavor is perfectly legal.

The baitman wonders why he didn't throw the Five Black Rods of Death at Heathcliff before the furry little bastard did the same. Now Heathcliff will have all the bait he wants for his drink stand. Curses!

Heathcliff looks guilty.

Heathcliff's plan: Sewing assholes closed and feeding (and feeding, and feeding) mice until they explode.

Jesus, Mrs. Nutmeg is a terrible looking woman. The joystick hat is one thing, but she just looks so lumpy and awkward. She's using her breasts as some kind of table to rest her T. Rex arm upon, while the other, with it's half-hand, seems to be pointing somewhere...perhaps the local suicide booth. With her unflattering dress/coat combo and tiny, useless glasses, Mrs. Nutmeg is simply a walking abombination. I wonder how, or even if, Iggy's parents were procreated. I'm assuming that, if Iggy is the product of sexual contact, it's incest. That explains a lot, actually. Perhaps he crawled up out of the sewer.

Looks aside, it is Mrs. Nutmeg who offers us today's outdated, misinformed punchline. I would double check to see if Feng Shui involved the location of living, breathing things, but I'm sure that, if it did, it'd be possible to acheive perfect balance. I like the inference that all interior designers practice a stupid buzzword. I also like how the use of picture frames is supposed to set this generic store front apart from the rest.

Heathcliff has one hell of a gag reflex. Look at those motion lines...I'm picturing the opening of the Six Million Dollar Man...or really, any video of somebody running with that inspirational music in the background.

Sadly, I'm also envisioning what Mr. Nutmeg makes Heathcliff do that causes him to spit things at him. And now I'm envisioning somebody coming in the Six Million Dollar Man's mouth.

Hail to the 'Cliff, baby.

"Have you ever fucked a sandy vagina before? It hurts." - Mr. Nutmeg

Mr. Nutmeg got pulled over by the eyeless, mouthless cop for driving a car that's missing the driver's side door (and left rear passenger). Heathcliff attempts to bribe him by dropping Hamiltons, but he's not much of an Aaron Burr fan.

The look on Heathcliff's face will give me nightmares for a very long time. As long as this gives me a break from the Spock/Kirk/my mother threeways, I'm game.

The mice of the Nutmeg residence have lost the War of Feline Aggression. Mrs. Nutmeg will miss those pesky, patriotic pests (awesome alliteration, asshole), because she's bleeding stupid enough to assume that the mice are carrying around a replica of the original American flag. Those mutant rats are crafty, but not so mentally advanced as to fool the true patriot in this strip. Heathcliff knows the score: the flag had 13 stars, not 7.

Still, I'm curious as to what "Battle Hymn of the Mousepublic" sounds like.

Heathcliff's bites turn dogs into zombies.

Heathcliff is douching the umpire.