If you chopped Heathcliff's head off, it'd look lovely as marshmallow garnish.

Mr. Nutmeg is upset because he isn't treated like the wife of a skywriter.

Heathcliff actually looks badass here, and as long as the joke is that the welcome mat was placed before Heathcliff by those mice in an effort to kill that other mouse, we've hit Heathcliff paydirt for maybe the third time ever.

Mr. Nutmeg is trying to kill Heathcliff via the exhaust port on his laptop. It appears to be working.

Heathcliff successfully mocked the man indoors for being fat.

"Don't go in the water."

Jughead once said that to Betty, adding on "cuz you're a woman." The two got drunk and Jughead was about to go where no man (but Archie) had gone before, only for Betty to grow a set of teeth down there and bite off his pecker. Mutilated and embarrassed, he's now forced to collect garbage at night, under the light of Pacman.

Heathcliff's massage came with a happy ending.

I have no earthly idea what Mrs. Nutmeg is staring at. Heathcliff's dad tunneled out of the bathroom, where he's apparently been holed up for the past year (or more). So...unless the rooms of the Nutmeg house rotate on a punchline to punchline basis, their bathroom is at the front of the house and the window is always open and the neighborhood can always see what's going on...which is just gross.

Heathcliff is a homeless man with kids to feed and a $45 1987 Cooperstown Collection Chicago White Sox cap. He means you no harm. Will you listen to his story?

Mr. Nutmeg is too drunk to realize that the mouse crapped in his drink. He's also throwing out thinly veiled sexual innuendos. Mr. Nutmeg hasn't realized that the mouse is a dude.

What the fuck kind of bike is that?

Heathcliff is in love with Jabba the Hutt.

Those birds are plotting to shit on an unsuspecting Heathcliff.

Heathcliff, for a change, decides to do his job. His artist, for a change, decides to give him a face.

In lieu of an actual punchline, Peter Gallagher opts to gross me the fuck out.

Heathcliff tried to eat a dragon.

Chicago

I know that I just got back from a trip, but I'm taking a shorter weekend trip to Chicago with a bunch of friends. I'll be back Tuesday.

Most T.V. sets don't have instant replay pre-installed: It costs too much.

You see...Heathcliff has a straw...and it reaches acrooooooooooooooooooooooooooss the room...right into that vat of dairies. He. Drinks. Those. Dairies! He drinks them up.

Metapost

This blog is back up to date. Rejoice. Be glad. All that shit.

As for why it took until now, I've still been in shock from actually seeing a Heathcliff in a real life newspaper. It's New York though, and there's about 5 newspapers that apply to a given street, there it was, black and white, on the street corner. I didn't pick it up, fearing its radioactive prowess, but somebody out there is actually putting this in their newspaper, and that just blows my mind.

Coming soon: Mark Trail of Tears.

Heathcliff is a NASA test pilot. They aren't expecting him to survive.

The medal will be revoked later when it's revealed that the garbage can has been doping.

A man is forced to deep throat the ghost penis of Desi Arnaz.

Today's Happy Gilmore inspired strip teaches us a valuable lesson: Even properly tagged and collard dogs should be destroyed as violently as possible.

No breaks allowed.

Heathcliff got a haircut. The mob is amused.

Heathcliff, by virtue of floating in mid-air whilst napping, will win the gold metal, drawing the attention of any and all Agents in the area.

The umpire can't argue because Heathcliff replaced his face with bubbles.

Heathcliff wants some uppers and downers for his ice cream cone. Handless vet mistakes Heathcliff's request to "see all the colors of the rainbow" as a plea for sprinkles.

With the recession in full swing, the market for giant, mutant rats has shrunk significantly, foiling Heathcliff's plans to create a second money cape.

There is a storage facility out there somewhere with an infinate amount of Heathcliffs chilling on ice, neck deep in mothballs, waiting for Iggy to trot just the right one off to the location of the next punchline.

A clone army made up of thousands of Heathcliffs sounds scarier than any army coming from Jango Fett's midichlorians.

Mr. Nutmeg can't afford central air, but his mice can.

New York

I'm away on vacation in NYC for the week. I have no idea how often I'll update this while I'm gone.

Heathcliff can fit large objects in his mouth, which is only funny when placed in a sexual context.