I can't tell what's more amazing: Heathcliff's ability to throw a fish from his house to the Adirondack Mountains, or that Gregg and Jen's cat meows.

Not pictured: The Rube Goldberg machine required to transport the bird from Heathcliff's makeshift birdbath helmet to his awaiting jaws.

Similarly not pictured: Heathcliff choking to death on the strap to his makeshift birdbath helmet. It's only a matter of time...

Oh Jesus, that fisherman's arm is nasty. It looks like a limp, Spencer's Gifts sized joke condom that somebody Sharpied on to give it fingers.

In possibly the nastiest Heathcliff strip ever, the cat wants to put garbage on his Fudgesicle, which explains the terror in the Fudgesicle guy's voice. Heathcliff must have had a power pellet, because I'll be damned if that isn't a dead Pac Man ghost near the top of the heap.

Inky was a good ghost...

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix...

Mr. Nutmeg's pissed off expression is really a mask for the intense fear rising in his bladder. He lopped off the top of Heathcliff's head hours ago, and he hasn't stopped running around in circles yet.

Oh, and Mrs. Nutmeg hasn't swept the floor in a fucking month, so yeah, maybe he is a little pissed off.

Heathcliff was aroused by lemonparty.org.

Heathcliff has no trouble bowling over several mice at a time, but when eight rocket powered ones gang up on him, he goes down? Bullshit. Even more bullshit is Iggy's "there is no spoon" style explanation for the phenomena.

Kitty Korner is especially awesome today, if you ever care to look at it. First, a man has supposedly named his cat "Howdy." Second, you'll notice that I properly used quotation marks while Gallagher...well...never has. Third, MTV is apparently the sort of channel that you can get by simply adjusting the antenna on your 1970's set. Far out.

Heathcliff is under the impression that his family is retarded. I'm under the impression that Mr. Nutmeg is a lower demon from the depths of hell. Just look at his horns!

We're both probably right.

Uhh...that's a worm.

And Wilford Brimley is a judge with a side job as a wizard.

This strip is awesome, unless the lawyer is the early bird. Then fuck you for fooling me, Pete.

Heathcliff blows a duck call, which prompts a bunch of ducks to show up around the umpire at a ball game. The ump, realizing that he's umping before a crowd of freshly popped corn, becomes embarrassed. If Heathcliff continues to blow the duck call, he won't merely be ejected: He'll get the ump's spiky brass knuckles upside (inside?) his forehead.

Note: Cincinnati got cold crushed by a pretty massive power outage. 70 mph winds and this town apparently don't mix. I have power now (obviously), but there are plenty of people who do not.

9/15/08

Clearly, Mrs. Nutmeg thinks that the extermination business runs a bit like Mouse Trap. Like...it'd be cool if Heathcliff set up some Rube Goldberg machine to catch the mice he could clearly devour at any minute, but playing whack-a-mole with their giant, mutated heads is likely as effective, and it cuts down on the number of anvils and wooden ships you have to keep around the house.

8/16/08

Heathcliff is asleep.

8/17/08
Heathcliff's head has migrated to where his front paws were. His breath isn't so bad because he's now unable to breathe. Such is life.

The above is not a common Garfield joke. I swear.

No, but judging from the strike zone painted on the wall, it's pretty freakin' easy to call strikes and balls. Looking at Heathcliff and Spike's inability to hit each other, even while split in two and swirling around in a mini-hurricane, I'm going to guess that whoever the batter was fanned on three pitches and is just being a bitch.

Clearly, Iggy meant to tell the kid with the testicle hat that Heathcliff doesn't like dogs.

There's nothing more romantic than murdering your wife on her birthday.

Marcy's cat is not an apt pupil, or else it'd be chilling on a hammock. That may be impossible though, as the Nutmeg's fence appears to cut across Marcy's yard at an extreme angle, giving only a little bit of space to her and Peppermint Patty. Of course, this won't matter, because once Marcy gets a peek at the Star Gate, it's all over.

Heathcliff tried eating a rather large supercookie, but its potency knocked him out in a single bite. His mouth, now festering with who knows what kind of drugs, contain the psychedelic possibilities of the Star Gate from 2001. Unfortunately for the mice sealed in their hole by Heathcliff's huge ass, they're going to have to go the other way. One option is the ultimate trip. The other is the sort only endured by hamsters on South Park. Either way, Mr. Nutmeg is sure to have a blast interpreting the results on his carpet the next day.

Heathcliff disguised himself as a vaudevillian actor assuming that there's nobody on the planet who can pick out one of those assholes from a cat. The owner of the fish market, who dabbles in soft shoe, ventriloquism, living statuism, and vaudeville, took offense.

Who is Heathcliff trying to fool?

Ready to rock...

I have no excuse for my laziness. School has kicked my ass, but really, that only hardly matters. In any case, everything is up now, from here to below. Be sure to drop me a line to tell me what you think.

I know you missed me.

Heathcliff is Bob Dylan.

Heathcliff insulted an Ent. He then fell in love with the fireman who chopped that motherfucker down.

If I ever see a firetruck like the one in this comic, I'll eat several of my fancy hats.

Heathcliff's house is below sea level. Pray for a flood.

Heathcliff is an old school political boss, in the style of Tammany Hall's Boss Tweed and Cincinnati's Boss Cox.

Peter Gallagher is displaced from his era.

Heathcliff is going to break his diet.

Heathcliff ran into that dog, whose owner assumed that confidence would trump mass times velocity any given day.

Heathcliff is choking out a group of dogs via the Force. This is music to Mr. Nutmeg's ears.