1st Aniversary Mega Post

On October 29th, 2007, I started Heathcliff Explained in an effort to be cool and impress the ladies via my ability to mock a lame comic that spawned a cartoon I liked as a kid. Judging by the number of ladies who I've had a relationship with, my plan failed. However, I've somehow had 2,703 visitors, 6,579 visits, and 12,891 pageviews in a year, which is shocking considering that Heathcliff appears in maybe one newspaper.

So thanks. I mean it. Yea though I may walk through the valley of flea baths and awful Halloween costumes, I have endured, because I knew you were with me.

Let's see if I can keep this going for another year.

10/28/09

Not only is Marcy from Peanuts now the teacher of Iggy Nutmeg's school, she's apparently been replaced with a Terminator model. They have no mercy. They can't be bribed. They'll grade your awful paper with a quickness that'll make a Scantron machine's head spin.

Judging by the poster above the blackboard that shows the alphabet, Iggy is in 2ed grade, tops. The fact that he is failing enough that his cat feels the need to bribe a Terminator denoted nothing except for how pathetic Iggy Nutmeg truly is.

10/29/08

Heathcliff has a new neighbor, and he's a bit worried that the cat next door is a Dracula. Mr. Nutmeg assures him that he just likes his milk blood red, but if it prances like a Dracula, and if it raises its cape like a Dracula, then it must be...a Dracula!

10/30/08

A near repeat of the first strip I ever mocked.A day late, a dollar short. What we'll never be able to explain is how these pizzerias and delis stay in business without the board of health cracking down on them for live bats and haunted pepperoni.

10/31/08

A.I.G. spent it already.

As a Detroit Lions fan, I'm willing to believe that winning the coin toss is worthy of a Gatorade shower. Problem is, that doesn't look like Gatorade.

Bad as this looks, it's still better than the end of Universal's House of Frankenstein, which boasted Frankenstein's Monster, the Wolf Man, Dracula, a hunchback, and gypsies while managing not a single scene of the monster, Wolf Man, Dracula, together. I would have settled for a publicity shot.

Even when Heathcliff does his job (getting mice out of the house), Mrs. Nutmeg finds something to fault him with.

"I tell you, Marcy, it's nice that the house is mouse free for the minute, but that cat hasn't once cleaned up any mess Iggy's made with food left around mouseholes, he's never ripped one of those bastards to shreds on our new carpet, and I've yet to see him buy a single stick of TNT to blow them up with! It's disheartening, in a way."

Heathcliff's penis can blow entire electrical grids.

The practice of faking an orgasm has reached a new low.

Look at it... a young trophy wife, in the parlance of our times, you know, and she, uh, uh, owes money all over town, including to known pornographers, and that's cool... that's, that's cool, I'm, I'm saying, she needs money, man. And of course they're going to say that they didn't get it, because... she wants more, man! She's got to feed the monkey, I mean uh... hasn't that ever occurred to you, man? Sir?

Heathcliff holds power over artwork similar to the power that the Pagemaster holds over books. Thing is, Heathcliff's artwork has always sucked, so whatever he conjures from it to fight the legions of whatever threatens him will likely not do well in battle, even if Mrs. Nutmeg hacked off her hand in the kitchen. Oh, and The Pagemaster sucked, so there's a precedent for failure.

Heathcliff is so fat that the only costume that fit him is that pumpkin costume that mean parents buy for their fat kids. Dude should just put on a sheet and go out as the Poltergeist. He already has the floating part down pat.

Good plan, Heathcliff! The mouse hides in the fishbowl? Fish for it. Mice like cheese, and clearly, they go for that sort of thing by sight, not by smell. Not only that, but he'll certainly be able to take the bait through his breather! Fishing without a hook is a similarly smart plan. Wouldn't want to hurt the mouse, would we?

The stripes were a dead giveaway, Relative Number One! The local police would have assumed that Heathcliff was the Headless Garbage Man, but you go and give it all away because you forgot to change.

I like how the cop is adjusting his belt. It must be too tight. Clearly he's dissatisfied with his status as one of Gallagher's Weeble people who wiggle and wobble but never fall down. Not all cops are doughnut sucking, coffee swilling authoritarians, Mr. Gallagher.

Mrs. Nutmeg is upset because Heathcliff fits into the hot tub and she can't. Making matters worse, Heathcliff is macking on his girlfriend, and Mr. Nutmeg likely wouldn't be able to tell the promised land from a fat roll if he wanted to.

Heathcliff's idea? The Mickey Mouse Club, which plays pleasant marching music to distract you from the fact that you're bludgeoning a mouse to death with a club.

Mr. Nutmeg's shift is up.

The thought of hanging a dog out of a hot air balloon to save a few bucks on gas is a happy one.

That's not how leaf blowers, reverse whistles, or Spenser's Gifts sized dildos work. First, they're built to blow leaves away (or they're built for her pleasure). Blowing a bowl of food up just isn't possible, dry or not. Second, who blows leaves while they're still falling? Third, isn't the leaf blower just a futile gesture anyhow? Like, it's just a casual "Fuck you" to nature. The leaves aren't going to disappear because you've blown them around a bit - now they're just at the fence line. So what?

"Yeah, take that Mother Nature, you fucker! You think you can best me with your Fall? Huh? Well I just burned a gallon of gas, just to simulate a strong, deafening wind!"

I bet it's 6 AM, and Marcy next door is talking Peppermint Patty away from the shotgun.

Heathcliff looks like a fucking pimp in his suit with his shades. It's good to see Steve Guttenberg get some work.

Heathcliff likes dressing up in clothes that are...well...not appropriate for his gender. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but those mice want to make their suicide run in peace, and the pink, with the sparkles? It's a tad distracting. A tad. Yeah.

Mr. Nutmeg clearly can't tell if he should be impressed with Heathcliff or enraged at him.

Impressed: He owns a cat who is smart enough and has the resources to flood the basement and stock it with trout.

Enraged: Where to begin? Heathcliff's "resources" typically begin and end with Mr. Nutmeg's wallet. The credit card bill will surely mention something like an in-basement pool, at which point Mr. Nutmeg will be forced to go on a manhunt for the guy who flooded the basement on the merits of "Meow. #*%&. Meow." His empty basement is now a lake, which means that he has no place to imprison Mrs. Nutmeg or Iggy for disobeying him. Heathcliff is stretching out his favorite pair of goulashes. The plumber feels the need to explain a clearly explainable situation.

Sooner or later, enough will be enough. In this tough economy, one can't afford man made basement lakes, let alone stocking that lake with trout. Money is tight, and Heathcliff is going to have to realize that. Sadly for him, that moment probably won't come until Mr. Nutmeg chucks the fat fucker into the deep fryer.

Heathcliff and the dogs in lock up are astonished at the dog catcher's inability to distinguish a baby kangaroo from a chihuahua. Give him a break, fellas - the man is clearly delusional from losing his hand in some freak altercation with one of those mutts in Beverly Hills.

A wizard wears precisely what he wants. That Dungeonmaster-looking 45 year old failure ought to know that. It isn't the wizard hat that makes the tie look bad - it's the fact that Heathcliff is a fat, furry basketball with a head and a pulse.

Is that Hitchcock in a wig going up the escalator?

Well played, Mr. Gallagher. This is the first of 45 Halloween strips, and I'm sure that tomorrow will bring the suck like last year, but I'm willing to hope that all of them feature Sleepy Hollow references, capes, garbage cans with eighth note handles, badly drawn Pac Man, nighttime garbage collecting, one of the Pac ghosts, and the possibility of Jughead getting doused with garbage, count me in.

Heathcliff, undaunted by The Amazing Spiderman's display of wanton Hispanic nudity, retorts with Mr. Nutmeg, naked in a tub with Heathcliff, his lower half probably kicking at the poor Nowhere Man in the Sea of Holes.

Kitty Korner makes light of an evil, laughing cat. Par for the course, I guess.

Ho, a golf joke!

Somebody love me.

Holy mother of God, Mr. Nutmeg's mustache has grown a baby's arm, and it's looking to punch him in the tonsils!

Aaaaaand we're back to normal. I'm kind of surprised that Heathcliff isn't batting from a penalty box, but hey, potentially breaking the laws of physics when Heathcliff hits the ball counts for something, right?

No, I guess it doesn't. I fail.

Heathcliff is becoming painfully aware of just how life works this day and age. I'm slowly becoming convinced that that huge backstock of steroid strips has melted away, forcing Gallagher into a mad dash to produce socially relevant strips. Yesterday's bailout strip wasn't half bad, and today's is about as good as one panel legacy strips get. It's like...well...it's like somebody is trying to get rid of me.

Please, Pete...don't put me out of a job! These are tough times, and I'm an obese looser at 20! Where do I go from there? Huh? Huh? Don't do this to me.

9/29/08


"It was back when Bobby Darrin and Elvis Presley were on the hydrogen jukebox. Man, you had to know what you were doing back then. You had to treat that guitar like she was the woman you were singing about. Angel headed hipsters husking and busking down sidewalks and beaches, looking for a hit and paying their dues. Today? Today you give a cat an instrument; hep cat, alley cat, pussy cat; you give any kinda cat in the world an instrument and they think they're great. They're not great. Frank Sinatra...now that was greatness. Old Blue Eyes himself, my friend. This cat? These cats? No. They're in it for the money, the fame, the YouTube hits. That ain't music, man. That...ain't...music."

9/30/08

Strips like these make me regret that I have a blog about Heathcliff. First, there's no joke. Second, how am I supposed to mine a coherent joke from the punchline I'm presented with? When Heathcliff makes with the normal punchline/abstract art format, we clearly all lose.


10/1/08
Turns out they don't give bailouts to anybody these days. What, did the U.S. Mint run out of ink?