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