Ichabod Crane They Ain't...

Something is missing, methinks...







Oh yeah, that's right: A general sense of headlessnes.

And fire. Headless Huskie's Jack o' Lantern head had better be flaming, or it'd best go home.

Copy/Paste

Heathcliff's new neighbors' definition of "best costumes" is a loose one, obviously.

So many bodily appendages missing. So many 1930's prisoners wondering where their uniforms went. So many clones being pumped out by the FBI who are prone to doing the exact same thing at the exact same time. So much pain.

The guy inside the fish market is, as you may have noticed, talking to nobody.

Also, Heathcliff is a rather poor salesperson. He's the one who steals fish. Why sell insurance against that act if he's the perpetrator.

Somebody needs to explain insurance to Mr. Gallagher.

Mrs. Nutmeg is a ghost, and the Nutmeg residence may be the most poorly decorated in all of New York. Green walls and brown couches. Ghostly Mrs. Nutmeg couldn't even bother to push one of them up against the wall.

Heathcliff's smoking jacket is pretty pimp, though.

Comics like the one above are the reason I don't update daily anymore.

CAN'T UNSEE.

Heathcliff, explained.

Heathcliff is airing himself out after intercourse. Mr. Nutmeg, no stranger to Heathcliff's sexual deviancy, is used to the smell.

I can hardly contain my laughter.

It probably isn't Heathcliff's birthday, but confusion on the part of the singing hot dog, what with the lack of eye holes and the pain from his broken arm.

Snowballing with the umpire is a good way to get ejected from the game.

Circled: Eight unexplainable things.

21st century, motherfucker!

Heathcliff is down with the modern culture!










(And 30-year-old "humor" from Garfield.)

If Heathcliff is so satisfied, why does the fishmonger have a look on his face that says "That cat just ate my children?" instead of a used-car salesman grin/thumbs up?

This is as brilliant as Heathcliff will ever be, folks.

Not pictured: the pyramid of shaved dogs with bags over their heads, seconds before Heathcliff turns on the hose.

He'll miss.

I win.

"But if it did, Joan Rivers would be so fucking wasted!"

Somebody got paid for this. You unemployed artists with pages of comic strip samples out there should be absolutely furious.

Mr. Nutmeg doesn't care if Billy is the only thing stopping the criminal element from hurling his house over the thin line standing between chaos and order - he wants that bastard out of the house, right now goddammit!

Mr. Nutmeg killed Shia LeBeouf, but it's cool, because he eats what he kills.

Heathcliff doesn't respond well to being bathed in Oxy-Clean.

Poor.

Heathcliff just stole shit.

Heathcliff is sticking to a steady diet of ghost penis. He seems to enjoy it.

Heathcliff's bookie had his eyes popped from their sockets via some off-panel show of force. Heathcliff's reaction isn't to the bookie sprinting away from the dentist's office with his eyes in his hands, but that his dentist thinks that the bookie's eyes are teeth. Heathcliff is in for a long day of public torture.

Heathcliff bet Spike that he could do one better than those strippers in Tijuana. Ping pong ball trick? So 2000-and-late.

Heathcliff fucks everything that moves.

The force of Heathcliff's snoring is such that it alters the physics of golf balls.

It turns out that the conservatives are right: The recent surge of gay marriage legislation has hurtled at least one boy down the slippery slope that leads from bestiality being a one time only Google search to an unfortunate, horrifying obsession. "Wrong pipe" indeed, Iggy Nutmeg.

While a good idea in theory, Heathcliff's sardine hatchery did not go over well with Mrs. Nutmeg.

Twitter: It doesn't work like that.

Heathcliff's girlfriend's owner was just telling his mannequin that he likes Heathcliff's meat.

Mrs. Nutmeg, having mistaken the pile of dead rats for decorative pine cones, lets her cat know that she likes the dead-rat-in-bowl more than her new Cat's Ass Glade Plug-in.

Heathcliff has a straw, and it reaches acrooooooooooooss the space-time continuum to 2007, when the milkshake meme was still funny.

Indoor cats: Much more interesting than their log rolling brethren.

Heathcliff, using a camera with an anglerfish-like flash, takes a picture of a garbage can that has recently been used as a toilet by a passing giant. According to Jughead, garbage cans are erotic to male cats. According to me, the cat in the bikini is there so Heathcliff has something to do once his erotic garbage can gives him a boner. According to Marcy's eyes, the pile of giant shit has a boner.

I'm not even going to point out that this is the exact duplicate of a strip from maybe a week ago, minus a squirl, plus a constipated grimace on the bird. Look at the above. Know that this comic is published in actual, real newspapers. Be astonished.

I wonder: Is God going to call "Fish out of water!" or are we now openly mocking the rules of marine biology?

Even the reference to horribly modern technology can't hide that Heathcliff's texting apparatus looks like a small, orange cock.

Dear UPS,

What can brown do for me?

It can make a somewhat benign cartoon cat look like he's hauling a wheelbarrow full of shit to Lord-knows-where for 4thmeal.

Sincerely,

Paul Arrand Rodgers

Heathcliff's blowjobs are not persuasive enough to stop the blue fury of the New York Police Department.

Also, I'm stunned that the cat got proper legs and feet, considering that the side door of Mr. Nutmeg's car closes shut on a tire that's doing its best to look like a droopy breast with a manhole cover squeezing it to death.