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.

While the "joke" is self-explanatory (and really, who doesn't enjoy shitting on Heathcliff?), I'm guessing that the larger point behind this strip is that Heathcliff is some kind of battletank, capable of completely ignoring acorns and bird dung as he takes his destructive, broken-footed stroll through the neighborhood. He doesn't even look annoyed with the squirrel's antics, most likely because he's about to cut down the telephone pole and sodomize him with it.

There's a reason for the abject terror in Iggy's eyes: Look at the look on Heathcliff's face, then look at where Iggy Nutmeg's comb-hand is.

Happy 400th post, Heathcliff.

Edit: Either what I thought was happening is happening, or Heathcliff's body is twisted at impossible angles, which makes Mrs. Nutmeg's comment even creepier, considering the huge, dead cat on their laps.

Oxymorons often fail as penis size descriptors.

Mrs. Nutmeg is packing quite the bulge.

Heathcliff built a wall, impaling three dogs in the process. As they wail their final death moans, the dog catcher oddly remarks that Heathcliff is an artist and will be better appreciated when dead.

Edit: The dog catcher's opinions on art should immediately be discredited. He's the type of idiot who requires a sign above his desk to tell him what his fucking job is.

Peter Gallagher is fucking baked, man.

Peter Gallagher has heard of this government bailout, but mistook it for the Great Society programs instituted by LBJ. It's (not) a common mistake.

Mr. Nutmeg is as shocked as I that a Tom Green reference would pop up in his comic strip.

For a second, I thought that was Alfred Hitchcock going up the escalator, but its just a purple lady amongst some other half-colorless stuff. I don't know why there's a lamp in the flea collar section, a flea collar section in a department store, or a man in the department store whose job is to hold a coat hanger full of flea collars for the one cat in the universe who shops for flea collars at the department store, but I do know that he's jacking off on the job. They look down on that in med school.

Heathcliff's neighbor was shocked to discover that his house had magically ceased to exist for the sake of some artist's desire to demonstrate his poor working knowledge of cannons and small mammals.

Mrs. Nutmeg's lack of hands suggest that Heathcliff has finally gone off the deep end, hence the bacon. Heathcliff's defiant, cologne holding stance suggests "Fuck the police, coming straight out the underground."

Pac Man is about to crash land into that house, thus ending this horrible comic strip once an for all.

"This economy is tough on everybody," the former CFO of a division of a major multinational American banking conglomerate said to the housecat selling mice on the sidewalk three miles from the rich, affluent, gated community where he'd lived until the Sword of Damocles crashed upon his neck.

Day 53, he thought to himself, spoke to tabby cat; looks like good source of protein. Things are rough. Burned last scraps of suit for warmth; stole new jacket from neighborhood kid. Tight. Uncomfortable. Serviceable for time being. Starvation a good diet.

Heathcliff believes that the umpire isn't properly calling balls and strikes and thus takes it upon himself to wash the fellow's eyes out with Clear Eyes. In a funny twist, it turns out that being sprayed full bore in the eyes with any sort of liquid will blur one's vision. Such action usually isn't condoned on the diamond, even if such a proposed solution were to work, so Heathcliff's action, noble in intention though they may be, will likely see him ejected from the game. Amidst all this, a portly, bean-shaped man quips to his teammate about the irony of the situation the umpire finds himself in.

Quite pleasant.

The only explaination for Heathcliff's ability to send a bowl of food flying with enough force to break Mr. Nutmeg's ankles despite hitting him in the head, using only a tennis racket, besides a lack of basic anatomical knowledge on the part of the artist?

Steroids.

Nothing says "romance" like dropkicking your ladylove in the face from 10,000 feet.

Gitmo: Hilarious.