Heathcliff is shocked to find that the ass-like growth on his head is, in fact, a tooomah.

Heathcliff, being to baseball what Barry Bonds is to baseball, decides to take his bat in for a tune up. The mechanic agrees, not wanting to upset the fat fucker (and also not being averse to an easy payday), so agrees to take a look at the ol' Louisville Slugger. The conclusion?

Heathcliff is fucking retarded.

Heathcliff is not a certified tax wizard.

Heathcliff decides to take his bitch out on a classy date. Rather than dropping a fat wad on some actual good food, Heathcliff decides to drop the same wad on garbage, because when you give a cat human features (like the ability to carry money and decide to go to a classy restaurant) and a choice between a 5 star dinner and garbage, garbage will win every time.

*Insert your favorite Catholic priest/bestiality joke here*

Monkeys: Part of the Grapefruit League since forever.

Also, the "mascot" shirt is cute. I want one.

An increasing number of Heathcliff's have defied explanation, like the one above. In the future, I'll avoid posting them, because I don't want to be all like "hurr...Gallagher don't write no good jokes." That would be the makings of a piss rag of a blog. Y'know...for e-piss.

In any event, the man usually wears his dog on his wrist.