It's New Year's Eve, and what better way to celebrate than by dressing up like Abe Lincoln and playing the tuba? Owner-Man can think of a lot of things, like getting drunk and boning French Maid Owner Woman, or jumping over Pac Man. Jealous that he can't do any of these things, he yells at Heathcliff in front of his adoring public, who have no problems with the tuba playing, Lincoln mocking tabby cat who wears bunny slippers. Perhaps he's also a bit miffed that Heathcliff dropped the tuba on his leg, breaking his ankle. The funny way he walks has become the subject of much laughter, and as such, pisses off an already enraged man.

I can't wait to see who makes out with who tomorrow.

Heathcliff's lawer thought it'd be funny to draft up Heathcliff's New Years Resolutions, and boy were they right! In all the panels where Heathcliff can be seen, it looks like his face was stolen from Cathy, especially the one with his tongue hanging out. Also, what the fuck is with Marcy from Peanuts suddenly appearing. Is she some kind of Deus ex machina? "Oh fuck, somebody has to say something, and they can't just say it to themselves! I know! I'll just plug in Marcy! And I'll forget to draw hands! And I'll leave 'Schomey' with only two paws!"

When I realize there's a paycheck at the end of all that, I envy legacy comic artists.

Yesterday



Some random chick with manga eyes pets Heathcliff, who got a hot new cell phone for Christmas. In an effort to get in with today's generation, he sends a text message relating his glee, or perhaps hatred of this woman (cat speak is hard to decipher, even in text message format). She should be lucky: whenever I get a text message, it's from some random hood rat who is all like "Yoz, I ususally jak peepz shitz 4 lezz dan dis -_^ wut wut, playah?" I'm sure that's what "purr" really means.

I love how shocked Owner-Lady is that her cat is using a phone. I'd be more shocked that he's giving the middle finger.

Today



Spike, tired of losing to Heathcliff on a constant basis, called up Barry Bonds and asked for a hook-up. After weeks of a carefully supervised training regimen and even going so far as losing dramatic snowball fight reenactments on purpose (I guess that'd be why it's a reenactment), he decides that now is the time for Heathcliff's comeuppance. Heathcliff and Owner Boy are thusly challenged to a boulder throwing fight. Thinking it a joke, they pack snowballs. Spike lifts and hurls a boulder. Guess who isn't fucked.

Meanwhile, instead of sparing his grandson and cat from their gristly fate, he comments to a new neighbor about the state of the game. And possibly how gay Spike's scarf is.

This, truly, is as good as Heathcliff will ever be.

Heathcliff bones a skunk, then takes her out to dinner. She's not extremely classy, so she orders a femur, while Heathcliff settles for the fish. Pac Man sings "Bella Note" while the skunk inquires as to Heathcliff's condition, presumably because he sneezed off panel.

To be honest, I'm not entirely convinced that that's a skunk. It might be a cat that wound up getting paint dumped on her, ala the object of Pepe Lepeu's desire. It looks more like a cat than a skunk, and other than the fact that she's eating a human bone (seriously, a serial killer must be in that neighborhood...look at the contents of those garbage cans!), but cats are also known to hate humans and eat them. Skunk? Cat? Meh...she's certainly up several levels from Heathcliff's previous chick.

Heathcliff was tripping on Nog when the shit went sour, and he started having visions of sugarplums dancing through his head. If I were Heathcliff, and I saw dancing sugarplums, I'd probably enlist the services of a sad fucking shrink, too.



That's what a fucking sugarplum looks like. All I know is that when I'm waking up at five in the fucking morning for some doorbusters at Best Buy, I don't want any fucking California Raisin abomination smiling and dancing at me. Shitty fucking shrink (is he a post-holiday meme with Peter or something?) had better hook my boy up with some anti-depressants, or he's gonna get the claw.

Heathcliff furiously shreds Christmas presents open, looking for that elusive Nintendo 64. Owner-Man quips that they appreciated the wrapping paper, to which I retort that they did not, and that, in reality, nobody does. It's all a bunch of shiny paper with fat Santas and crucified Jesuses, and really, who the fuck cares about any of that? It's all about the gifts man, the $30 hunk of plastic with the lead based paint that takes the form of date rape when left in a cool, dry environment. And Nintendo 64s. Fuck the other shit though, and especially fuck the wrapping paper.

'Twas the day before Christmas
And all through the house
Peter Gallagher was fuming -
By God what a grouch!

Today's Heathcliff was drawn
By ghost artists with care
In fear, perhaps hope
Their slave wages would be there.

Mad Mr. Gallagher did laugh with a wink,
For a bad jokester, he's much smarter than you think.
"Pete" they cried, "we need money for presents!"
"Nonsense!" he yelled back, "help me feast on these pheasants."

They cooked, they cleaned, put the feast on the table
And Gallagher ate it, as quickly as able.
"Sir!" they screamed, "What about our share?"
"I'm the king of this castle, I'm eating what's fair."

"You didn't do a damn thing for this strip," a challenging slave replied.
"Good! It sucked a flaccid cock anyhow," the Boss said, stripping them of pride.
"The wallpaper's plaid, the tree is bent, and why no block letters?
The fuck's in those boxes? Some old ratty sweaters?"

"Well sir," he said, with a curious grin,
"It's a parody of sorts, with the kids it will win."
"Well fuck that," he said, "that cat should be eating those mice,
I'm tired of this strip being kid friendly and nice."

Then Gallagher rose, flinging his chair with such a clatter
And crushed his elf's head with his fist - what a splatter!
"Get back to work, you fucking miscreants!
Fuck your mothers tonight, its Christmas, I'm spent."