Heathcliff is number one.

Mark Trail's talking house makes a very special guest appearance in today's Heathcliff, where the punchline is that Mr. Nutmeg wants a little quiet to play poker on his hunting trip, while Heathcliff wants to lure the forest animals to the cabin so they'll eat Mr. Nutmeg and his friends.

The Horn of Gondor appears to be an all-purpose animal call.

Edit: I usually ignore Kitty Korner, but today's is just fantastic.

For the purpose of today's awesome joke, Heathcliff's nose has migrated to the top of his head. A giant's penis has buried itself in Mr. Nutmeg's skull (causing immense pleasure), and an injured spider disguised as a propeller cap lays its eggs in Iggy's brain. This is a sure sign of the apocalypse, which Heathcliff welcomes with a blast of his trumpet (sucks to be the city of Jericho), and the church welcomes with the pealing of their bells. Iggy, for a change, is the only one who isn't crazy.

Somebody please tell me that I'm not the only person who sees a startling link between the above strip and the following WWII propaganda posters. Please.







Heh..."Jap trap." Oh shit, those mice had better look out!

What's Heathcliff done?

1. Charged skywriting on Mr. Nutmeg's credit card.
2. Hired a commercial plane to do a prop plane's job.
3. Shook the heavens and the earth to such an extent that all the houses on the block were moved farther and farther away from the sidewalk.
4. Cut off your hands (and Iggy's).
5. Can't be bothered to look at the handiwork of the skywriter, likely due to a bird flying slightly to the left.
6. Nothing. Mr. Nutmeg is simply paranoid about his cat's ability to act like a human because he's probably the result of some consort between a cat and a jackal. If your cat was the Cat of the Devil, you'd be paranoid, too.

I found all six!

The economy, if you haven't noticed, sucks a massive dick, forcing Mrs. Nutmeg to shop at a tiny store called Huge Deals where Gas Pills (For Cats) come in huge fucking boxes that are bigger than the store itself. The store also appears to be frequented and staffed by a crew of ghosts.

Heathcliff, for his part, looks fucking terrified. The economy, sucking as much penis as it does, has forced many hard working families to find alternative ways to fuel their driving machines. Deep fryer oil not being in ready supply for the Nutmegs, the family decided to take a chance on these new Gas Pills (For Cats) in an effort to wrench something useful from the most useless member of the family. Heathcliff's problem with all this?

Gas Pills (For Cats) are a suppository. A fucking huge suppository.