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.