Vital Heathcliff Update

Hello from the crypt. I don't know why I never posted here after moving this project to Tumblr, but if you're still following this page on Blogger or end up here due to Google, you might want to know that there are two exciting options to keep up with Heathcliff Explained, which I re-relaunched a few days ago. They are

Tumblr: http://heathcliffexplained.tumblr.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/heathcliffexplained/

Also if you enjoyed this blog in the past/enjoy it in the future, maybe take a look at my Patreon page, which would be super great? https://www.patreon.com/colettearrand

For fun, here's the Heathcliff Explained I posted today.

The Garbage Ape went to Walt Disney World, but judging by the look on their face, they did not have a great time. Perhaps, as they gazed into the gigantic, lifeless eyes of the gathered mascots doing their best to entertain in the heat with plastic heads the size of dishwashers strapped to their bodies, the Garbage Ape came to realize that they, too, were a kind of mascot, a simulacrum representing the joy other animals feel about the prospect of eating garbage. Maybe they went to Walt Disney World and came back wondering when Heathcliff and the other cats would come to see them as an individual. Then, like they mascot siblings in Orlando, they dutifully took their garbage cans up and went bounding through the park, the whole time dreaming of their autonomy.

Heathcliff could build a million of these, and sell them to a million mice. The real estate bubble will always burst. The ocean will always sweep your home away.

The Heathcliffening

Three years is a long time, but for some reason I feel like explaining Heathcliff again. If you're interested in joining me, you may now do so on that miracle of the internet, Tumblr: http://heathcliffexplained.tumblr.com/

I understand why Heathcliff is upset. I'd be jealous of the Bearded Cowdog, too.

The Nutmegs got a new TV, but Heathcliff, that wacky cat, got a-hold of the remote! Hijinks ensue as he bounces it off the new neighbor's rubber ball like nose and catches it skillfully on the rebound with his catchers mitt like paws, all while napping!

Is there nothing Heathcliff can't do?

The complete and utter collapse of the laws of science has resulted in the space-time continuum's destruction, hence why there are five more Heathcliffs in this comic than are absolutely necessary. There is no explanation, however, for the wooden bathtub that is serving as Mr. Nutmeg's boat. I'm not even sure that's an engine.

Mr. Nutmeg's new neighbor is really regretting his decision to purchase his first home.

The Benevolent Dog Catchers Association card, surprisingly, is not a fair substitute for a driver's license.

Peter Gallagher recently saw Antichrist and felt that the film's message was "Animals hate other animals. Also acorns." I would post a video clip from Antichrist featuring the hail of acorns that I'm talking about, but a search on YouTube for "antichrist acorns" gives nothing but a bunch of videos about Barack Obama and ACORN. Strange world.

If Heathcliff weren't literally giving his readers the finger in this comic strip, I'd say that the level of "humor" in this strip functions in much the same way.

Yoga is a modern trend practiced only by those who wish to be annoying. Face sitters are annoying. Therefore, face sitters practice yoga.

Heathcliff has a flute that only naked rats can hear.

According to Mr. Nutmeg, watching Heathcliff lick himself and walk around with sparklers is about as good a time as watching The Who, Bruce Springsteen, Paul McCartney, Prince, The Rolling Stones, or Janet Jackson's nipple on TV. Considering that his TV looks like it's carved from a hunk of slate, he may have a point.

There is no secret password: Heathcliff takes perverse pleasure in forcing section eight rats from their homes.

Ichabod Crane They Ain't...

Something is missing, methinks...







Oh yeah, that's right: A general sense of headlessnes.

And fire. Headless Huskie's Jack o' Lantern head had better be flaming, or it'd best go home.

Copy/Paste

Heathcliff's new neighbors' definition of "best costumes" is a loose one, obviously.

So many bodily appendages missing. So many 1930's prisoners wondering where their uniforms went. So many clones being pumped out by the FBI who are prone to doing the exact same thing at the exact same time. So much pain.

The guy inside the fish market is, as you may have noticed, talking to nobody.

Also, Heathcliff is a rather poor salesperson. He's the one who steals fish. Why sell insurance against that act if he's the perpetrator.

Somebody needs to explain insurance to Mr. Gallagher.

Mrs. Nutmeg is a ghost, and the Nutmeg residence may be the most poorly decorated in all of New York. Green walls and brown couches. Ghostly Mrs. Nutmeg couldn't even bother to push one of them up against the wall.

Heathcliff's smoking jacket is pretty pimp, though.

Comics like the one above are the reason I don't update daily anymore.