How can you tell the mark of a professional artist? Birds that are really the letter "m," for one. I mean...I know Heathcliff is in all of 73 newspapers, but m-shaped birds? Really?

Besides that, there are a few things that I'm disappointed in. First is Iggy Nutmeg's imagination. "I think it's a lap." Woah man...you just blew my mind!



I hope that Heathcliff doesn't see it as a lap. Perhaps a cubist expressionist dadaist pre-Raphialite representation of Mrs. Nutmeg's breasts melting onto a spinning turntable as it falls into the third level of Hell. I hope that Heathcliff walks up to Iggy's sandcastle and upends it, or at the very least gives his own critique. "I think it's a cluster of terrible, forked penises, rising from a monolith." That'll show him.

And speaking of Mrs. Nutmeg...must she always wear an apron? She's on a beach! I know you're like...76 or something...but wear a dress or a one piece or even a tankini if you're feeling sexy. You're not cooking. You're not cleaning. To be honest, I've never seen you do a goddamn thing that requires an apron, so stop wearing one! Grow some hands while you're at it, Stumpy. The shark fin is a particularly tasteful accessory.

Some random, nameless people who will never in a million years appear again in this strip got lazy and decided to forgo garbage bags, throwing their garbage directly into their singular can via the window. Heathcliff makes them pay for this grave mistake, floating in with twilight and eating some of the garbage, which, obviously, always requires that he flips the can over leaving the same sized mound with the same garbage as all the other times. He then floats away, leaving the man and woman to squeeze through the door of their poorly designed house to stare haplessly/furiously at the Monopoly money left on the top of the can because, as we all know, cats that walk like humans are impossible to catch.

Absolutely none of this will matter in a mere minute though, as Pac Man is preparing to eat their house. Tragic.

I can't exactly tell what's what in this strip today, mainly because the secretary says "bait" as opposed to what's in the fucking Chineese take-out box. Is it sweet and sour pork? General Tso's chicken? That sleeping fish from Super Mario World?

I don't think that it's just worms in the box, because who in their right fucking mind would take worms to a vet? I'd like to nominate the cat wearing the purse, but again, I don't think you'd exactly describe worms, who have the sole purpose of wriggling around, as "listless and lethargic."

What's in the box?

Mr. Nutmeg is a sweet transvestite.

Heathcliff, having easily reached the two hand fee to get into State Penitentiary, must now navigate over the inner barbwire fence to see some of his relatives, who, as it turns out, got much more than a five minute major back in January. The Nutmeg Kid looks pretty pissed off that Heathcliff didn't take both hands from Propeller Cap.

I beg to differ, Your Honor, but Heathcliff is worse than the rooster trial. Why is a lawyer giving council to his client bad? What fucking rooster trial? Push your glasses up to your eyes! Shit...you're talking to a floating Weeble! This is way worse than the rooster trial, you old fuck.

The price of Cas (sic) being such as it is, Heathcliff and the Nutmegs are forced to drive a magic, floating cow.