I can't tell what's more amazing: Heathcliff's ability to throw a fish from his house to the Adirondack Mountains, or that Gregg and Jen's cat meows.

Not pictured: The Rube Goldberg machine required to transport the bird from Heathcliff's makeshift birdbath helmet to his awaiting jaws.

Similarly not pictured: Heathcliff choking to death on the strap to his makeshift birdbath helmet. It's only a matter of time...

Oh Jesus, that fisherman's arm is nasty. It looks like a limp, Spencer's Gifts sized joke condom that somebody Sharpied on to give it fingers.

In possibly the nastiest Heathcliff strip ever, the cat wants to put garbage on his Fudgesicle, which explains the terror in the Fudgesicle guy's voice. Heathcliff must have had a power pellet, because I'll be damned if that isn't a dead Pac Man ghost near the top of the heap.

Inky was a good ghost...

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix...

Mr. Nutmeg's pissed off expression is really a mask for the intense fear rising in his bladder. He lopped off the top of Heathcliff's head hours ago, and he hasn't stopped running around in circles yet.

Oh, and Mrs. Nutmeg hasn't swept the floor in a fucking month, so yeah, maybe he is a little pissed off.

Heathcliff was aroused by lemonparty.org.