Ominous. . .

When you put your four bits into the machine, robotic hands pull you into the device through the tiny opening near the base, sparing no thought for the shape of your physical frame or the sounds of crunching bones and splitting flesh. You thus receive a free sample of hell, much like that which I have freely given with this description.

Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.

No kidding. Possession of a huge, toothless walrus overbite hasn't kept this guy out of medicine.

"Now turn your head and SCREAM!"

Out, dadburned spot!

The body language here is important: Ziggy stares purposefully forward, in a frantic hope that the frightening hallucinations he is constantly subjected to are just that, and that the perpetual demons at the periphery will leave him be. If our titular hero was to continue driving for a few more panels I have no doubt we'd see a woman sharpening a baby on a grindstone, a bird made of knives carving up a cactus and Dane Cook trying out some new "jokes."

Aesop was right!

Chicken Little was more of an environmental apologist than a financial pundit, but I supposed that Chicken Little would be "right" in any situation that involved something trending downward. Although in this case it has less to do with chunks of the stratosphere raining down onto your head and more to do with child care and fending off inevitable starvation. Stop buying the fancy mustard, guys!

Pandora's Shocks

Not much changes in Ziggy's life. Six months ago he was facing these machines, and today he finds himself standing before yet another oddly-rendered vendor, painted with a sick vitamin purple/grey and an ominous slogan. What could be inside that machine? I'm guessing elephantiasis.

For the Mob it Was a Horse's Head

You've been dead all day?

Those mice are gonna kill that cat one of these days, and the placement of his trussed up, unconscious body suggests that this act is a warning to the miserable beast's master. Were this situation to be mirrored in real life, I'd expect Ziggy to arrive home one fine afternoon to find his furry friend drowned in the toilet. Then again, this is the madcap world of Ziggy, where people suffer but never die.

Kill the Pig, Make it Bleed! (Dark Days Ahead For Ziggy)

Poor Zig's financial woes have forced him into some kind of back-alley dentist's office. The certificates on the wall are meaningless; health standards have no home here. This unmasked, ungloved androgyne is all set to plunge his/her sweaty, hairy hands into Ziggy's terrified mouth along with six inches of metal. Novocaine is for pansies, right? I half expect to see restraints on Ziggy's chair.

Look at something like this and Gahan Wilson suddenly doesn't seem so bad.

Procrastinimrod

Ziggy doesn't look "poised" here. He looks doomed and afraid, like he's penning his will. He should have kept his procrastination generic and comfortable, like last time. Thinking about the things you have to get done defeats the whole purpose of procrastination, which is have a brief, wonderful worry-free day. Now he's just going to suffer twice as much. And it seems he's just seen the error of this little loophole he's concocted, attempting to unload all of his work onto his past self.

How will he find the time to "CALL @u3v/wsk" or "segz wromic" now?

What Illness Do I Have Today?

Ziggy's paranoia and small vocabulary have all-but-validated his worst fears. No doubt he's planning to go out like Freddie Mercury, coughing between stanzas of songs and shivering alone in a hospital bed placed in a nicely-heated room that still can't take the edge off of those chills (apologies to Queen fans or good people). And just like Mr. Mercury, Ziggy's been hiding his ethnicity his entire life for reasons of career; would the sentimental idiosyncratics who read this feature keep on doing so if they knew he was some kind of lumpy troll?

The hopeless lines under the eyes make this one.

Which Circle of Hell Do Bad Cooks Go To?

A barbecue gone wrong - a smoldering, open-air infernal cavern of cinderns and soot. And, lo, a voice from the mire: a voice of mock'ry, a voice of discouragement and sharp scorn. For embedded in the mess of smoke appears a demonic force, one whose sole purpose at the moment appears to be either to provide a negative incentive toward future grilling on Ziggy's part, or to persuade him to eat that which may be unhealthy to his little frame. Even the awful parrot looks down upon this unwelcome intrusion from the world of hellfire into an innocent, albeit misguided, attempt at a simple backyard barbecue.

Oy, He Waits a Month to Post For THIS!?

Well, the breadth and depth of my behind-ness has finally earned the descriptive predicate "woeful". That's right - I'm now woefully behind. I apologize - I've had some medical gookiness to work through lately (still working through it actually), and up until now it's killed my funny.

These two flamer cops have apparently ignored Ziggy's monk-like appearance. That type of bagginess and that color scheme may be well and fine for a monk, but if Ziggy can't attract the righteous indignation of the self-proclaimed fashion police with his getup, I have to wonder what sort of fashion disaster prompts them to actually make an arrest. They should have an entire dossier on Ziggy by now.

Cheerful Dr. Death Lives On in a Green World of Sickness

This may be a resurgence of the same silly, wacky disease that Ziggy got last month. So what silly, unpronouncable disease does Ziggy have? One of the great joys with this strip is the little games and riddles it throws at you, before giving you the obvious-in-retrospect answers. For example the question of the guru's rapidly-changing behavior saw an answer some time ago, after myriad clues.

The cruel humor gets you reading, then the imaginary games keep you going.

Another Gentle Reminder

Gad, I love it when Ziggy incorporates context into its daily despair-crawl. Most of what I said there applies here. Our friend has a look upon his face that says: ah, yes, the collapse of the solar system. I'd forgotten about that.

Big Sweaty Al's Big Sweaty Diner

I think Ziggy's trying every diner in town, sampling the veritable cornucopia of torments and dysfunctionalities that the local eateries provide. And it gets better: those houseflies are going to fight tooth and nail for their bean.

NOTE: Visitors to the United Kingdom will wish to avoid the usage of the phrase "put in the bean."

Hell: Day 2

This mundane Lovecraftian nightmare that Ziggy's gotten himself into sees no sign of stopping. Today, a shallow bowl smelling of flies and cleaning solvent.

I may be behind schedule, but I've taken a peek at tomorrow and know for a fact that a greater nightmare awaits us. Click the period on that last sentence if you don't want to wait.

"I. . . Declare. . . BANKRUPTCY!"

Ziggy's brought his special clutching beanie with him, the one reserved for financial uncertainty and rejection. Today he's either gone into some kind of back-alley tax advisement center, or preparing to go into tax asylum before entering the Witness Protection Program, perhaps as a direct result of the suspicious poison luggage a couple of days back.

Wait. . . is there a possibility that this is Ziggy's father? Remember what I said about the entertainment value of behind-the-scenes speculation.

Scare Fare

Is this really necessary? I mean, for Ziggy? Ziggy's been beating down so thoroughly by life and adversity that he's incapable of reacting in any way other than resigned acceptance or an empty stare. Appropriately, the worst we've ever seen him is in response to imminent doctoral chicken probing. Given that the chicken quotient of this ride must be fairly low, he'd best leave that Tinky Winky-colored machine alone.

Fire Sauce

"Dave" has built his chili palace of torment, pain and internal hemorrhaging - a proud fact that has not escaped the notice of his menu. The escalated pricing scheme for increasing levels of anguish only proves that Dave is the reigning monarch of this hellish mound of capsaicin and promises of future diarrhea. Even the napkins are laced with habañero extract. Meanwhile, Ziggy awaits his meal like a death row prisoner, keeping company with the sort of gustatory masochists who would frequent a place like this.

Mom and Pop Store

Ziggy looks especially pudgy today, and his feet resemble fleshy diving flippers even more than usual. He's also passing an establishment whose perpetual fear of the family patriarch must create some awkward dining situations. A sign like this in a restaurant makes "*Slap!* Get in the kitchen!" especially redundant.

Only the Artists Are Mad Here. . .

Lovely. Is Ziggy out of the hospital and back in his arbitrary, passive-aggressive world, or merely in a medication-fueled daze? Either way, this is one of the most entertaining strips we've seen since the giant squid attack.

So, who's the culprit? Painter smurf? The ghost of Bob Ross? Even, heaven forbid, this guy? And just what does he do to you when he catches you? Paint you to death? "You'll be looking like Slim Goodbody when I'm finished with you!!" Chilling.