In the Wine of Love. . .

How sad - Ziggy is unable to hear the music of love. Consider the following: he was actually turned away from a dating service. Although it's possible that part of Ziggy's problem is an inability to tell how to visit websites. No, you don't always have to visit the company's HQ in Pittsburgh. No, the receptionist is not your only option. I'm sure that they have kiosks set up for just that purpose.

No, you'll have to brave it online, Ziggy. Let's see how the whole thing plays out. You'll have to click the following image to read it clearly:


Back to the parrot and the television set, my friend. It's for your own good. On a lighter note, look at his right foot in the image at the top.
Q: Doesn't he make suction cup sounds when he walks? A: He does.

The Water Closet Speaks

Just what on Earth is happening here!?! I know that Ziggy's world is strange and surreal, but we cross the line into complete surreal horror when confronted with toilet couriers. We know the drill: Ziggy gets a message from his toilet announcing mail, then retreats into the hallway where his arm turns into a coat hanger and a giant insect crawls out of his sink. Oh - joy and humor!

Can I please request that my comic strips not have toilet couriers? I'm fine with front door singing telegrams, electronic mail and even pebbles thrown against my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning, but the bathroom is not a neutral zone. The idea of outside voices, whether human or electronic, intruding into the private recesses of the loo is unsightful and tasteless. This strip isn't even colorized. Shame, shame on you, Ziggy.


Aw - I just can't stay mad at you.

"Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter."

How many times has this happened to you?: You bump off to the local super for a roll of chapstick, only to become waylaid on the return journey, astray in a land governed only by metaphor. Unfortunately, it seems that "THE COMEBACK TRAIL" is a path barely a hundred feet in circumference, looping back over to the sign announcing its existence. Heaven knows how many times Ziggy has walked this trail, or how many times he will continue to walk it. I won't cast any aspersions on Ziggy's childhood, but it's possible that the word "beaten" holds some unpleasant connotations to his mind.

A Soldier Will Fight Long and Hard For a Bit of Colored Ribbon

If there's anything that consistently cooks my goose it's an honor system. Though my crippling , almost OCD-like sense of self-consciousness removes my desire to actually cheat the system, it just feels like an economic disadvantage to pony up the cash for something when there's no beefy guard with a handgun to make you. The honor system lowers prices a little, but it sure makes me feel like a huge loser.

I've got nothing on Ziggy, though. He's obviously left his watch at home and is paralyzed by the thought of exceeding his allotted five minutes should he swing. A well-reasoned point, it turns out: There's not a soul around for miles, but Ziggy's entire life is on a two-week delay before it's on every morning paper on every coffee table in America, and he knows it.

Check out the astonishing change in Ziggy's stance from yesterday. He's flipped and turned blue and that's it.

The Stars. . . Space. . . I'm So Small

I had a pretty dark interpretation in mind for this one, involving a room full of frenzied claustrophobes who have killed each other off in an attempt to reach the door. I even wrote a couple of paragraphs in that vein in my usual wit-soaked delivery before hanging the sense of it and resolving to strive for lighter plateaus.

It's difficult to reach any sort of conclusion to this strip because it's such a half-joke. Your brain's humor center still experiences that appreciative tingle, almost as if you were hearing a real joke, but the punchline doesn't quite hit. It's like being stopped before a sneeze.

So I'll just find satisfaction in the usual things, particularly Ziggy's trademark bleak look of quiet desperation. There's really no situation in which Ziggy's body language is inappropriate:

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We seem to be having problems with images, for some reason. I've contacted Blogger about this so hopefully we'll be back up to full functionality soon.

Pass the MD

A few weeks ago, as a result of this incident, I recommended that Ziggy seek out a new source of medical care. Unfortunately, Ziggy searched via pawn shop ads, so it seems that he's in the same boat. But every cloud has a silver lining: This "doctor" hasn't been to medical school, so he doesn't know that patients who ask questions can be punished through misdiagnosis:


"What are all of those strange jars doing in the corner? And why are you handing me a blank waiver? Why the enormous collection of bear traps and matted pelts decomposing in the janitor's closet? And why was your receptionist selling cigarettes in the lobby? Why, why, why, why, WHY?!"

"You have Tourette's. You'll need a lobotomy. I'll get the saw."


Remember, if it quacks like a duck then it's a quack like this doc, if you catch my drift*. But the discovery that Ziggy's physician may be more "special" than "specialist" seems to have gotten Ziggy in full-on strangle deathgrip mode - look at his right hand clench involuntarily. You can't see Ziggy's eyelids but they're twitching like hummingbird wings.


* I honestly won't blame you if you don't.