Ignoring for the moment this tableau of an enormous cartoon cat attempting to catch a hydrocephalic, lisping canary by painting a little yellow girl-canary face on his finger and shoving it inside a birdhouse... well, I don't know if "ignore" is actually an option any more. No. The point is that here we see Gold Key taking their lucrative Warner Brothers character license and just abusing the hell out of it. To wit:
Tweety and Sylvester... Sylvester... the most off-model Sylvester you have ever seen - I've seen bootleg mudflaps in auto parts shops in Tijuana that were more faithful to this character - Sylvester and Tweety continue to dance their painfully prolonged ballet of "I'm going to eat this canary." No, I can't eat the canary here. I have to put him in a suitcase with a triangle on it and exit the house. Then, and only then, can I eat the canary. I swear to God, I'm going to eat that canary, I've been trying to eat that canary for 30 years and this time I swear I'm actually gonna eat him.
Sylvester gets even more off-model as he is chased by talking cats in clothes, also who ignore all other food options in favor of a small canary obviously suffering from brain disease. Fish, chipmunks, mice, milk, Meow Mix - all fail to satisfy. We must have tiny yellow bird.
Here's where the drugs really kick in. Sylvester is not just a cat, he's a six-foot cat that speaks English. The people in this comic see nothing strange about a talking cat that walks upright and carries luggage- just a ventriloquist, that's all! Edgar Bergen, Jerry Mahoney - they were all six foot cats. Vaudeville was littered with giant anthropomorpic talking animals with suitcases.
Surrounded by people, Sylvester's head swells to gigantic proportions. This would make him roughly the size of one of those Budweiser Clydesdales.
Hey Sylvester, you're fifteen feet tall! You don't have to take this abuse! Eat whatever you want, man!
And of course like EVERY. OTHER. SINGLE. TWEETY. & SYLVESTER. STORY. EVER., the story ends with Tweety uneaten. Sylvester is foiled not by hammers or bombs or defenestration, but by people telling him not to eat the little bird. Note to artist: Sylvester's ass should not appear to be "doublewide". After all he hasn't eaten anything since 1940!
Sylvester, wearing a detective's trenchcoat, visits a home where a human woman apparently keeps a pet cat that is blonde, wears dresses, and is built like a brick shithouse. Congratulations Gold Key, you just invented furry porn.
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