Cruising in da ‘hood

Mr. Smitty was fraternizing with the neighbors!

“I saw your cat yesterday.”

“Mr. Smitty? Yes, I saw him cavorting up your way.”

“Such a charming cat.”

“Was he begging?”

“No. He sniffed around, ‘miao’ed a bit, and let me pet him.”

“He’s full of parlor tricks, that Smee.”

And so, as in a children’s book visit to the kindly old lady next door, The Smee returned from his visit beaming.

What a neighborly Smitty!

Muddle Management

 “If the blogs are published in book form –“

“ -- to get the niche audience –“

“We could publish on demand and have no overhead!”

The Smitty jumps up on the porch as if to say: “Hol’ up: whatch’all wheelin’n’dealin’ about widout my ass in the picture?”

“Mr. Smitty wants his cut.”

“Right: 100% off the top. Any new “peeps” I bring in, I got to cut them in, yo.”

“Word.”

“E-mail my lawyers with all the papers and sich, and I’ll put my paw print to it.”

“OK, Mr. Smee!”

So You Think You Can … Be My Peeps

Welcome to the show that asks the question do you have what it takes to be one of Mister Smitty’s peeps. I’m your host, T. Mister! [Applause]. 

Let’s meet our juuudges: Mr. Smitty, Mr. Smee T. Tee, and T. Mister (“the other one, whichever, can’t tell ‘em apart anyway, till they pet me,” etc.)

And our first contestant, a homemaker from Bethesda, Maryland …

Next, a young longhaired black cat with white paws from “across the way”…

“Mngiao!”

“Really? Well then, let’s see if you have what it takes to be one of Mr. Smitty’s Peeps … right after the break!                   (To Be (dis) Continued)

Dating Game

To all employees of Mister Smitty Enterprises (MSE), and our clients, fan(s?), frenemies, homies/peeps:

 In the spirit of our current cultural trend to P.(a)C.-ify our wording so sharp edges are blunted, guard rails erected, child safety caps double sealed, and all things rendered pleasantly beige, Please update your calendars to reflect the following changes: 

B.C. =>  B.C.E  => now to become => B.M.S.E.

A.D. =>  C.E. => now to become => M.S.E.

Nose News is God News

Mister Smitty’s nose is 50 times smarter!

“Than your’n? Or … mour’n? Mister, I did not know that.”

“He’s got like parallel universes of smell stacked up alongside ours – no wonder it takes him so long to mosey on over. Always sniffin’ stuff out, playing referee to four dozen planes of existence we can’t smell.

“But wait: for his nose to be 50 times stronger. We’d have to be 49 times dumber to start with.

“Mister, do the math.”

“Mister, I just did.”

“Mister, it’s not arithmetical; it’s what-uh-yuh-kallit, Malthusian. You know, like hundredth-monkey, interdependent arising, stock market algorythmics- stuff.

Oh, that.

Future Olympic Curling Champion’s Career Thwarted!

Mister Smitty likes to be warm!

                When The Misters got their stand-up, metal-hatted porch heater… The Smee was not far behind.

                “Mister, it’s like the Ye Olde Hearth, with the cat all curled upside it.”

                “Like in a wee children’s book. Of yore.”

                “Cept this heater’s got a scorching coolie hat thingy that’ll toast his little pink paw pads like steaks on the Barbie, mate.”

                “No warm and fuzzy (Olympic?) hearth-curling, for you, Mr. Smee!”

Cracque Heure

      At a sidewalk café along the Seine, on the ile de la C(m)ite, patrons sip their petits cafes and sketch the Smee.
      These cafes, clearly fronts for “kitty crack” (catnip), are perpetually h(a)unted by the Smee in search of his proverbial dragon, his Uncle Charlie, his fix.
      Upon a routine (read “next-to-never”) cleaning of the Smee’s food delivery system, the aforementioned Smee jumped up onto his food’s shelf.
     “Mister, he wants to plumb the mysterious recesses of his food-horde, his cache, his walk-in pantry.”
     “Mister, The Smee is doing inventory.”
      “He’s helping us look for the kitty crack!”

Fair unbalanced

Gen’lemans,

      I am all disturbated by you folks’s continual portrayal of me an’ my peeps as fly boys workin’ our hood and sich.

     Please present (in da future) a mo’ “fair unbalanced” portrayal of me an’ my peeps’s actual doings!

Yaw(n)s,
      Mr. Smee T. Tee

Les Reins Feconds

     All atwitter about The Smitty’s switch to drinking water in the shower, The Misters quizzed their resident feline expert, Ms. Fabulous.
     “Why does The Smee – “ [see above, passim – ed.]
     “Is he drinking more water or the same amount in a different location?”
     “Same.”
     “Good. Cause if he’s drinking more quantity, it’s a kidney thing.”
     (Startled faces, nervous glances, quick denials of The Smitty’s mortality, etc.)
     “I’m pretty sure it’s the same amount.”
     We’ll leave The Misters here as the echo of their self-assuring reverberates throughout the universe.

Science Experiment

      Like many of the out-of-the-way nooks, undersides, behinds, etc. of The Misters’ abode, now, too, The Smitty’s water dish has been deemed a “science experiment.”
      “He drinkin’ plenty water!”
     “It’s half what I put in there this morning.”
     “We should be scientifical and always fill to the line.”
      [the “line” is the bottom of the blue band of chinoiserie that rings the rim of the water dish –ed.]
      “Then we can keep track.”
      “Get The Smitty’s chart!”

Foreplay

     The Smee’s main objective may be his foods, but first he flirts: rubbing against legs as The Misters prepare their dinner (thinking (falsely) that The Smee is being friendly).
     Nope: it’s the smell of the foods! 
     And, sadly, it’s not even foreplay.
      For when those dim Mister still don’t get that all he wants is food, he marches over to his dish, sits his wee bum down, twists his head back over his shoulder and seems to say,
    “Enough foreplay, human. Give me my foods!”

   

   

Le Chat C’est Moi

Like a guest from an exotic land who seems blithely unaware of your cherished cultural mores, The Smee lays himself down whenever – and wherever – he deems it fit.

“Noblesse oblige, yo.”

“Mo’ or Lese Majeste, no’m sayin’?”

Faux Paws, Part II: The Icebag Numbeth

After a recent storm – which necessitated the purchase of bags-o-ice, one such bag had to be unceremoniously jettisoned from the freezer in order to make room for artisanally crafted vodkas and the like –

“ANY-way!”

Yes, anyway, the Exiled Ice Bag did, in certain slants of light, look, on the porch, like The Smee.

“Hello, Mr. Sm---. Oops!”

“Mister, that’s a tricky bag of ice. I thought it was The Smee!”

“Mister, he want us to think that!

Faux Paws, Part I: Quit Abstractin’ Me!

The Misters’ recent consumer industrial complex purchase of a porch heater left large unsightly molded styrofoam halves

-- one which was carted off by the county, the other, storm-strewn, had to be retrieved from a ditch and currently inflates The Misters’ (otherwise shrinking) carbon footprint –

“ANY-way…”!

Anyway, the whiteness of the styrofoam whale, lodged at some 20 yards from the house, can, in dim light, be taken for The Smee.

[coherence, finally! – ed.]

“Mister Smitty… Oh shoots! That’s not The Smee. It’s the styrofoam sculpture … of The Smee.”

“But wildly abstractified: The Smee has no right angles like that.”

“Except when he folds his front leg back.”

“Tru dat.”