Plastic Trash Bag Mystery IV: Enough Already!

Dear Plastic Bag Trashy Mystery Part Whatever,

Sirs, I don’t know who you think is out here reading this drivel but this madness must stop!

Are we to be strung along stupidly over multiple episodes simply so you can profit off increasingly insipid and vacuous sequels comprised of nothing but the cheapest of movie and TV clichés?

Clearly the answer to the mystery is obvious to anyone (certainly, at least,) by the conclusion of Part Two (if not before! – Actually, I got it by about the middle of Part Two – though I by no means offer myself as a lightning rod of your average reader…)

And, frankly, your attempts to dumb-down the characters of the Misters so as to make the plot move more slowly is an insult to the finely-wrought and emotionally complex portraits you have penned of your Misters!

The only “truthiness” I find in the whole multi-parted epic is the character of Mr. Smitty himself – who mercifully avoids descending to the maudlin hi-jinks and corny delays you impose on your Misters and us,

Your faithful readers,

Anonymous (“coward” – ed.)

Paean to a Defunct-ta-tated Feline (or, Food from a dead Princess)

Like in a fairy-tale, whenever the princess dies, her cat food is given to her former owner.

And so it came to pass that when my former cat, Princess, came to the end of her days, her current owner packed up the remaining cans and sich and brought them to the Misters. Here they sit, gifts from a dead cat to haunt this mister and to perplex (perhaps) the Smitty in the form of a slightly different taste mixed into his dry food.

Mr. Manners (aka Mr. Smitty)

On the uncharacteristical politeness and patience of Mr. Smitty vis-à-vis feeding and being let in or out of the screen door:

(Let me not suggest that the smitty is in any way not polite in ALL of his social intercourse with either either of the Misters, or with others who are entertained by them.)

But it is of signal importance that the Smitty is polite in those most critical of cat businesses:

1) the letting in and out of the screen door (discussed at ((what some would say is “tedious”)) length in entry # ___ “The Precious Polite-it-tude of the Smitty viz. etc….”)

2) and the dual diurnal feedingization of the Smit-tit-tee.

(Sorry for yet another interruption in the barely-moving-forward pace of this entry, but this interruption is instigated by the Smitty hisself):

The Smitty just jumped up onto this table and looked like he was aimin’ to type something just as I was in the delicate process of pasting this material into its present location.

(For the Smitty’s forays into typing, composing, what-have-you, see entry # ___: “The Complete Works of Mr. Smitty, vol.#1” T. Mister, ed.)

“ANY-way!…”

Where was I?

Plastic Trash Bag Mystery III: Bag's End

And now, the stunning conclusion to… (echoing voice, drippy letters)

“The Plastic Trash Bag Mystery” (the real mystery is why it’s a trilogy)

The Misters stand dumbfounded. Jaws dropped to the floor with a * ker-thump! *

The Smitty has again run off frightened by a kitchen trash bag! So far the brilliant detective team of Mister & Mister have figured out the following:

“It ain’t because the bag is white, G”

“It ain’t because the bag is full, neither!”

(theoretically, then -- if I might interject and append – an empty, non-white kitchen trash bag (i.e. a bag of color) could also frighten the Smitty ((though actual tests have not been done on this.))

Pause of detective silence full of furrowed brows, ratiocination, pipe-smoking, playing of small metal rings-within-rings brain teasers, pacing, head scratching, and Styrofoam coffee cup slurping.

“Stumped, Sherlock?”

“or should you say Holmes, homey?”

“Let’s perpetrate a re-enactment, yo.”

“Wouldn’t that be kind of like entrapment?”

“Not if Mr. Smitty don’t have a lawyer to tell him so.”

“I would tell the Smitty myself! (warmly) Mr. Smitty!”

“Me too. (warmly) Mr. Smitty!”

“OK. Scratch that. I guess this will just have…

…TO BE CONTINUED !

Mr. Smit-tay, Principal Conductor

Last night while the Misters were watching a movie, the Smitty was laying on his back with all fours up and his front paws he had crossed in the air --

--as though he had frozen still for the moment in the middle of conducting a cat symphony that was happening somewhere between his head and the ceiling light convered by the japanese white paper lantern.

A choir of mewoing?

A mass for the cats whose guts went to make so many violin strings down through the ages?

Is the entire string repertoire anathema to cats? Simply unspeakable?

What does the Smitty feels when I play my Kronos CDs?

Can you tell me?

Why not? Cat gut your tongue?

Perpetratin’ in the “Upper Room”

The other morning the Smitty woke me up with his rummaging around in the general vicinity of his foods cubby.

I come out to find he’s pulled down the spray canola oil (the crunchy version of PAM) from the shelf above where his food wen’ stay. Also, the vermouth in the little spray bottle is on it side (but fortunately not hurt THANK GOD!)

Some random bottles of pills are askew or fallen but whatevahs…

I wonder if the smitty wasn’t trying to get at his food at all but was actually chasing a mouse around in the “upper room” (No’m sayin’?).

Was it a fantasy mouse? A moth? A gecko? A roach?