La Migra!

Mister Smitty works for La Migra!

The Smitty is often occasionally found on a fact-finding mission “South of the Border,” below the Western Wall, down at the Esai’s house.
The Smitty pays particular attention to walking on top of their various cars.
Much has been made in the Press about the high-profile doings of the Smitty when he walks all over their roof (for exploitative photos see various tabloids). Though these very public acrobatics would seem counter-productive to the search and seizure of illegal immigrants in our midst, rest assure that the Smitty “know whattup” and is very much on the case!
How the Smitty delivers his reports to Customs cannot be divulged at this time; suffice it to say that the efforts of this snooping smitty help to ensure Homemade Security for us all!

Location, Location, Location!

Mister Smitty is a scientifical smitty!

Having conducted numerous tests of where The Misters most travel in and about their house, the Smitty has concluded that:

1) Just to the right of the fridge, and

2) Two steps out the door on the porch (left of Shoeland, right of the Danish Modern coffee table)

Are the two most Mister-trafficked places in the house.

And is, therefore, where the Smitty flops hisself down to rest – and record further scientifical observations of The Misters!

Mr. Smitty and the T.V.: a Trilogy

I.
A Mister: Is Mister Smitty watching?
Mr. Smitty: ‘Watching’ what? If it don’t smell, I don’t ‘watch’ it.!

II. (Later)
The Smitty was inside with the T.V. going. The Misters were a fuori, dig?
A Mister: Mister Smitty, are you listening to the T.V.? What are they saying?
Mr. Smitty: Yo, I ain’t listening to nobody who got no smell. No smell, no dice.
A Mister: No smell?
Mr. Smitty: No dice!

III. (Later)
Mr. Smitty: What’s that smell? Smell good. Now THAT would make some fine
T.V.! No’m sayin’?

10% off the top

Mister Smitty is a good agent!

That mister had a cat-sitting job in the offing…

The client came to the house. Mr. Smitty made sure he would clinch the deal for That Mister by showing how good and well-trained a smitty he is.

He ran out to meet Ms. Fabulous, petted her (catspeak for letting humans pet you), and then guided her toward the porch.

Mister Smitty charmed the pants off the client who then sealed the deal however humans do that.

Any questions?

Happy Birthday, Mr. Smitty!

Yea! Hurray! It’s the Smee’s birthday!

Let’s all dance and sing!

(presents, tributes, land and financial instruments may be sent to our corporate headquarters.)

“Mister, how old be the Smee?”

“Mister, a gentleman doesn’t ask a smee his age.”

“Yo, dat’s why I’m axing you, yo.”

In the grand tradition of co-opting the holidays and festivals of the benighted in order to serve the conquerors’ purposes, (eg. Christmas, Easter, Saturnalia, International Workers Day), we, too, have conflated that time of year in which (1) we received the Smee from his erstwhile Mommy with (2) his putative birth date (and (3) it was the same weekend we got the truck).
So let’s celebrate this obfuscated ersatz amalgamation!

Party down, Mr. Smee!!

Not a “Peep”

Mister Smitty has no Peeps!

You never actually see Mister Smitty and his Peeps together at the same time.

Example: Yesterday the Peeps were fighting; Mr. Smitty was above the fray (literally, yo: he was up on the railing). When This Mister went out to investimigate, he saw only the randy-ass whitish-brown tail of the Faux-Princess smitty

[please refer to blog entry #___, “The Compleat Catalogue of Mr. Smitty’s Peeps, vol 1”]

sauntering off under the house (where lurked, by the way, the fiesty and furry chocolate “Jackie” brown Blaxploitation cat)

But where was the Mini-Me smee?

All three of Mr. Smitty’s peeps have never actually been seen at once: you

[Editors at this point must step in to limit the length of this entry so as to preserve readership #s from slipping below 1 gazillion. – eds]

Crop Circles II: Crop Sequels

-- A day later --

Mister Smitty got up from being belly-scratched, lounging upside down in the freshly cut grass to go on a hunting expedition in the tall mysterious grasses of the Grassy Knoll.

“Mister, Mister Smitty is a hunting smitty.”

“He’s disappeared into the tall grasses. You can’t see him at all.”

“He must like it.”

“He’s probably heading for the crop circ—“

“—de soleil.”

“Mister, maybe the Smitty MAKES the crop circles!!”

“He probably gets his peeps to do it.”

“He’s just checking on their work.”

“Quality control.”

“Yo, this circle is all hamma-jag.”

“What do you think I pay you for? Sneakin’ my food in the middle of the night… perpetratin’ inferior-quality crop circles…”

“I’m going to fire your ass back to Iowa if you don’t get them circles right.”

(Mr. Smitty is a stern task-master with his peeps, yo.)

Crop Circles

Mr. Smitty makes crop circles in our grass!

One morning, The Misters woke to find swathes of tall grass pushed down – as though a horse had wrested himself loose again from next door and rested himself in our grassy knoll!

(all of which was caught on super-8 by Mr. Lap-intruder (I mean the Smee))

“Mister, a mysterious animal has lain hisself down in our grassy knoll, no’m sayin?”

“Mister, I see.”

--a day later –

“Mister, more mysterious crop circles have appeared in yon Grassy Knoll.”

“Mister, they have.”

-- a day or two later --

“Mister –“

“Mister, I know.”

“Who is perpetrating curlie-Qs uppin’ dere?

“It’s like a horror movie.”

“Mister, it is.”

“But the Smitty will protect us.”

“Mister, he will.”

Peripatetical Perpetrations

Mister Smitty perpetrates That Mister’s chair!

The Smitty has taken recently to sleeping hisself down in That Mister’s official chair for the night (or day).

Quasi-nomadical, it is The Smitty’s wont to briefly sojourn in one spot or another (for a fortnight or so) and then to decamp for fresh snooze spots. We used to plant his bed where we saw him starting to take up residence, but that only precipitated new perpetrations.

(no’m sayin’?)

So, instead, we have learned to give up worrying and love The Smitty’s peregrinations, yo.

Lunatic Smitty

Mister Smitty’s mother is the moon!

The Full Moon!

Check it: they’re both white

-- and round, and mysterious, and cute,

-- and constantly orbiting the mother ship

-- and magical (mystical) supernatural-ated and li’dat

-- and carefully clean theyselfs daily

-- and sleep a lot

-- and light up the night.

Hail Comrade Smitski!

As in the photographs of the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party circa 1973 –

heavily scrutinized for clues as to who’s got the power, who’s in, who’s out (“have I caught thee?”) –

divined from the order in which they stand, one cabal, under the flag…

So, too does The Smitty stand on our balcony and survey all below with a quiet, enigmatic expression.

‘cept he be the only (and supreme) committee member of Central Smittiness!

Da, Pravda, Good Comrade Smitski!

Going Over the Smitty with a Fine Tooth Comb

Mister Smitty likes to be combed!

The Smitty, like royalty of yore, is wont to have his back scratched (and head, cheeks, chest, tail, etc.)

(I guess the tail IS the “etc.”).

The Misters cleave to the totally crunchy and organic practice of No Flea Collar – which means The Smitty is free stylin’ (yeah, yeah).

(For the abortive -- and nearly fatal -- flea collar episode, refer to Blog entry # B0Z0-QWERTY-812-DIDU?)

“…ANY-way!”

Thus, one combs The Smee every other day – and finds fleas. The finding of the aforesaid fleas confirms the effectiveness of the aforesaid combing, thus concluding the aforesaid discussion, entry, blog, website, corporate headquarters, storied headwaters, mystical hindquarters, world, universe, grain of sand, etc.

(I guess we ARE the “etc.”)

Dr. Smitty

Mister Smitty is a magical smitty!

The Smitty exercises his magical powers of healing by climbing up and sleeping on that part of a mister that needs mending.

When That Mister had his car accident, The Smitty repaired his chests; when he has restless leg, the Smitty sleeps on his leg.

That Mister told his niece about The Smitty’s magical powers. She said,

“He must have been a doctor before.”

Still is, yo!

Tricky Smitty and the Case of the Fallen Down Tree

Mister Smitty knocked down a tree!
The big wattle tree that used to shade the hammock and sitting area known as “Alice” fell down last night!
[“last night” refers to the night prior to the penning, not the publishing, of this entry, and thus must be taken metaphorically. It’s kind of like “on the ‘third day,’ God created…” – ed.]
It was a mighty big, mighty old tree!
And where was the Smitty?
Conspicuously absent! (uh-huh, uh-huh, yeah.)
Got an alibi?
“Mao!”
(Always blaming the Communists…)
“…ANY-way!”
In the morning, This Mister inspectified the site of the “timber!”-i-zation-ation. The Smitty, feigning innocence, accompanied This Mister. He clumbed up into the tree and checked out ever smaller and smaller branches.
(If he became stuck, it would not require the fire department since the tree was now sideways.)
Then he clumb down and inspectified the roots and under the trunk where the menehune live.
You know what they say about having to return to the scene of the crime!

Fan Mail, Part II

Mister Smitty gets fan mail!
The Mail room is so overstuffed with (virtual) cards and letters, that we only open it a crack and respond to the ones that fall out the door before we can slam it shut again.
Today’s harvest includes the following queries:

Mister Smitty, is Paris burning?
Like a disco inferno, yo!
Mister Smitty, Chicken or beef?
Whatevah’s in my dish – and if not, then it’s wild game time: wee birds and mice, my favorites.
Mister Smitty, what's your opinion of RED CHINA?
“Mao!” (natch)

Training, Brah

Mister Smitty has The Misters trained!

When the Smitty goes to the door…(duh!) The Misters open it for him!

“Hey, Mister: The Smitty like go outside.”

“Shoots!” (opens door)

The Smitty, dumfounded by his luck in having found such malleable, compliant humans, pauses to drink in his good fortune. In that pause, the humans start to suspect they are being played.

“Yo, we being played up in here!”

“Damn right!”

“This buh-shee is buh-shee, no’m sayin’?”

“Mister Smitty, you be perpetratin’ us!”

But Mr. Smitty pays no attention to the incessant and pathetic whining of his human master/servants.

Who has time for that?

I Feel The Earth Move

Mr. Smitty was in an earthquake!
“What’s that shaking?”
“It’s still going.”
Like an actor in a locally-made public service TV announcement, This Mister bolted out of bed and stood in a doorway, picturing the whole house collapsing into rubble, save for the archway he was standing under.
Still, that pesky shaking.
“This is a long one.”
Finally the Smee appears, eyes wide as proverbial saucers (you know, the proverb about how saucers should be 1.56 times wider than the cups placed on them, Golden Mean, Geomancy, New-Age tarot cards, etc.) in urgent need of petting.
Heavy petting.
Which ensued.

The Diaspora, Part VI: In the End, The Smitty Gets the Girl (I mean Food)

Reunited!
(like reinstated, only mo’ bettah)
The reuniting scene re-enacted:

That Mister comes home in That Mister’s sister’s car. He spies the Smee at the top of the stairs.

“Getting out of the car, I see the Smee run down the stairs to the bottom. As I walk toward the house, he runs toward me in the grass.

“Mao!”

“I pet him” [much billing and cooing, here expunged].

“Let’s see if you have any food.”

“Once I say that, he runs to the house, darts up the porch steps and sits in front of his empty dish. Facing his dish, he turns just his head to me and

“Mao!”

“Do you want some foods?”

“Mao!” (Please, Sir, can I have some “mao”?)

Olympic Beige-ing

You know The Smitty likes to do laps!

Since many Olympic athletes do laps, we thought it only fair to enter The Smitty in any and all lap contests.

The Smitty’s strategy is a little offbeat:

after running with the best of them (and faster), The Smitty jumps onto his competitors’ laps, thus driving them from their path to the gold!

Tricky Smitty!

The Beige-ing Olympics

We’re back with continuous (read: tedious) coverage of the Beige-ing Olympics.

(It is, after all, an Olympian task to “beige” the world, but the march toward the blending down of everything unique into one vast sea of beige oatmeal is just the way the phenomenal world’s cookie crumbles. Hey – you can’t unstir the cream from the coffee…)

“ANY-way!”

“Mister, since the Smitty has such a lock in The Flop (his top event), where else can we expect to see him compete?”

“Mister, The Smee is also looking strong in the Car-Smelling competition and the Gleeful 100-foot Scamper, but I’d say to watch for him in the Flowerbox Medley.”

“Mister, What’s that?”

“Carefully sleeping in flowerboxes in and amongst the herbs and flowers.”

“We know The Smitty is a real champ in the sleeping events!”

An Olympic Smitty Event #1: The Flop

Mr. Smitty is an Olympic competitor!

While the Misters carry a torch for the Smee, The Smee shall lead the Misters’ team to virtual triumph in his top event: The Flop.

The Flop occurs several seconds into “heavy petting” when, heavily petted, The Smee flops over on the ground for more serious manhandling.

In Olympic trials, the joodges have lauded “the resounding thud” of his flopping flanks and “gentle jiggling-to-rest” of the Smitty’s plenteous stomachs.

We wish him luck!

The Diaspora, Part V Or, Last Night at My Bad

Scene: Long, quiet, hugely-windowed hallway in a european villa, seen in black and white (un-natch).

Curtains blowing in slightest slo-mo, figures in evening wear posed, contemplatively gazing.

Long Silence.

Not in frame: Mister Smitty

(Why? Because the Smitty has to spend the night at home alone w/o his Misters.)

Shot of the Smee’s food outside on the empty porch.

Full moon, smee-white.

The sounds of braying Misters? None.

T.V.? None.

Stars, wind, moon, sky.

Fabulousy Blog, Age 2, Celebrates Anniversary

Put on your party hats, yo’s!

This venerable old blog is 2 years ol’

We at the executive offices (confetti floating in our cocktails) can only speak for ourselves, but we hope we speak for all of the Mister Smitty © family of companies when we say thank you for being out there, you, our gentle reader(s?) and for your support over these two long years.

What a journey it has been! What an endless stream of words and pictures have come to clutter our walls and minds and hearts, stopping up the access and passage to rewards, clogging our systems like so much mental plaque, taxing our hearts, eating up our time….even as I write these heartfelt thanks my heart feels tanked. I’m all choked up (literally). A warm and fuzzy vision fills my whole being and I feel surrounded by overwhelming warmth. I…uh…ah! …I …oh!…

[He was so choked up he was unable to continue. We wish him the best! Send cards and flowers to ICU.]

Mister Smitty’s America’s Stupidest (Whatevah-Brah) Video Entry! Or, Mister Smitty’s Bag Adventure!!

To view the awesome video of the Smee’s hijinks, click on the --

“There’s no video link, yo.”

Oh. Ok. It has come to our attention, dear readers, that many of the links mentioned by The Misters in these entries have not spontaneously sprung into existence simply by our naming them. While we aim to remedy this situation at our earliest convenience, we invite you to Imagine (old skool, yeah?) the Smitty discovering, exploring, wrassling, and getting trapped inside of a paper bag and having to back his way out of it after a pause for reflection in which he calms and collects his wits.

Click on the video link in your head, G.

Minding Wall

I saw the Smitty up on the Southern Wall (by the road, yo. Click on “map” link)

(“Hey! Get me a “Map” link – stat!)

--this morning. He clumbed up on the rocks to smell the dirt road and then plunged out of sight over the wall and down into the Southern Woods.

As I drove to work, I searched the enchantedness of the Woods for a sign of the Smee, but all I could see was the dry grasses. Whose woods these are I don’t think I know. But our house is close to the village, yo.

Word I was in my car alone

Word I was in my life alone.

Word.

Cruz’in in the Hood, Part Deuce

The translation department of Mister Smitty DotCom, LLC offers some help with the Smitty’s peculiar patois:

“Yo!” (“Hello, Hey you-there, I say my good chap, Hey Bud,” etc)

“Whattup?” (“May one ask what one is doing?”)

“Kickin’ it ol’ skool” (We believe this refers to obscure elementary school playground games of the late 20th Century)

“Word.” (“Say Again, Beg pardon, Could you repeat that?”)

“Check you later.” (“arrivederci, sayonara baby, catch you on the flip side, ciao”)

“Peace out.” (“Go in peace, Space thyself out, I’ve spoken my peace, over and out”).

Crew’s in

Mister Smitty lets his peeps drive.

“Get behind that wheel, yo!”

(says the Smitty, lounging shotgun).

The Smitty has a purple local-kine (s)lo-rider mini truck – lifted (natch) yards high – with which to “cruz’” the strip.

Shotgun, shades aslant, mid-stogie, The Smitty peers at his peeps in the back.

“Mao! (“Yo!”)

“We got your back, Mister Smee!”

Fan Mail, Part I: Politics & Plastics

We apologize for not answering these questions earlier, but the volume of fan mail pouring into our executive offices means that your cards, letters, e-mails, ITMs, IEDs, old IUDs, tributes, “rich gifts,” tirades, jeremiads, and baksheesh pile up so high that only the Smee himself can scale those lofty heights to peruse your praises.

Nevertheless, undaunted, we proceed:

Q: Mr. Smitty, paper or plastic?

A: No-brainer, yo: read about my serialized discombobulation in “The Plastic Trash Bag Mystery Parts I – V” in the 2006 archives.

As for “paper” do you mean paper bags I like to crawl myself into or newspaper upon which I am wont to pinch a –

“…ANY-way!”

Q: Mr. Smitty, Case or Akaka? (Now moot).

A: Mao! (natch)

Keep those cards and letters coming!

Flummoxed Smitty And the (still) Mysteriously Disappeared Portal

Like an unnamed supernumerary in an epic B-movie who charges at a cave entrance only to find it close abruptly in front of him,

So, too, does our hero (no nameless spear-carrier, he) ponder the mysteries of the sliding glass door.

“I see my food dish, but I can’t smell it!”

Defying the first law of feline thermo-dynamics (I smell it, therefore it exists), the conundrum of sight-without-smell mightily perplexifies the Smee. Shall this tease him into thinking outside the box?

“I’m already out of the box, yo. I’m trying to get inside the box, where my food’s at!”

Sneaky Smitty and the Mysterious Disappearing Doorway!

“There used to be a door here, but I can’t smell it!”

Mister Smitty tackles the mysterious disappearance of the sliding glass door.

With the screen door, no problemo: he can smell the inside of the house through it.

(“Go into the smell” – old cat saying.)

But when the sliding glass door is slideded-in-place, the magically smelly opening disappears into thin air

-- like some Ali Baba “Close sesame” kine thing, the door disappears!

The St. Bernard of Smees

Mister Smitty comes to the aid of lost misters!

When a Mister is downstairs among the plants or cavorting in the yard, The Smitty always comes over eventually and runs his plenteous flanks against the Mister’s leg.

The Smitty is concerned that a Mister is lost and needs the homing device of the Smitty’s smell refreshed.

“Those Misters!” sighs the Smee. “They’re not on their porch or in their house. They must be lost. I will assist them!”

Thank you, Mr. Smee!

A Plea (vis-à-vis The Smee)

Dear Reader(s),

With regards to the previous post, we implore/beg/beseech you, our faithful, not to tell the Smitty the content of the previous confession (that The Misters only exist to serve the Smitty).
Because we fear it will give the Smee a smell head
I mean SWELL head
“What about the part about how we ain’t got no “imputated lives” outside of when we be pettin’ and feedin’ and talkin’ and singing?”
“I think we’re free to mention that (because we only THINK we are doing so – it has no deleterious effect on the functioning of the Smee qua Smee).”
“Ain’t he as fictational as us?”
“Word, in the strictest sense of that word, my good G.; but the “eds.” insist we preserve this distinction twixt us and him.”

“A’ight. Whatevah.”

It’s All About (S)me(e)

The Misters are coming around to the conclusion that it’s all about Mister Smee.

The Misters, you see, exist in order to:

Feed the Smitty

Pet the Smitty

Talk to the Smitty

Sing about the Smitty

Write about the Smitty

Otherwise, The Misters find activities to fill up the remaining (non-Smitty-orientated) moments of their lives with crafts, hobbies, pastimes, hijinks, sleep, etc.

[actually, not to be metaphysical or meta-fictional or nothing, but “The Misters” as a fictional construct do not “fill up” extra-Smittational portions of their imputed “lives” with “activities” since they only “exist” to do or say the things written herein – ed.]

[Don’t you mean “ed.”? – other ed.]

No Snarfus Meantis

Mister Smitty is polite about not smelling The Misters’ food!

When The Misters set their food – in its various compartments of itself – out on the coffee table (they ain’t got no dinin’ room table), the Smitty politely refrains from jumping up onto the table to sniff, snarf, or drag off huge chunks.

The reason for this is (The Misters theorize):

A) The Smitty is a healthy, well-fed smitty who wants not;

B) There are no other choices!

Vintage Smee (Cheap Re-run)

Since the editor you know as “—ed.” has “pulled the plug” on the Misters (read: still sulking), we at Mr. Smitty Enterprises have decided to dig through our chest of golden oldies to offer you a nostalgic trip down memory lane with your old friends The Misters and Mr. Smitty:

Let’s dip into the archive, shall we?

Here’s a good one – Oh, no, wait. That was stupid. One of those entries that’s all talk and no action.

Here’s a funny one! Remember that lame pun about –

OK, not that either.

Oh! I love this one – it’s that one where all the brackets are flying back and forth and the one editor talks to the other editor and you never even SEE Mr. Smitty the whole –

Ok, well, we at Mr. Smitty Enterprises will get back to you when we dig up an entry with action, meaning, and efficient use of language.

(if such an entry exists)

Mr. Smitty in Blackface

Mr. Smitty got (s)hit upside his head!

When Mr. Smitty came back with a large smudge on his head, the Misters were concerned.

“Is it mud?”

“It’s not greasy.”

Time passed (“doo-doo-doo-doo-doo…”)

“Mister, you know, that’s the one place the Smitty can’t clean.”

“The upside of his head.”

“He probably thinks he’s all immaculate and shi—“

“--Ssh! Don’t tell him!”

“No photos.”

“No.”

“’Mum’’s the word.”

Mao!

Mao!

Mao!

The Smitty is a good Communist Worker Smitty!

The Smitty’s only utterances are of the name of the once beloved, recently maligned (and someday, hopefully, to be rehabilitated) Supreme Leader!

Mao!

Mao!

Though well-fed, white, and well-groomed, the Smitty is not a “capitalist running dog.”
-- though he is a catalyst to make dogs run.

Mr. Smitty and the Case of the Spinach Fracas

Though it has been established that Mr. Smitty is a farmer (see previous (read: tedious) post), this in no way implicates, identifies, or indemnifies the Smee in the recent bagged spinach fracas.

We know this to be fact because a spokes-cat for S.A.S.A (Smitty Agribusiness, S.A) has denied any involvement with bagged spinach --

-- CAT-ego-rically!

Miao!

Miao! Miao! Mi---

[all right, that’s enough with the blog entries built entirely around one stupid pun! –ed.]

[you mean if it were built around two stupid puns that would be OK? –other ed.]

[No. And there is no “other ed.” –ed.]

[I guess that renders me speechless; well, excuse me for living! –artist formerly known as “other ed.”]

Farmer Smee

Mr. Smitty is a farmer!

The Misters finally caught him operating large farm machinery stored in the upper pasture.

Here you see an action shot of the Smitty having a ride on his little bulldozer/front-end-loader thingee.

It’s a convenient way for the Smitty to clear out mice nests, harvest quarry for his hunts, and make mysterious crop circles.

That’s a smart-farmer smitty!

Homing Device

Mr. Smitty is a helpful smitty!

When the Misters come back from a long sojourn, the Smitty comes out to greet them. But this is no innocent outburst of joy at our return…

“It’s not?”

“Ok, it is – but it’s also his moment to implant a secret smitty homing device onto the wayward Misters.”

“He’s a Secret Agentical Smitty.”

“Clearly, I was lost, and he is helping me not to be lost again by rubbing up against my leg and depositing his smell so I can find my way home!”

“Of course Mr. Smitty’s best homing device is –

-- his little face!”

No Me Moleste, Sr. Smeetee

Mr. Smitty can speak Spanish!

(or he entiendes it, at least)

He posts himself on the rock wall that separates the Misters’ yard from the Esais’ yard --

(the yard formerly known as the one belonging to Mr. Wilson (bad dog) and his owner, the Chonch Lady.)

-- and listens to the acciones y dialogos y todo eso of the newly arrived Esais.

He is so attentive to their talkings…

Does he understand them better than he does the Misters?

WAIT! Does Mr. Smitty work for La Migra?!?!

Gracious Host Tales #3 Hippie-Smitty has a Sit-In

Mr. Smitty is a polite host!

When Ms. Fabulous came over for an official interview with This Mister, the Smitty was very gracious in sharing his time.

When I arrived I found Ms. Fabulous and That Mister sitting <> like a pair of hippies --

(because, obviously, we can no longer describe their sitting positions with the Perniciously Incorrect phrase, “Indian style”)

-- with Mr. Smitty sitting between them!

The Smitty is a friendly smitty to visitors. He allows close contact, occasional petting (not “heavy”), and “face time” as the politicians say…

WAIT! Is Mr. Smitty running for office?!?!

Mr. Smitty, VFW (veteran of frickin’ Wilson (bad dog))

Our long national nightmare is over!

Mr. Wilson (bad dog) has been decamped after just less than a year after the Smee arrived.

(For a compleat timeline of the Smiity’s adventurizings please consult…[keep dreamin’! –ed.])

V-W Day (as it is called by the Misters) included a ticker-tape parade with Mr. Smitty sitting atop the back seat of a fab reverse-back-door-handled black convertible

Thunderbird?

Lincoln?

Zapruder?

. “--ANY-way!”

The Smitty doesn’t wave – he blinks quietly to acknowledge the accolades of his adoring fans.


Such a regal smitty!

Mr. Wilson (bad dog)’s Indy 500

The Smitty was heinously perpetrated by Mr. Wilson (bad dog) when the chonch lady would release her darling “Bebi” for his monthly rampage.

(He would immediately run up to our house and circle it endlessly at top speed, like an Indy 500 of Dog Stupidity.)

The admirable Smitty, during these dark hours, would run up to the porch, butt low as can be, dart inside, and hide under the bed.

Eventually Mr. Wilson (dumb dog) would exhaust himself dizzy with circling and return home, waiting to be let back into his cage (like humans, that).

The Smitty, devastated, would not re-emerge for hours!

His huddled mass, yearning to breathe free, would peer out from below the bed (at any curious Mister who came by to inspectify) and bleat plaintively,

“Meb?”

Gettin’ Down wi’da Peeps

Mr. Smitty entertains his Peeps when the Misters are away!

(“I know what you did last Tuesday!”)

I’m just a-waitin’ to come home and find the Smitty…

Standing up on two legs, drinking wine and frying onions!

Or…

Out on the porch, smoking a cigar (Cohiba, natch), presiding over his peeps who are prowling and reconnaisancing!

Or…

On the computer! (he likes to click the mouse)

Or…making phone calls -- for take-out!

“Mao!”

“Small or large?”

“Mao”

“Phone number?”

“Mao! Mao!”

(The Smitty is a Maoist, natch.)

Mr. Smitty’s Evil Doppelganger Peep!

Just when you thought it was safe to count the Peeps in Mr. Smity’s entourage, here comes a new one!

A small black cat has been prowling the purlieus, looking to get all up in Mr. Smitty’s territory, no’m sayin?

“Mister, does that make this new one Peep #3, or Peep#2 (because Mini-me got turned into a sculpture so that makes the faux-Princess peep Peep #1)?

“Mister, huh?”

“Mister, never mind. Let’s all chant!”

(together:).
Black cat! Black cat!
Evil doppelganger! anti-Christ smitty from the anti-matter universe!
And his name?
Mr…Yttims!!
(natch.)

The Mr. Smitty Scuplture

Mr. Smitty has a sculpture of hisself!

(to perpetrate the Misters.)

Formerly, we believed in the presence of a cat formerly known as “Mini-Me.”

Now, we posit that said cat is actually Mr. Smitty moving in the distance, prowling the purlieus, whilst what we see in the foreground is the sculpture of the sleeping (sometimes sitting-up, as in actual sculptures of cats) Smitty, deftly placed probably by his peeps --

(though not Mini-me who, by this quote-a-rat demonstration, is proved to be only a sculptural stand-in for the Smitty)

-- when The Smee wants to vamoose the premises unbeknownst to his masters, the Misters.

Eat-a-Mouse Part II: Mr. Smitty Got Game!

(as delicately as possible): “Excuse me, but where are the … remains?”

“With the Smee. Bottom of the stairs.”

The Misters pee(r?) (somewhere?) over the railing.

“There it is. Can’t tell if it’s ‘deed’ (Scottish accent). He’s pushing at it.”

Then the Smitty let the not-‘deed’-yet “wee sleekit” mousie skulk away a little bit, but This Mister coaxed the Smee to recapture it and coup-de-grassify it.
(all of this was done by a Mister safely behind the kitchen window – yuk! Once the mister discovered the potential of a rich gift from the Smitty, he immediately slammed shut the sliding glass door to repulse all smitties bearing gifts.).

“--ANY-way!”

Right. Back to the gory details that a jaded, Internet-sized attention-span demands:
[WARNING: the following descriptions of gnawing, ripping, disemboweling, eviscerating, gutting, decapitating, munching, yanking, gumming, and swallowing of the “wee sleekit tim’rous beastie” (Scottish accent, natch) have hereby been expunged by Mister Smitty’s parent organization, its advertiser(s?), associates, and subsidiaries in the—
[the preceding (and following) LEGAL DISCLAIMER has been expunged by the creative team as being depressingly corporate and overly litigious – ed.]

Mr. Smitty got game!

Eat-a-Mouse Part I: Hail the Conquering Smee!

Mr. Smitty ate a mouse!

(He left only the tail.)

“Nothing beats the fresh taste of wild game, eh, Mr. Smee?” said This Mister, as he peered down on the Smitty’s eviscerations and decapita(liza)tions.

“He brought it up on the porch and showed it to me,” reported That Mister. “But it was still alive. I had to pull my feet up off the floor like this” (does).

“Then he dropped it and swatted it and picked it up again. At one point he went back over to the door [mercifully closed – ed.] to look for you.”

“He wanted all the Misters to see.”

“Mister, he did.”

“Mister, The Smitty is a good hunter-smitty.”

“Mister, this story of the Smitty eating a mouse is a good one.”

“Mister, it is.”

“Mister, it should be continued.”

“Mister, it should.”

"Ok. Say the word.”

“To be continuated, yo!”

Mr. Smitty and the Fallacy of Invisibility

Mister Smitty is invisible!

Mister Smitty thinks that he blends in – green, when he is near the avocado tree, for example – and is surprised (when the Misters call out his name in glee) at being discovered.

“He thinks we can’t see him.”

“He thinks he’s invisible.”

“He thinks he’s a tricky camouflaged Smitty.”

“He is.”

“He thinks that being white is like being no-color, so, therefore, Q.E.D., neutral, thus invisible.

“He can take on the color he is near.”

“Like a chameleon.”

“That’s why The Smitty doesn’t attack monsters when he sees them – he thinks he is one of them!”

The Diaspora, Part IV: The Departure (Remixed)

Day One:

Sad! Sad! Sad!

“Good-bye, Mr. Smitty!”

“Good-bye, Mr. Smee!”

Mr. Smitty’s eyes averted, head down, lost in thought…

(his peculiar combination of denial and dissing you that is S.O.P. for the feline of the species, it seems)

“--ANY-way!”

“We’ll be back soon, Mr. Smitty!”

(“No we won’t.”

“Shoots!”)

“We’ll be back just before you forget who we are.”

The Smitty thinks: “Jus’ as long you get back an; fee’me, yo!”

[the replacing of dropped letters with apostrophes indicates a misguided attempt by the Misters to ebonically ventriloquize the Smitty – a practice against which legal proceedings are being initiated as we speak – ed.]

The Diaspora, Part III: The Interregnum

As our gentle reader(s?) may recall from previous (tedious) blog entries, The Misters had to shuttle between their house and the Ponderosa to dog-s(h?)it.

The entirety of the experience is herein catalogued and indexed in the kind of excruciating detail one has come to expect in the (Too Much?) Information Age:

(WARNING: the following contains material suitable only for persons suffering from (The?) O.C.D., Catophilia, or any like obsession.)

Abandon all taste, ye who enter here!

DAY # 6:

Alone for many hours sans <>, the Smee could be fancy-free:

Standing up on two legs and dancing (as we know he is wont to do when no one is looking

--much in the way popes want to s(h?)it in the woods, but since no one is there it doesn’t make a sound).

But mostly, the Smitty fills his long hours away waiting for the return of any (or all) Misters by hanging with his peeps, who comfort him by imitating velvet-paintings of dogs smoking cigars and playing poker.

Mr. Smitty always wins, of course

-- and smokes the Cohiba, of course!

Mister Smitty’s Peeps

Mister Smitty has peeps!

The Smitty’s peeps include:

1. Mini-Me, the small white furry smitty who perpetrates the main smitty
(hard to tell which is which in the dark, yo) and

2. the fluffy, faux-Princess smitty (bigger, tougher, greyer) who has a sweet face but who don’t get around much anymore.

Other smitties are queuing up to be part of Mister Smitty’s entourage, but at press time they had not cleared the lengthy interview and vetting process --

--“lengthy” because the “viewin’ ‘n vettin’” is done in the slim window of time when Mr. Smitty isn’t sleeping, eating, or sitting in a Mister’s lap.

Avocado Advocate

Mister Smitty hunted an avocado!

(sound of one avocado falling)

“Uh-oh. What’s that sound, Mr. Smee?”

The Smitty (always on the alert to sounds) thinks, “Mouse, pro’ly,” plunges into the undergrowth, and emerges with dark matter in his mouth.

“Quick. Close the door!” (so as not to have him run inside with a half-dead “rich gift” for The Misters.)

“But what if it’s just an avocado, yo?”

“Then he’s pro’ly mashing it up to put on his face as moisturizer.”

“Shoots. Pro’ly.”

Comrade Smitski

Mr. Smitty is a high-ranking member of the Politburo!

Mister Smitty had his front feet up on the railing (see artist’s rendering) to take his place (symbolically) aside the other cryptically placed members of the Central Committee for their yearly May Day photo-op.

(Like a sock-hop, only seriouser).

Comrade Smitski appeared very auspiciously placed between Comrade Smitskov (Da, pravda!) and Comrade Smitskovich (ochen menoga!)

Horrorshow, Comrade Smitski!

Treed, Part Four : The Aftermath(matics)

“Mister, you saved The Smitty!

“Mister, I did.”

“Does The Smitty need to speak to a counselor?”

“Mister, he does.”

“We could call his mom. She’s a counselor.”

“But is trauma the same for cats as for humans?”

“We need a cat-whisperer –kine counselor.”

[All right, time-out: we must step in here and cut off this obvious attempt to set up for a sequel to this already tired “Treed” tetralogy – ed]

[Yeah! What he said! – other ed.]

Treed, Part Three: Now and for(n)ever

[“Not!” – ed.]
[[Don’t start with that “[…--ed.]” stuff, or I’ll fold up your fictional universe so fast it’ll make your swim head!]]
[Ok, like, chillax, dude, master of the universe, Mr. Big, Artist-formerly-known-as-God, whatever…-- ed.]

“ANY-way!…”

And now back to our story…
After much gentle cooing and cajoling and inviting-down of the Smee from the offending branch --
-- none of which caused The Smitty to loosen his grip –
that Mister finally had to climb into the tree a bit and grab the Smitty and lift him down from the branch to a lower branch from which The Smitty felt he could then climb the rest of the way down.Which he did, and then ran across the grass and went into a serious licking session with the gusto of the damned

[Query: do the damned have gusto? – ed.]
[[Don’t start!]]

(MAY) BE CONTINUED !!

Treed, Part Two:The Rescue! (re-enacted (badly)

Let’s replay the scene…

“Do-do-do-do-do…I wonder where the Smitty got hisself to?”
“Miaux! Miaux!”
“O no! Mr. Smee! He’s caught in the tree!”
“Miaux!”
“I’ll save you Mister Smee!”
“Miaux”
“I’m coming, Mr. Smee!

[Inane! Predictable! Maudlin! – ed.]
[So? -- other ed.]
[So, I need to step in and cut it off before it sullies the reputation of this fine blog!—ed.]
[over my dead (cyber) body! – other ed.]
[I don’t mean to sound presidential, but “Bring it on!” – ed.]

[[at this point, we step back one more level, out of that frame to yet another wider reality in which that reality (that you thought was the real one) is actually contained,.
--(cf. The Saragossa Manuscript, Mariushka dolls, Plato’s “parable of the cave,” The Matrix, Boethius, St. Elsewhere, and (one suspects) Lost) –
to report that the “eds” tussle and wrassle and kick up a cloud of dust through which can be discerned (dimly)the words:
TO BE CONTINUED ! ]]

Treed, Part One: The Hype

Mr. Smitty got caught in the tree!

That Mister had to rescue him!

The harrowing untold (‘til now) story!

Stranded for minute(s)!

Trapped at dizzying heights (about 10 feet up)

No one four miles around! (but less than four miles away stood the two misters (who were, like, four feet away)).

Emotionally scarred for (one one-hundred and thirty-second of his) life!

For all this (mellow) drama…


STAY TUNED!!

Birdbrained

Mister Smitty ate a bird!


T(his) Mister: Mister, there’s a bird in here.

T(hat) Mister: Open the door and close the blinds on the other windows. He’s on the window by the phone.

T. Mister: And The Smitty?

T. Mister: He’s watching him.


== Later ==


T. Mister: Mister, The Smitty grabbed the bird from the table and took it outside and played with it. He’d let it go, then when it’d move he’d jut his head out at it (T. Mister demonstrates).

T. Mister: Where’s the bird now?

T. Mister: Inside Mr. Smitty (icky face).

The Diaspora, Part II:Shuttle Diplomacy

Mr. Smitty is all discombobulatified by the shuttle diplomacy of The Misters.

The Misters are equally non-non-plussed by the prospect of having to dog-sit a pair of wee doggies that need to be walked thrice daily!

“Mister, are you going home to feed The Smitty?”

“Mister, I thought you were.”

“Mister, I don’t know.”

“Let’s ask The Smitty.”

“Mister, Good idea!”

The Diaspora, Part 1:Parting is such smeet sorrow

Here begins the tedious multi-parted saga of the Mister’s House-sitting adventure that cast a desert of separation between themselves and the Smee – including a harrowing night or two actually not sleeping at home with the Smitty!!

Scene One: Tearful Goodbyes

“Mr. Smitty, we have to go!”

“We have to leave the Smitty on his own recognizance and sich.”

“Mr. Smitty!” (rending of garments, pouring of ashes over heads, etc) On knees, tear-bestained cheeks, sniffling:

“Will the Smitty promise to be a good and well-behaved Smitty?”

Mr. Smitty: (wildly twisting figure eights around the Misters’ feets to insure their safe return)

"Mao!"