Smitty Heat

“It’s the Heat. The Heat, the Heat, the Heat!”

Perhaps you know that group the Blackeyed Smees (surgically mended in Brazil double-digits)?

Well, that’s what the Smitty is singing these days as he moves from ‘neath one garden table to t’other. Nestled in the long un-weed-whacked grasses that form a curtain of protectionation from the sun, The Smee snoozes… until Noon with her brassy fingers pokes The Smee into having to up’n decamp.

“O, the felinity!” decries The Smee.

Saint Smeet

Like other figures to whom worshippers flock for aid, comfort, and miraculous healing,
Saint Smeet, Patron Saint of Licking Youself Clean, Our Lady (Man [“it” actually – ed.]) of Perpetual Cuteness, Protector of the Restless of Leg, Healer of the Contusions Caused by Seatbelt Shoulder Straps,
receives pilgrims at his holy precincts (sort of to the left of the Crack House) most middays.

Doctor Smitty

Mr. Smitty is a good doctoring Smitty!

But, like most doctors, he’s booked weeks ahead, requires a referral if you have any hope of having his visit covered by your insurance H(o)MO, and is careful not to do anything that might bring on a malpractice against he-self.

The Smitty’s treatment, as you know from previous (tedious) entries, consists of his lying on top of one’s self at precisely the place he deems worthy of his warming (and purring) properties.

While some may question the location of the Smitty’s ministrations (causing a Mister to wonder if he is dis-eased up in dere but didn’t know it), such miraculous, intuitive results have occurred in the past that The Smitty’s treatments have won much adulation amongst The Misters.

The Yo Smee Ching

Check it:

The Smitty that is known is not the true Smitty

(no’m say’n’?)

The Smitty that I can tell ya’ll boot is not the most up-to-datest, Smitty, G.

The Smitty that you can talk to is not the Smitty what axed you to come here, yo.

The Smitty is the motha of all smitties, his peeps, subsidiaries, and assigns, et al.

Verily I say unto yo: You desire to see the Smitty’s essence, but your desire makes you only able to get a peep into his crib.

These (aforesaid cribs) are in the same place but different addresses, a’ight?

And where that all go down, is a mystery, ya dig?

Nuff said!

Mr. Xmi Te

Mr. Xmi Te, ancient Chinese philosophical smitty, spends much of the afternoon contemplating our sunset hours.

Face turned to that dizzily hurrying orb (now finally slowed to an orangy glide), Mr. Xmi Te reviews the prefecture’s receipts, brushes his doorstep, and recalls, drunkily, old drunken friends.

What is that distant clamor of swords clashing?

Will the soldiers come home before I am too blind to see, too deaf to hear them?

Have they come already? And am I gone?

Sunset.

Bathroom Rumor

Mister Smitty likes the bathroom!

(In the First Days, S.E. (Smitty Era) he had a litterbox in there.)

Now, this vestigal litterbox fascination drives him into the bathroom, where he is wont to visit the shower.

We believed at first that it had to do with a thirst for water (since we caught the Smitty checking out that recent bestseller, Your Body’s Craving for Water).

But we’re now convinced that it’s deeper: it’s pee-sych-o-malogical!

Mr. Smitty vs. The Monolith Part II: Wombs within rooms

The Smitty runs behind the monolith and sneak-attacks it.

(This, the Smitty believes, will cause fear and trembling and general unrest in the monolith’s stonily-singular soul.)

He has jumped into the recycled newspaper box and has scratched the side of the box as though he is re-enacting childhood memories of a litter box.

“No, Yo: He’s re-enactifying childhood memories of that little box you make for the mamma cat when she’s going to have her kittens and the kittens stay in the box for a few days until they are strong enough to climb out of it.”

“Perhaps, Yo. Yet I believe this may hearken back to the proto-scratching first fisted in the womb.”

“You is quite possibly right, Yo.”

“What’s the Smitty digging for?”

“Memories, my dearest yo; memories of that first room.”