Sloppy Seconds

Mister Smitty likes sloppy seconds!

If the Smee can get one of those (hopelessly interchangeable) Misters to scratch/comb/brush him of a morning…

… Why not try for two?

When the second Mister then appears of a morning, he too is addressed in the same shamelessly insistent way with regards to dermal stimulation (see previous post, viz. passim, Q.E.D.).

Who is the wiser (besides Misters (who endlessly update each other on the Smee’s movements) and you, dear reader(s?))?


Merry Christmas, Mister Smee!!!

Dolts!

Mornings, whichever Mister is first to gain the porch, it is to him that the Smee repairs for scratching, combing, brushing, etc.
A light (figure eight) weave of the Mister’s legs usually makes the message clear.
But sometimes a Mister is a dolt. In these cases, the Smee stretches out on the sea grass mat and claws it like a housewife grabbing madly at the 50% off table in Filene’s basement (as we used to say in the Northeast).
This clawing, like a raindance, is supposed to remind the doltish gods by imitating the requested combing action. This “dumbshow” refers both to the action of miming and the idiotic audience trying to be reached.

“Oh. You want to be scratched?”

Duh.

A Shiner

Mister Smitty is a shiny smitty!

Mister Smitty’s coat (of not so many colors) shines mightily i’ the sun. His topmost hairs look translucent, almost clear. They ride lightly on his back, raying out like the long quills of peacock feathers (especially after he’s been combed and scratched repeatedly by one of those misters.

“Hard to tell ‘em apart. Just comb me!”

Daily Sched’ Part III: Graveyard shift

Mister Smee departs in the 11th hour!

The Smitty’s late-night hi-jinks are the subject of much debate. Infrared nightvision laser UV photography reveals him often on duty on the western wall, attentive to small avocado-seeking creatures. Some nights he can be found in his pre-dawn spot (office chair, waiting for sunrise) as early as 3 AM.

But he is never talkative about an empty food dish until daylight finds a sleepless mister up and aboot. Only then does a single plaintive cry ring out for food!

Happy Birthday Mr Smee!!!!!!

Daily Sched’ Part II: The Shank of the Evening

Once the sun has set, the Smitty is so exhausted by that ecstatic vision that he remains in the faux heather until the smells of the Misters’ cooking tingles his “jaded” appetite.

If he is not still completely blessed out, the Smitty inspects said smells around 8 PM, deems them humanish and thus ridiculous, and may take a light snack from his dish.

There’s no more Smee until 9:30 or 10 PM when he comes to sleep on this misters’ lap for an hour of gentle purring.

Daily Sched’ Part I: The Daily Cause

Mister Smitty is on vacation! -- or so it seems from his daily sched’:

At sunrise, he plops down to catch some rays. When he gets too hot he goes for the shade under the BBQ grill then back out in the heavily-trafficked spot on the deck for more sun and stretching and general in-the-way-ness.
By mid-morning it’s too hot, so the Smee retires to the shady jade plants where he often remains until it is time to dress for dinner. In summer, the Smee likes to dine late (5 PM) instead of his usual 3:30 PM (Paparazzi please take note).

After an after dinner drink on the deck, the Smee heads up to Faux Scotland (behind the guava) to nestle in the hearther-ish stuffs and watch the sunset.

Ill-literate

Mister Smitty doesn’t read his blogs!

Attempts to engage the Smee in his own stories have repeatedly failed. Photos of the Smee walking on the computer keys or tracking across spiral notebooks full of blog entries have brought no reaction.

He is “over it” [as are most of our readers –ed.].

“Yo, this blog is like so 5 meows ago.!”

Na Brae Smee

Mister Smitty likes bagpies!

Long about the shank of the evening, the mystic roll and coo of a lone bagpiper wafts through the misty southern woods.

Recently, the Smitty has taken himself to the highlands (behind the guava tree), nestling himself among the faux heather to watch the sunset. Now this crepuscularactivity of the Smee is accomplished to the mystic strains of the bagpipe!

What’s next, then, lad? A wee Tam O’Shanter for the Smee’s wittle head? Haggis and a scotch egg?

Jaded Palace

Mister Smitty is a jaded smitty.

As is the wont of the nomadic clan (aka the Feline) the Smee has moved to new haunts, namely ‘neath the twiggy boughs of the jade plant ‘neath the Misters’ porch.
There, amidst dappled shade (or mottled light, depending on whether you food dish is half empty, half full, or half full of ants), The Smitty lounges and composes (in his head) the various symphonies, novels, sonnets, and songs for which he will someday no doubt be remembered.

Smee be chillin!

Sunset under the guava tree, listening to Nan Cherry, yah, yah…

(Picture the Smee as a rap artisite, patting down the air in front of hisself, letting his jacket fall open and his bling (so ‘90s) slide from side to side, uh-huh, uh-huh,, pumping his hand-held wireless mic in one claw, baseball cap rakishly to the side, shades a slidin’ down his wee nose).

Ah-huh: the Smee be chillin’

Stumblebums!

The Misters are a couple of stumblebums!

At night, in the dark, they’re liable to bump a Smitty – worse – step on his tail. How rude!

Bunch of uncoordinates. Humans are clumsy enough in the daytime (all that weight and height trying to balance itself 6 feet in the air on two spindly little legs, and carrying a glass of wine to boot. But at night their clumsiness expands exponentially.

Good thing the Smitty is white like a pedestrian traffic cop with a big orange reflective X so they can see.

Hello!

The Peep-arazzi

Peeps are in the ‘hood!

Hear that cat—er—walling?

Is it the Smee?

No, he’s perched up on shoeland. Whoop! There he goes to investigate.

“Peeps calling me again? What have I got to do for them now? Can’t get along without me! Need me to solve some squabble. Everybody wants a piece of the Smee. I tell ‘em there’s enough of me to go around, but they’re jealous. Need reassuring.”
It must be tiring to be the Smee!

Avant-Garde Duty

Mister Smitty is on guard duty!

Protecting the southern flank has become more and more of an issue these days and the Smee has stepped up to do his part!

Today he perched himself on the stone wall (no, not that Stonewall), that divides the Misters’ demesnes/terroir/querencia from the access road (dirt) beyond which there lies the “Southern Woods,” Waiakoa, and, at a fur piece, the Kingdom of Oprah.

All Through the Night

When summer comes and the avocadoes ripen. (And fall – Kershuffle!)

Then is the time the Smitty gets to crack with the rats!

All through the night
The Smee delights in rat-ationation.
All through the night he’s a-spyin’ them!
All through the squeaks
Of their chirping fights
All through the leaves,
He’s a-killin’ them!
[Take it to the bridge, yo]
You’re such a good smee,
Even though you want to present us with rich gifts that repulse and cause fear,
Still, in the night, we adore you!

Mr. Lickety-Splitty

Mr. Smitty likes to lick between his claws!

It’s like reading between the lines (Or reading between licks).

Sounds unnecessarily drawn out (Prolonged, attenuated, dilatory).

ANY- way!

The Smitty likes to lick between his claws after dining, a process that takes all of three minutes.

The Licking or the dining?

Either! Both!

Comb-ination

Mr. Smitty likes to be combed!

Though this in no way suggests that his Smittiness suffers from a preponderance of fleas;it is simply a matter of, well, let’s consult our panel of experts:

“Da comb is all stimuatin’ and sh—“

Thank yo, Professor, Yo

“He likes it because he likes it.

Could you expand?

No.

It saves him from doing the work of delousing himself. That realization of increased leisure time, coupled with the actual physical pleasure, combines with the ego-soothing attention he gets from the human comber to produce an ecstatic state, not unlike coit—

And there you have it, folks. Think on these things the next time you put comb to cat.

Experts?

Word. Fleas out.

The Royal Smee

Mr. Smitty has a throne!

The fallen tree (wattle, uprooted itself in a storm, a seed fallen on sand…) provides a high perch from which The Smee can survey all he surveys and be outstanding in his field.

“The Misters’ve got all those chairs theyselves; why can’t I have one?”

[the aforesaid is not said so much as posited, projected, potential Smee-speech]

From this fallen tree of magnificent girth, The Smee can lord it over his peeps, check the surrounding fields, hillocks, copses and gentle declivities for various vermin, chickens, pheasants, cardinals, chucks, and those little fluorescent-green-bellied birds that have been barely a snack for the Smee in days of yore.

All hail the enthroned Smee!

Smutty Smitty Part II: Picket or Lick it

“Smut! Smut! Smut!”
“Mr. Smee! Mr. Smee! Mr. Smee!”
(Cut to: Housewives carrying signs, marching in crosswalks as they collect their kids from school)
“It’s outrageous!”
“Smut! That’s the only word for it!”
“Mr. Smee!”
(That was a Mister trying to get on camera to wave to the Smitty at home.)
“Who’re the owners, we’d like to know!” scream the moms.
(Man in trenchcoat ducks through the crowd with folded newspaper over his head.)
“Stop that man! He’s wearing a “Mister Smitty” t-shirt!”
[Actually, it’s a “Mister Smee-tee-tee” (available in Bone, Tan, and Black, $16.95 at the “$mitty” link)]
[This pop-up has been blocked. We apologize for our colleagues in the Filthy Lucre Dept. who spell “tragedy” as “marketing opportunity.”]


17:

Smutty Smitty Part I: Pay Dirt

Mr. Smitty is a dirty smitty!

The odd correspondence between the words “smitty” and “smutty” (purely coincidental – except, perhaps to your average man-on-the-street ancient Indo-European) bears inquiry (c.f. as-yet-unwritten blog entries on this (lexoco-) graphic subject matter).

But today’s “dirt” of is of the literal, physical, “refreshingly un-metaphorical” kind.

The Smitty was covered in a fine film which, after heavy petting (and some unwelcome brushing) barely diminished isself in color or weight.

Even after a brief hiatus, upon the Misters’ return, The Smee was still found to be thoroughly un-immaculate, tainted Smee.

Dismembereds Only

Mister Smitty ate a bird!

This is the 2nd or 3rd recorded “birding” of the Smee [Get Archives on the blower].

He was discombobulated while drinking his water and forced to pursue the pesky disturb-ating birds who were disporting theyselves in the large spikey plant [Greenus Spikeythingus].
The Smitty dove headfirst into the aforesaid plant and grabbed the aforesaid bird. Eschewing the porch as a place to chew the aforesaid,

(“Get your four paws on Terra Firma, Jack!” – old cat saying)

-- The Smee proceeded to plink plink plink his way down the steps to his “killing floor”

-- his sacred precinct of avian (or rodentian) dismemberment and consumptionation.

Stump Speech

Mr. Smitty has a stump speech!

(Because he sits on the stump.)

My Fellow Smittarians!

Far be it for me to dictate what you shall or shall not have in your food dishes, your water bowls, your choice of laps; you are free smitties!

I say all smitties should be free of the fear of being run over on the streets by those gas-smelling metallic hot things The Misters climb into and use to escape!

Therefore I hereby free all my peeps! To them I say, “Go forth and multiply (if you still have the equipment and/or inclination).”

Quantum Smythics

Parallel smitties in super-imposition with the so-called “actual” Smitty are (quantum-physically speaking) legion.

One such posited smitty (the “peep” formerly known as the Little Black Smitty) is now theorized to be the so-called “actual” Smitty but in a red-shi(f)t effect where what’s white looks black and versa-vice.

Therefore it must also be posited that the so-called “actual” Smitty (still our hero) may actually be one of his own “peeps.”

[Cut to: glowing Mobius strips in space, chrono-synclastic infundibula, cats swirling vicious figure 8’s betwixt one’s legs, the last reel of “2001” etc.]

Or in other (ancient) words, The Smee that can be named is not the true Smee.

Security Breach Part III: Bunch of Frags

Sirs,

A partial restoration (read: conjectured reconstruction) of what we, in our expert opinion, believe to be the contents of the deteriorating blog entry MS#65(+X):

“I am the Smitty and he is mine.”

“He tempteth me to walk on [garbled]”

“I went down to the Piraeus with Smitty, son of …”

“I lean and loaf at my ease, contemplating Mr. Smee…”

“He was Mr. Smitty on the dotted line, but he was Mr. Smee in my arms…”

Sirs, these, to the best of our restorative faculties, seem to be the meanings of the scratches found in MS#65(+X) of the handwritten proto-blog manuscript entrusted to us.


Sincerely,
Yo

Ghostmisters

Mr. Smitty is accosted by ghosts!

In touch with larger forces, the Smee has to negotiate his sleek way betwixt and between the legions of the dead, who meander, ghost-like, across the paths, thickets, and copses of our yard.

So confus-i-ficating for a smee!

But being an elegant animal, the Smee can slip between these karmic temptations:

“My son farmed this land…”, “My daughter was married right behind…”, “We buried my husband…”

The Smitty, present in all of these various dimensions, merely winks and takes it in, knowing his peeps are right behind getting down all these extended dance versions of history.

This is why he is sometimes slow to respond to calls; he got bidness, yo!

Mr. Smitty and the Underground Passage

Mr. Smitty is in Hell!

As in most epic narratives, this smitty, too, must have an underground episode(s) where he encounters sainted dads, erstwhile foes and the like

[Get on the blower: I need ghoulish daddies in toga drag, 8:00 AM Tuesday!]

Of course much of the Smitty’s spiritual journey is inaccessible to his human fans. We only have glimpses: eye-twinkles to decode and upon’s flanks stripes of dirt, rampant.

And the occasional, cryptic, “miaoux”

[What is this, the French Underground? English subtitles: “mee-ows” – ed.]

[Merci, ed. – autre ed.]

Security Breach Part II: The Rest Oration

Sirs,

Full restoration of the compromised entry (MS #65 (+X (previously published entries before a Kerchel-like numbering system was in place (, yo))) –

-- was deemed impossible by expert staff (c.f., et al., ibid., ille, illa, illud).

However, the following fragmentary remains of the intended blog entry (with notations, conjectures, palimsests, etc.) are herein forwarded.

[at this climactic moment – defined as that moment just before which boredom takes over – we must declare: To Be Continued!]

Security Breach Part I: too much i’the sun

Mister Smitty’s blog has been compromised!

Future entries – detailing The Smitty, his peeps, heirs, and assigns – are disappearing!

The culprit?

Mr. Smitty’s favorite morning friend: The Sun.

Handwritten entries -- exposed to the sun, waiting to be keyed-in -- are blanching, dematerializing, in a word, fading, yo!

Immediately, a restoration team was dispensed from the Smitt(y)sonian to stem the textual deconstitutionalizationation

[OK: enough with the multi-syllabic Latinate vocabulary fest! – ed.]

Copy Cat

Mister Smitty is a copycat!

That Mister was having cereal. This Mister was reheating pasta.

So Mister Smitty got in on the act. He pounced and circled his food dish (to dizzy it) then commencitated to chow.

“Mister, What do cats ‘copy’?”

“Mister, I don’t know. Sleeps?”

“Like xeroxing ‘Z’s and xeroxing ‘Z’s and xeroxing ‘Z’s and xeroxing…

“Yeah. I copy, Good Buddy.”

“Tranquility Base. The Smitty has landed, yo.”

Writer Left

“ANY-way!”

He quit.

In the volumeless silence that ensued – a silence so arid one could hear a cursor flicker -- a sea of heads (bespectacled, ear-budded, some even “nappy”) popped up over their dividers across the acres of cube farm we call the Writing Floor here on the 6^th floor of the entertainment division of Mister Smitty Enterprises, LLC.

Those heads blinked, swiveled, sniffled and, in a wave, picked up phones and called, eyes roaming to more heads appearing until all are focused in concentric circles. Then, like planets orbiting the erstwhile sun (now black hole) of the Quitter, the Leaver, his leaving forms a vacuum into which more and more attention gets sucked until still others are drawn from their desks, up from their chairs, some even out of their cubicles(!), to peer over at the evacuated place

The image is almost too horrible: something akin in despicability to seeing Mistah Kurtz engage finally in unspeakable acts as shameless as the words “To Be Continued.”

Writer, Exhausted by The Smitty’s Endlessly Fascinating Hijinks, Quits Staff!

THE MISTERS’-UPON-GULCH, Dismember 10 – One of the Most prominent, prolific, and prolix writers on the Mister Smitty © corporate staff, ____________ (fact-checkers: he shall henceforth remain nameless, anonymous, ghosting…)
closed his laptop in disgust, wheeled from his desk (bumping the back of his cubicle -- and thus sloshing hot herbal tea on some woman from advertising (fact-checkers: find that name!)),
and uttered those fateful words:
“J’accuse!”
(no, not those fateful words).
“I am not a crook.”
(not those either. (fact checkers: Fin--))
[Yo, he was the fact-checker – ed.]
Yo, you’re the “ed.” – you take over!
[to be continued – ed.]
It’s probably all your “ed.”-erruptions that made him quit!

Sneaky Smitty and the Pursuit of the Dish

Like a theoretical mathematician chasing unreal numbers, The Smitty follows a wiley fractal-like path to stalk and snare his cat food dish!

Well-versed in Chaos Theory, The Smee approaches his dish every which way but directly:

He must jump up to the desk (under which lies the sneaky dish), walk across it, jump down, then jump up to the coffee table across from the dish.

“Mister, He’s surrounding it.”

Then he jumps down to the dish and circles behind it.

“Mister, he’s sneakin’ up on it from the side!”

Just when the poor dish is in a whirl, a tizzy, completely discombobulated, The Smitty curls around to the front and feasts!

“Mister, The Smitty always gets his dish!”

Global Warming

Mr. Smitty is a victim of global warming!

Crispy bumps appearing on his ears signal that he is “too much i’the sun” (Like many on this sunny tropical isle, surrounded by hundreds of miles of reflector-pan ocean, The Smee is a vicious sun-worshipper as well as flagrant nude sunbather).

But now that there’s less between us and the sun (veils are falling before our eyes), The Smee, like a twice-baked potato, is developing crispy skin on his ears.

Need we say (do) more?

The Royal Smee

Mr. Smitty has a throne!

The fallen tree (wattle, uprooted itself in a storm, a seed fallen on sand…) provides a high perch from which The Smee can survey all he surveys and be outstanding in his field.

“The Misters’ve got all those chairs theyselves; why can’t I have one?”

[the aforesaid is not said so much as posited, projected, potential Smee-speech]

From this fallen tree of magnificent girth, The Smee can lord it over his peeps, check the surrounding fields, hillocks, copses and gentle declivities for various vermin, chickens, pheasants, cardinals, chucks, and those little fluorescent-green-bellied birds that have been barely a snack for the Smee in days of yore.

All hail the enthroned Smee!

War Paint

Mister Smitty is a warrior!

Mr. Smitty came back with war paint on his noses and general facial area.

The Misters, like any nation at war, answered the call to close ranks and pledged to support their troop(s). But questions remained:

“Is there a war, Mr. Smee? One-two-three, What are you fighting for?”

“Are you a terrorist or a freedom fighter?

The Smitty stands mute. Stalwart. Dedimicated.

The Smitty stands firm (until he commences to lick his war paint off).

“Is your mission accomplished, Mr. Smee?”

Happy-headed: A story of compassion narrowly averted!

Mr. Smitty has reverse-disc-rhymin’-ation “nappy-headed” guilt!

The Smitty (he of the white fur) heard noises up in the avocado tree and stood at attention on the rock wall.

Out from the tree’s skirts popped a black (furred) smitty.

(One is not sure, being at a distance, whether it was “nappy-headed” or no)

The two smees stared. And stared.

In the mind of Mr. Smitty we posit that he might’ve been thinking:

“I am guilty (white). I am therefore paralyzed with guilt. What to do? Even think?

The standoff continued until the wee black smitty (who is apparently not yet one of Mr. Smitty’s peeps), fleed, fled, vamoosed the camp.

(thus releasing The Smitty from his paralytic guilt to cavort again in modern mindlessness!)

Heavy Petting

Mr. Smitty is into heavy petting!

When we first started dating, Mr. Smitty was a shy and retiring smitty

(long hours hidden under the bed, frantic dartings-out to the litter box, the food dish, etc.)

But once he had the run of the place, came in and out as he pleased, gathered his entourage (see numerous (read: onerous) entries about “Mr. Smitty’s Peeps”), founded his crack house, inspected laps galore,

Why, then he got into some heavy petting!

Now we’re going steady!

Dirty Smitty

Mister Smitty is a dirty smitty!

This is partly because he likes to take dirt naps in The Misters’ window boxes. But you know that (See various entries, Volumes VII - XXVIII, or don’t).

Not to be racist, but it’s hard to be white cat!

The Whiteness of The Smee doesn’t truck with dirt, yo.

Though the aforesaid soil only rests lightly on the surface of his fur like a dusting of paprika or powdered chocolate.

A dirty Smitty looks like a cinnamon–dusted cappuccino!

Caterwauling wit’ da Peeps

Many’s the time when The Misters will hear the sounds of scratchy cat-fight caterwauling and wailing in their district—

“Mister, I hope that’s not The Smitty getting’ down and dirty with his peeps!”

-- and look to make sure The Smitty is safely not among that number, above that ruffian fray

-- only to find The Smitty calmly observing, unmoved by the terrific squealings of his peeps.

“That’s a good and peaceful (read: neutered) Smitty!”

Lapsed Cat-oholic

I dropped in on a meeting of Recovering Cat-oholics.
Tonight’s topic: L.A.D.D. (Lap Attention-Deficit Disorder)
As I sit there, taking in the harrowing stories of tortured guilt, I wonder if I, too, suffer from an inability to concentrate when The Smitty is in my lap.
When it’s my turn to speak, though no one interrupts my maudlin tale of woe, at the end. one kind gentleman points out that the topic is incorrectly spelled on the sign.
“Actually, It’s L.D.A.D.: Lap-Deficit Attention Disorder. In humans, it means an inability to concentrate when there isn’t a cat in your lap.”
“And in cats?” I queried.
“An impatience when laps get up and disappear.”

Incoming!

Mr. Smitty is a stealth bomber!

This Mister was sitting in his porch chair, minding his own martini, scanning “The Listings” about an exhibit of erotic tattoos on torsos,

-- when The Smitty dive-bombed onto his shoulder, dangerously close to the martini in question!

“Really!” snapped The Mister. “A little warning ‘miau’ would be nice.”

The Smee bounded into his (my) lap.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Smee?”

Purr. (Cat talk for “sure.”)

Zen Come-on

Mr. Smitty is a walking, talking (sometimes) zen koan of hisself!

What does it mean if a white cat crosses your path?

Happiness!

(Gongggg…)

In Vino Verre y Tasse

Mister Smitty is a wino!

When This Mister came back one night, the scene of the crime was:

Overturned wine glass fallen across magazine. Wine on table, on floor, but none -- curiously – on the couch… where sat a silent Smee.

It LOOKS like The Smitty knocked the glass over.

But looks can be deceiving.

Maybe The Smitty wanted to drink the wine.

(Dissolve. Swirling close-up of The Smee. Flashback to:)

“…can’t get my snout down into these fancy-ass glasses…whoops! Well, at least now I can get my tongue around some of this here…”.

Nit-Picking

This Mister micro-manages Mr. Smitty’s face!

The aforesaid Mister can be found combing The Smitty nearly every other morning (while The Smee suns his stomachs on the porch).

This Mister is literally a nit-picker!

(Parents may want to preview the following sentence: Once the flea has been caught on the comb, This Mister uses his thumbnail to scrunch and squashify the wee nastie against the comb’s plastic handle (up in there where tine meets shank).

But to really micro-manage, the Mister is always on the spot to remove the blackened eye candy produced by the Smitty in the smithy of his eye!

Gracious Host Tales #4 Mister’s Sister

When Mister’s sister (not This Mister’s sister, but That Mister’s sister) brought Mister back home one night, she wanted to see The Smee (of course: who wouldn’t?)

“Where’s Mr. Smitty? Oh! I see him! Hi, Mr. Smitty!”

“Mao!” says The Smitty, bounding Lassie-like up to the cars.

Various inane dialogue ensued amongst the human element, to wit: “That’s a good smitty!” etc.

The Smitty continued to talk a blue streak (which means, for him, several words in a row) much to the elation of Mister and his sister – who supplies The Smitty with his high-end imported foreign-made foods!

Mr. Smee the Hunter Part III: A Quick (E)xotic End

Meanwhile, the Smee -- flummoxed, discombobulated and non-non-plussed -- tried to pick up the trail/trial (of the suddenly vanished and well-hidden gecko) by running into the shower stall (favorite haunt of domesticated reptiles in The Smee’s humble opinion).
But the trail had run cold (particularly in the corner where the water collects).

“And there we must leave the benighted/beknighted Smee: errant, forlorn…”

“In other words, shut down, yo!”

“Denied!”

“Word!”

The Misters exit the bathroom, laughing and slapping each other’s back as the credits roll in front of them

-- and which they bang into head first and fall.

Mr. Smee the Hunter Part II: Vile Sentencing

Having squoze through the interstices between the letters of “To Be Continued,” The Misters bounded into the bathroom and waited until The Smitty ope’d his pond’rous and marble [-colored] jaws to drop the gecko on the floor (in order to commencify the pre-mortem cat-n-mousification process).

“Mister, that’s quite a sentence.”

“Mister, it’s nothing compared to the sentence Mr. Smitty has given that poor gecko!”

“We must come to his aid! aid! aid!”

Acting as a wall, This Mister kept The Smitty’s weaving ‘n dodging head from having its way with the unfortunate guest.

Having slipped behind the wastepaper basket, the gecko slipped into that vital obscurity dreaded by Achaean heroes (warm days tilling the soil and rocking their infant sons asleep by the fire).

“ANY-way!”

Right: time to take a break, polish our shields, slay, dress, and roast mutton.

To Be …(you know what I’m saying).

Mr. Smee the Hunter Part I: An Arty Mess

Mister Smitty is a good hunting smitty!

The Smitty clumb up into our TV and video-industrial complex and got hisself on top of the DVD player (some six feet into the air). Peering down where cords collide and divide in a vertiginous tangle ending in dust bunnies (and worse), The Smee capturated a gecko in his mouths and bounded down to earth to have his way with the aforesaid reptile.

“No, Mr. Smee: Not the gecko!”

But the Smity was adamant: into the bathroom he betook hisself and his prey – whose back half dangled from his lips like a child of Saturn.

“Mister, should we intervene?”

The Misters vamoosed themselves toward the bathroom but ran smack into a wall of words saying:

“To Be Continued!”

Editor’s Not(e)

As for the previous (read: tedious) letter, there was no product placed in our blog. We don’t know what she’s talking about.

[ed: ed, how do you know it’s a she? Just assuming? Cat blogs are for girls, huh? Better check your misogynistical assumptions at the door, yo.]

Listen “Ed.’s Ed.,” yo, back off, yo. You think I LIKE having to step in, interrupt the Mister Smitty love fest, be the bad guy, and reply to these addle-pated, bird-brained, cock-a-mamie, dumb-dumb, etc.-etc.s?

[ed: ed, yes, I do. You like it so much that you MAKE UP the letters so you can answer them! Ha!]

The same way I made up YOU?
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Speechless, huh? Ha!