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!