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!”