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.]