Full-Frontal Mastication

Mister Smitty got game!

“No, yo. Literally. He’s got fresh game.”

“Mister, the Smee is a big game hunter.”

Meanwhile, below these towering figures, the Smee chows down the remains of the wee birdie with much chewing and swallowing -- The mechanics of alimentation, live on stage!

-- Of course, moments before this victory-lap conversation (in which the Misters preside over the carnage with proud appreciative commentary) the home delivery of the aforementioned bird was hastily rebuffed by that Mister (who, to do the rebuffing, had to lift the Smee-cum-bird out of the house to deposit him on his “killing floor”).

“But, Mister, whilst you were ejecting him, did you thank him for his rich gift?”

“Mister, in my haste, I did not.”

Lick it or Ticket

Mister Smitty likes to lick he-self!

The usual “good licking” entails a tongue in’s tail, a gentle tongue bath of the local fur…

But sometimes the Smee specializes, does custom, detailing work (on’s tail).

Let’s listen as he gives he-self instruction-ations:

“Splay the paw. Lick between the digits. That’s finger-lickin’ good… [smack! smack!].”

Him of the He

The Misters have to go to the vet!

“Mister, we do.”

“But certainly not with the S-M-E-E !”

“Mister, why not with … he of the him?”

“Because certainly the vet wants to speak to us about our behavior vis-a-vis the ... aforementioned

‘he’ of whom we speak.”

“And report his findings on us directly to the … S to the M to the E-E-ity.”

“Word! (I mean ... THAT word).”

Escape from the (Dot-) Matrix

Mister Smitty discovered his blog!

“What the <> is this <>?”

(... Lawyers have been called, the jig is up, desk drawers have been emptied (summarily, awkwardly) into round standard-issue grey metal office wastebaskets…)

-- and so this blog must be entered into evidence. All entries shall be impounded

(...station wagons are filling with old-school faux-woodgrain cardboard personal file boxes larded with stacks of dot-matrix printed sheets …)

--and all ye who have ever clicked herein shall have your whole clickin’ history catalogued and entered into the Akasic records!

Regency Waste Lines

Mister Smitty is a regent!

While the Misters wait for their house to be built, they consider this period the Interregnum.

The Misters, the once and future Kula residents, are appalled by the ambient noise hereabouts in the ‘hood.

“Does Mister enjoy ‘The Talking’?”*

* The fallen circumstances of the Misters have cast them in and amongst a joyfully loquacious set of funsters on the one side, the distaff branch of which gather each morn’ in their kitchen to chant the day-long Jeremiad affectionately dubbed “The Talking” by the Misters.

(For more information on the deleterious desuetude into which the Misters have fallen during their Interregnum, see “Bleach Bardo Babylon” [-- or don’t. Ed.])

Meanwhile, the Smee, as regent, sits above the fray on his frayed brocade pillow.

Walking the Plank Scale

“Where I am is good,” said the Smee (in his mind)

-- as he forded the overflow of the Misters’ flooded carport on his wee cat bridge (lovingly provided by his staff (aka the Misters)).

Pausing mid-crossing, the Smee was perhaps contemplating how, a couple of hours before, he had, in this very same spot, sip-slurped the rainwater (pooled up in such a way that this Mister felt necessitated the plunking-down of a plank so as to expedite passage to the raised seating area created for just such deluge situations as a result of hideous Christmas rains).

[ed.: The length-of-sentence alert having “dinged,” we must now close down this blog post forthwith.]

(Un)Social Drinking

Mister Smitty is a heavy drinker!

When the Smee is thirsty, LOOK OUT!

He’ll be camped out at his water dish a good long spell, lapping up that water like it were milk.

When the Smitty engages in such episodes of excess this is referred to as “binge drinking” <>.

“Mister, the Smitty likes to drink.”

“Mister, he’s a hard-drinking Smitty.”

“And he don’t like no one watching him when he’s drinking.”

“Drinking alone, trying to hide the habit … ‘tain’t right.”

“We could drink with him!”

“Excellent idea. Get the shaker.”

Rainy Day Blood Sports

The Smitty is feeling cooped up!

When that happens (mostly due to rain), The Smee can get powerful frisky. And that can lead to blood sports.

“There are just times when I … [tears, sniffles] … I have to let the Smee bite me.”

-- confesses a distraught and perplexified Mister.

“I thought he liked me... and right in my own home!

Wait: Should I file for domestic abuse?”

For a Good Time Call: THE-SMEE

… but not for THAT  kind of a good time

(-- nor for THAT good of a time, neither!)

The Smee is available on a cost-effective basis for companionship-isticalness, posing for artists, heavy (and light) petting, nude photography (The Smee eschews all clothes and accessories: “that which separates us from the beasts” -- Some Cultured Twit).

Call today!

Mr. Smitty’s Tag Team

The Smee has been tagged!

Google identifiers have tagged the Smitty for easy cross referencing with various (hash) tags:

#Cat, #The Smitty, #The Smee, #Cool-io, #White-cat “black” cat, #Cute ‘n cuddly, #Mean-ass Tom, #Rarefied pet, #Ebonicalized pet, #Humor, #Pathos, #Bathos, #Overindulgent puns, #hysterico-comical-pastoral...

Add to our list! What tags do you want to hang around The Smee’s neck?

The Crowded Unknowing

Much tizzy-ing, tussling, and twitter-pating ensued (as The Misters waited for the re-biopsy of deeper Smitational ear tissues gleaned from the scabrous nubbin).

“Does The Smee have a living will -- or a will to live?”

“What would he look like without ears -- tragically snipp?”

RING !!

“Hello, is this The Misters?”

“Who wants to know, yo?”

“It’s the Vet.”

(That crash you hear is my stomach dropping).

“We can’t find any cancer.”

Haloo! Hurray!

The floors of the executive offices burst into ecstatic hoopla as writers, et al. jump up and down on their desks in celebration of The Smee’s apparent health.

And so the delusion of immortality extends its all-too-short-a lease another day...

Never on a Sun Day

After much hand-wringing and nail-biting that call from the Vet came

(The whip came down, the alea were jacta’ed and the jeux were faited).

From the official report:

“The thick black nubbin [on the sunny side of The Smee’s ear] has a dry, crusty, scabrous quality suggesting dead skin, infection, possible pre-cancerous lesions…”

Response:

“Keep that cat out of the sun, yo! Don’t you know nothing about white cats?”

“Mister, who’s going to break it to The Smee?”

“That he’s possibly got cancer of the ears and can’t go out in the sun?”

“No, that he’s white.”

“Too Much i’the Sun”

Mister Smitty has a growth!

Solutions:

           

a) juice the wound with $pecial $auce

           

b) keep The Smee outta the sun (to skulk only by night)

Dark days for The Smee!

Pictures were quickly taken of The Smee’s as-yet-intact ears to preserve their memory.

Sunspots

Due to this planet’s position vis-a-vis the nearest star, sensitive (pink and white-furred) ears can develop spots.

Fortunately, (veterinarian) science has designed an effective response for cancerous feline ears:

“Cut ‘em off!”

So, with what trepidation did The Misters greet the appearance such spotations on the ears of The Smee!

“Yo, I’m filled with trepidamation.”

“Dude, I’m fully trepping.”

To allay their fears, those Misters once again packed up their precious cargo in their ol’ kit(ten) bag and subjected an already traumatized Smee to the chopping block for a biopsy.

Stay tuned for the results!

Bleach Bardo Babylon

Without disclosing sensitive information that might enable our dear reader(s?) to locate The Misters and -- heav’n forfend! -- The Smee, let us make plain that The Smee and his MIster-ish entourage did in fact de-camp from _______ and installed themselves temporarily in ________, a sort of Babylon from which delivery is prayed for and pizza delivery is possible.

Lost in this bleached Bardo (the house was white inside and out), The Misters and the Smee spent what they now refer to as The Interregnum with a host of new neighbor-characters:

To the immediate North of the new Smee-Central lay the house of Catering & Crack (we suspect, based on the covered trays oft-loaded into the SUV and the micro-short “visits” made by unsavory gentlemen in lifted, weathered trucks).

To the south lay a cyclone-fenced fortress oversaturated with cars and four generations of women who would crowd in the kitchen (the room closest to our side) to partake in the daily, day-long ritual we came to dub “The Talking.” 

[What’s this got to do with The Smee? This post is far too Misters-centric! --ed.]

[Then cut it off, why don’t y--

O, Differ Us!

Mister Smitty smells good!

Ever since the crazy change in location suffered by The Smee a cause de the de-camping of The Misters to their current location (which shall remain nameless), The Smee has smelled real good.

“It’s the delousing sheet.”

“It’s the Indian Paintbrush.”

“Say wha...?”

[In The Misters’ previous-previous location (precipitously coastal and pre-Smee), the gentle ocean breezes were wont to waft across the lantanas and lift their “Indian Paintbrush”-y aromas…]

“How could a cat that’s never been in place it’s never been, smell like a plant that’s not here but there in that un-cat never-been-there-land?”

“I’ll get back to you once I’ve crossed out the double negatives on both sides of that equation and reduced it to something I can understand.”

Stay tuned.