Hooray! Sis-Boom-Bah! The Mister Smitty Blog is Eleventy-Hundred years Old!

The 10th Anniversary of this Smee blog came and went without a peep from the staff.
Dispirited and demoralized by the endlessness of their task, the writing room lays in a
listless torpor when it considers extra editions, superfluous Christmas-special type posts
commemorating false “events” such as the true tenth anniversary of the Smee’s blog!
Exhaustified to the hilt are all the various hangers-on, indemnified minions, entails, etc.
(basically the entire edifice of Mister Smitty industries, not just the easily forgotten 6th floor
smithy where the blog posts are churned out).

So here then, at the elevendy-hundreth anniversary of the Smee’s doings being
immortalized in bad puns and overwritten, jokey, self-referential dross, we say here
here, good show, etc.!

He turns to his fellow toilers to find the writing room bereft of coworkers,
a ghost town of cobwebs and dust-collecting paperweights.

Who’s left to raise a glass to?

Perhaps you, our dear reader(s?).

Perplexified

“Mr. Smitty, can you get my script for me?”

“Hold up, wait a minute...” thinks The Smee. “Can you be asking ME to do something for
YOU?
I think you got your grammar dislexified: it should be Can YOU do something for ME!”

Mightily perplexified by The Mister’s request, The Smee ponders …

“Can I, The Smee, do something for you, a human?”
What does that even mean?
That’s like some kind of impossible word trick, like the sound of one paw clawing.

The Sleep of No Reason

Mister Smitty has a second sleep!

Like the Hobbits’ second breakfast, The Smee has names for
the various sleeps he gets
(totalling always a RD minimum of 18 hours, as is meet).

The morning’s first sleep in the sun (Matins-on-Shelf) is followed by a
cooling down period
(“Too hot. Too hot”) in the center of the house,
The Smee’s default location whether asleep or awake.
This is followed by a return to the sun on the porch (Outdoor Boxification, Part I),
followed by some heavy drinking (of water) and Indoor Boxification, Part I.

Then around 10 AM …

[Let’s skip to the end, for the sake of our reader(s?) -- ed.]

… and finally, after his semi-circular positioning of himself for his
“I Conjure Thee, Crescent Moon” sleep,
The Smee retires for good by jumping up onto the bed and between this Mister’s legs
for safe-keeping!

The Resurrection (of The Smee’s Potty Palace)

Faced with the impossible vet request for precious Smee-stool,
The Misters devised a devious resurrection: The Smee’s old litter box!

Fetched up from downstairs in the dirt, filthy and forlorn, the green litter box
(replete with ancient litter)
was newly re-ensconced in the clothes closet next to the laundry basket
(where it was wont to reside in ancient times).

The plan: reintroduce The Smee to his former bower,
invite him to relive precious mem’ries, old home week, etc.,
get him to pinch a wee loaf ...

-- more like a micro eclair --

-- a Vienna (blood) sausage --

-- a [can you two -- literally -- cut the shit? --ed.]

… and then whisk the precious cargo off to the vet!  

A Touching Smee

Mister Smitty has a tanning salon!

[It’s The Misters’ touch lamp -- ed.]

Can The Smee deduce its magical touch action from a careful study of his Misters?

One time, he “accidentally” hit the lamp and turned it on hisself.

But, sadly, cameras were not there to record this historic scientifical moment
in The Smee’s long research career.

The Smee’s “Day Agenda”

The Smee’s day is front-loaded!

All his important daily bidness is accomplishified within the first hour of his waking:

First, get up, get some sun (vitamin Smee).

Next, eat his grasses while he waits for lazy staff (The Misters) to rise.

Once he hears the telltale rattle of the kettle on the hob, The Smee positions himself
for food by standing in front of his dish, all four feets together as one,
for his piece of resistance.

The day’s climax achieved, The Smee wipes the smelly leavings
all over his face and saunters into his water room for a long sesh of water-lapping.

Finally, it’s outdoors and up the wee path to
the grasslands-formerly-known-as-the -enchanted-forest,
for a visit to The Smee’s Potty Palace.

Caught in Bed!

No, Yo, literally caught inside the bed: trapped below the box spring’s stapled on sheet,
conversing with the wooden interstices and sich
(Reader, there are no actual springs in this box spring).

[Though by Rite there should be Spring(s) -- ed.]

[You’re really pushing it -- other ed.]

[Don’t take such a tone, all right? -- ed.]

Can we get back to The Smee, please! If I can remember that far back,
I believe he was caught in a box spring.

A quick rending of the polyester (and thus non-proverbial)
veil freed The Smee -- and all of us -- from (mental) slavery.

[And hopefully, too, from too many parenthetical interruptions -- ed.]

Uppity Fridge!

“Mister, is that The Smee purring?”

“Mister, I don’t know because … WE GOT A NOISY FRIDGE ON THE PLACE!”

[ed: even Mr. Stanley Kowlaski might be unnerved by the noisy vibrations of
the Misters’ Third Temporary Starter fridge’s (stationary) peregrinations.]

“Mister, The Smee has declined his head to rest his chin on my leg.”

“Mister, then all is right with the world!”

Thanks Aloft

Mister Smitty has lofty ambitions!

(He likes to climb up to the loft.)

“Watch out, Yo. Here he comes down from on high.”

“We’re going to have to dedicate one of our kitchen shelves to emptiness
so the Smee can jump down from his new loft.”

[Editor’s note: since the much profit-sized move to the
“promised land” (The Smee’s purported “castle”),
The Smee has been generally in heaven -- except for two random loose-dog cavails…

-- during which The Smee discovered his “lofty” ambitions and kicked himself upstairs!]

Snack Attack!

Mister Smitty snacks between meals!

“Why, no more’n ten minutes after his big meal of the day, that Smitty is
trottin’ in heah with a freshly-killed mouse snack”

-- he said, a-totin’ his imagined shotgun.

“Mister Smee, to maintain your curlish figure,
you have to cut down on the between-meal snacks.”

“They’s for you, Yo. I’m workin’ the hood. I’m a crime-stopper:
I stop crime by eating the criminals.”

One is both plussed and non.

By the Misters of Babble-on

Is The Smee savoring his final days in Babylon?

(for a full chanting-down of the Misters’ purgatorial sojourn in their Babylonian captivity,
see “Bleached Bardo ... )

[Enough! No one wants to go back and read that drivel -- ed.]

[any more than they want to read this drivel? -- other ed.]

[stunned silence of “ed.”]

“ANY-way!
As the Misters vamoose themselves to Higher Ground --
with their much-vaunted material goods, each, for The Smee,
with its own nostalgic aroma --

The Smee takes the opportunity to lay down some tracks:

“Three Little Birds (I Killed and Ate)”

“No Human, No Cry”

“Exodus: Movement of My Misters”

“Relocation Song”

In the Driver’s Seat

As the Misters ramp up to their grand de-campment from nether land --

-- they movin’ on up to the (north) east side (of Kula) to a
dee-lux arrangement in the clouds --

“ANY-way!”

The Smee has clumb into the driver’s side of the truck and Smee-mendeered the wheel!

“Mister, should we let him drive?”

“I doubt he’d be a defensive driver.”

“I’m concerned he might lose interest, curl up, and fall asleep at the wheel.”

“He might be difficult to reason with about taking left or right turns.”

“To say nothing of the anatomical challenges he should face vis-a-vis the pedals.”

“Indeed.”

Quantum Dis-entanglement

Mister Smitty is a smell detective!

“Smells is moving up in the hood, yo.”

The Misters were de-camping, boxing-up, totin’ and bailin’
out of their not-so-palatial digs.

(For an exhaustive (and exhausting) description of their erstwhile digs,
see blogposts “Bleach Bardo Babblin’” and its ilk, q.v., viz., passim.)

“Mister, The Smee is noticing that his usual smells are disappearing.”

“Mister, The Smee knows when he being perpetrated olfactorally.”

“Mister, a query: When he senses smells gone missing,
is that like a vacuum in nature for The Smee?”

“Black hole, Yo. It’s what cats call Count-em Ass-tro physics.”