Cracque Heure

      At a sidewalk café along the Seine, on the ile de la C(m)ite, patrons sip their petits cafes and sketch the Smee.
      These cafes, clearly fronts for “kitty crack” (catnip), are perpetually h(a)unted by the Smee in search of his proverbial dragon, his Uncle Charlie, his fix.
      Upon a routine (read “next-to-never”) cleaning of the Smee’s food delivery system, the aforementioned Smee jumped up onto his food’s shelf.
     “Mister, he wants to plumb the mysterious recesses of his food-horde, his cache, his walk-in pantry.”
     “Mister, The Smee is doing inventory.”
      “He’s helping us look for the kitty crack!”

Fair unbalanced

Gen’lemans,

      I am all disturbated by you folks’s continual portrayal of me an’ my peeps as fly boys workin’ our hood and sich.

     Please present (in da future) a mo’ “fair unbalanced” portrayal of me an’ my peeps’s actual doings!

Yaw(n)s,
      Mr. Smee T. Tee

Les Reins Feconds

     All atwitter about The Smitty’s switch to drinking water in the shower, The Misters quizzed their resident feline expert, Ms. Fabulous.
     “Why does The Smee – “ [see above, passim – ed.]
     “Is he drinking more water or the same amount in a different location?”
     “Same.”
     “Good. Cause if he’s drinking more quantity, it’s a kidney thing.”
     (Startled faces, nervous glances, quick denials of The Smitty’s mortality, etc.)
     “I’m pretty sure it’s the same amount.”
     We’ll leave The Misters here as the echo of their self-assuring reverberates throughout the universe.

Science Experiment

      Like many of the out-of-the-way nooks, undersides, behinds, etc. of The Misters’ abode, now, too, The Smitty’s water dish has been deemed a “science experiment.”
      “He drinkin’ plenty water!”
     “It’s half what I put in there this morning.”
     “We should be scientifical and always fill to the line.”
      [the “line” is the bottom of the blue band of chinoiserie that rings the rim of the water dish –ed.]
      “Then we can keep track.”
      “Get The Smitty’s chart!”

Foreplay

     The Smee’s main objective may be his foods, but first he flirts: rubbing against legs as The Misters prepare their dinner (thinking (falsely) that The Smee is being friendly).
     Nope: it’s the smell of the foods! 
     And, sadly, it’s not even foreplay.
      For when those dim Mister still don’t get that all he wants is food, he marches over to his dish, sits his wee bum down, twists his head back over his shoulder and seems to say,
    “Enough foreplay, human. Give me my foods!”

   

   

Le Chat C’est Moi

Like a guest from an exotic land who seems blithely unaware of your cherished cultural mores, The Smee lays himself down whenever – and wherever – he deems it fit.

“Noblesse oblige, yo.”

“Mo’ or Lese Majeste, no’m sayin’?”

Faux Paws, Part II: The Icebag Numbeth

After a recent storm – which necessitated the purchase of bags-o-ice, one such bag had to be unceremoniously jettisoned from the freezer in order to make room for artisanally crafted vodkas and the like –

“ANY-way!”

Yes, anyway, the Exiled Ice Bag did, in certain slants of light, look, on the porch, like The Smee.

“Hello, Mr. Sm---. Oops!”

“Mister, that’s a tricky bag of ice. I thought it was The Smee!”

“Mister, he want us to think that!

Faux Paws, Part I: Quit Abstractin’ Me!

The Misters’ recent consumer industrial complex purchase of a porch heater left large unsightly molded styrofoam halves

-- one which was carted off by the county, the other, storm-strewn, had to be retrieved from a ditch and currently inflates The Misters’ (otherwise shrinking) carbon footprint –

“ANY-way…”!

Anyway, the whiteness of the styrofoam whale, lodged at some 20 yards from the house, can, in dim light, be taken for The Smee.

[coherence, finally! – ed.]

“Mister Smitty… Oh shoots! That’s not The Smee. It’s the styrofoam sculpture … of The Smee.”

“But wildly abstractified: The Smee has no right angles like that.”

“Except when he folds his front leg back.”

“Tru dat.”

A Sustainable Smee

Mister Smitty is a green smitty!

He likes to climb into the truck and help with the recycling by smelling all the outgoing bottles and sich.

(“Where you taking all those smells, yo?” Those are my smells!”)

“Mister Smitty, are you reducing your carbon footprint?”

(“Have you taken a look at my paws? I’ve already got about the smallest footprint…”)
Solar? The Smee soaks up sunlight as soon as it peeks through that crack o’the mountain!
Water? The Smee has cut out showers completely, replacing them with lavish tongue-baths.
.

A Tipping Point

Like a bathroom attendant in Grand Central’s Oyster Bar, ready to provide towels, soap, etc., The Smee had positioned himself plop in the middle of the bathroom, ready to serve The Misters’ every need.

“Mister, do you think we should tip him?”

“Mister, with what?”

“We could pet him gently and thank him. The great colonizers did that – and it worked for a good long…”

The Smitty interrupts to speak for himself, his generation, his people, nation, kind:

“A Thank you and a handshake? A pat on the head? Tip? You call that a tip? Here’s a tip for you: I sneeze on you! Ker-choo! You got that? Ker-choo you!”

A Hungry Smee

Mister Smitty is not a well-mannered smitty when he’s hungry!

Table manners? Atrocious!

Those whose duty it is to feed The Smee were overheard kvetching ‘back of the loading dock here at the Mister Smitty World Headquarters complex:

“Mister, he stuck his head into his dish so fast, he knocked the scoop out of my hand!”

“Mister, hilarious -- I mean, shocking!”

“Then, when I come back and he’s eaten it all – even the old dead wet food stuck to the side.”

“Fascinating!”

[oh yeah. – ed.]

Lunar Clips

Just as The Smitty needs the sun for his dose of Vitamin Smee, so, too, does he drink delicious moonlight. Check it:

“Mr. Smitty, why did you run out of the bedroom? The snoring?”

“No, you-all’s snoring’s about as loud as the moon’s – and that’s loud, let me tell you!”

The moon is a-buzz and The Smitty loves to hear it jam:

“Yo, when the moon rises, it’s like, ‘bring in da funk!’”

Vitamin Smee

Have you had your Vitamin Smee?

Doctors (3 out of 4) -- as well as philosophers, sages, crackpots, and your dear ol’ mum -- recommend a daily value of Smee (or the equivalent in kisses, light (or heavy) petting, random acts of kindness, or small, individually wrapped candies) to balance chi, “freshen the luck,” and in a twisted, syllogistical way, to keep the doctor away.

That The Misters might reap remunerative rewards as a result, is – as our blogsite’s adcounter clicker-thingy clearly indicates – statistically insignificant!

Mgniao!

Mister Smitty likes to munch his foods!

Mgniao-mgniao-mgniao (munch-munch-munch)!

“Mister, ‘Somebody’ likes his foods!”

(The Misters bestill themselves to listen to the plaintive munch-munch-munching.)

“Mister, ‘Somebody’ does!”

“Mgniao-mgniao-mgniao,” say The Misters in unison.

[oh, C’mon! – ed.]

Micro-managed Misters

Mister Smitty must micro-manage his Misters!

Once The Misters are led back to the house (which they apparently lose track of on a daily basis), The Smee lays himself out in front of the sink (or any high-traffic area) to be petted. This is The Smee’s sneaky strategy for calming his lost and discombobulated Misters, focusing them so they will once again be of use when foods, water, or laps are needed.

Once The Smitty decides that his Misters are calm and safe – he is outta there! (to attend to pressing cat business).

Fresh (water) Prince

Mister Smitty like his water fresh, yo!

“Mister, Mister Smitty is dissing his water.”

“You mean pee?”

“No, yo, I mean to the “D” as in “diss.”

“Mister, that makes sense because when Mister was in the shower, the Smee left his foods and ran over to try ‘n get inside where the fresh water was happenin’ (but was thwarted by the close-ification of the door).”

Cut to the dissed and abandoned water dish, now but a pale, watered-down version of itself.

Not Enough Womb

Limp-wristed Tales Part II: The curiousness of The Smee’s well-documented practice of bending his front leg back under he-self certainly flummoxes and perplexifies!
As far as we know, he is the only smitty in history (or maybe just his story) to do so!

Yearning for meaning (or maybe just yawning), experts posit that this wrist-limpification is perhaps a practice he developed in utero because there wasn’t enough womb.

[ ! – ed.]

A Prayerful Smee

Mister Smitty likes to pray!

Laying on his side, The Smee rolls a bit onto his back and drops his wee front paws over at the wrist –

“Mister, do cats have wrists?”

“Mister, I don’t know. But if so, then in this position they are limp-wristed.”

While this genuine reflection of devotion happens regularly, it’s not like going to matinees on a Vespa or anything.

“Mister, what’s he praying about?”

“He’s probably saying, ‘please deliver me from the idiocy of my Misters.’”

Mooning

Mister Smitty communes with the moon!

As a moon worshipper, or “Moonie,” Mister Smitty gets hisself a front row seat when the moon gets all waxy and full. There, he can bathe -- completely luned – in its smitty-white beams!

The Smee’s moon ministrations (secret, Wiccan) cannot be discussed here, but as photos of his practices (already, sadly, leaked to the conventional press) indicate, most of his secret practices are internal; only a few odd postures and quirky jumps can be construed as… lunar tics.

Happy B-Day Mister Smitty!!!!

We love you Mister Smitty!!!

Hope you are having a very Happy Birthday!!!!!

Love,

The Mister's

P.S. Hope you liked the Poke!!!

Mr. Smitty’s Academy, Part III: Seminars, Colloquia, et al.

The Black Hole of Cat-cultcha’ Distinguished purr-fessor of Cat-Astrophysics, Meister Schmittee – outstanding in his field (where classes are conducted) – selects rising seniors for a seminar in unified field-sitting, string and yarn theory, and relativ-kitty.

Mousy Tongue: Revolutionary Cookery from Wildcrafted Vermin Have you ever thought about pausing before devouring your raw mouse to consider various slow-cooking possibilities? This course is for you. Discover the pleasures of heat, evisceration, deep-fry, and various parfait-style preparations.

Mr. Smitty’s Academy, Part II: Courses Offered

Tongue Bathing 101: An introduction to the basic labial skills required for cleansing, grooming, de-knotting, de-gnatting, being natty, and anal hygiene. May be taken for credit in Linguistics.


Spatial Sabotage and Counterinsurgency: Students will cover the relevant history, famous battles, etc. to prepare them for the experiential portion of the course, which includes strategic self-placement in high traffic areas (in front of kitchen sink, in the middle of the bed, etc.) swift, stealthy insertions to vex and disrupt, and the basics of kitchen insurgency. Required for the degree in Cat-astrophy.

Mr. Smitty’s, an elite school for cats Part I: from the course Cat-alogue

Mr. Smitty, aware of his vast talents, has decided to share his gifts with the world for a small fee. Let’s look through some of the courses offered:

Adventure Sleeping: This rigorous experiential course requires sleeping in all sorts of outdoor locations, precarious perches, hard, soft, wet surfaces.

Course instructor: Dr. Smee-gmund Smee, Ph.dy - Du.dy. Prerequisite: Catnapping 101.

Escape from the Bathroom!

In the shower, sensing the great outdoors is near, The Smitty scours the shower floor looking for the gateway.

“I can smell it!”

But a thin veil separates The Smee from the olfactory paradise winking at him (nasally speaking) from the beyond. He looks up at The Misters with a look that says –

[oh no, here comes the anthropomorphizing again! – ed.]

[you know, if it weren’t for the existence of brackets, yo, you wouldn’t exist – other ed.]

(silence of --“ed.”)

Anyway, he has the same puzzled look that The Smee has.

Q.E.D., yo.

The Storm

All wind, no Smee.

Then, no electricity.

All day:

Smee on couch.

Because of no electricity, The Misters enjoyed “All-Smee TV.” Nestled on the couch, they were rapt by programs like “Cleanin’ Myself” (one of those DIY shows), “How to make a sculpture of myself by sitting still” (meditational programming), and “Watch me Bend my Leg Back Funny” (sit-com).

Mister Smitty and the Conservation of Mass

Query: Where does cat hair go when it is expelled from The Smitty (copiously, obviously) and then vacuumed, swept, or otherwise inhaled by The Misters?

Since nothing disappears (but suffers a sea change, rich and strange, yo), then are The Smee’s hairs coalescing to form some great Taj Mahal of Smee hair? And if so, where?

Hair trackers have been deputed to follow the lissome trail of The Smee’s ephemeral leavings.

“We shall read their prophecies anon, yo.”

Dis Closure

I like the Smitty!

My devotion is religious in nature: I believe that close contact with the ins-’n-outs of The Smitty’s daily round are as significant as anything that can be experienced on this plane (and its connecting flights).

For this reason, I write the Dao de Smee (these blogs) as light-hearted vectors pointing toward the ever evanescent present.

Do you know who taught me all these pretty things? My Smitty!

Smee Smack

Mister Smitty was misfed!

An unfortunate hiatus occurred in the Smee’s dietary regimen: he had no dry food for a day and was fed only wet food!

O the humanity! I mean, the Feline-nanity!

Fearing a “fiber gap,” The Misters scramble, but the Smee is unrelenting in his now rapacious desire for wet food.

“I’ll feed him as small (sob) an amount as I dare (sob)…

Ten minutes later, The Smee is again poised before his dish … as though nothing has happened!

“Psychological counseling! Intervention! Call the Wet Food Addicts Hotline!”

Social Just Us

Mister Smitty is a social climber!

He climbed up the monolith (kind of like the black monolith in 2001: a Space Odyssey but painted orange and full of shelves) to perch on a palette of Perrier ©, to peek between jars of pasta sauce, to nose the cylinders of canned air, etc.

“Mister, he movin’ on up t’ the East Side, yo, to a D-lux orange- monolith in d-sky.”

“That, or he’s on rat patrol.”


(The Misters have had several Close Encounters of the Vermin Kind in and about the monolith’s nooks and crannies.)

You go, Mister Smee!

Scar-struck

Mister Smitty has been scarred!

[obviously, from living with obsequiously attentive Misters – ed.]

“No, G: he’s got battle scars.”

And they are spectakulah: all upside his face (trans.: top of his head, just under the ear).

Attempts to apply Neosporin © were erased five minutes later by The Smee, scrappin’ to protect his turf, fightin’ for his right … to POTTY!

Dirty Smitty & The Case of the Big Rain

Mister Smitty is a dirty smiity!

After the big rain he came mewing back to the porch all striped up with dirt like a tiger

Though not wet! Curious…

A little blood on his face (right whiskers) was a conundrum for his handlers and press people until This Mister spied a small black cat picking his way through the wet tall grass from whence came the dirty striped Smee!

Did the rain force The Smee to defend his territory? Did one of his peeps do him dirty?

Scar-struck Mister Smitty has been scarred!

[obviously, from living with obsequiously attentive Misters – ed.]

“No, G: he’s got battle scars.”

And they are spectakulah: all upside his face (trans.: top of his head, just under the ear).

Attempts to apply Neosporin © were erased five minutes later by The Smee, scrappin’ to protect his turf, fightin’ for his right … to POTTY!

Fizz Ed.

A distinguished think tank (with a few whizz kids thrown in to upset the pipe-smoking bearded types therein) have been tasked with exploring the possible past, future, and parallel lives being lived by The Smitty.

Was he a human in a past life, trying to contact us with info? A request? Or are we limiting our imaginations to paltry anthropomorphizing for our own aggrandizement?

[multisyllabic Latinate word alert? –ed.]

[distracting interruption alert? – other ed.]

[somebody’s got too short an attention span for speculative inquiries, huh? -- ed.]

[or somebody’s a dilletantish sycophant enthralled by big word-tossers! – other ed.]

TO BE CONTINUED (oh, great: the exciting “Battle of the [--ed]s”)

From Scratch

Mister Smitty is crazy (for a good scratching)!

When The Smitty espies a convenient Mister approaching (either one will do … are there even two?), he stands up on the office chair, puts his front feet on the seat back over his head, and spreads his legs (as if to be frisked) so as to allow plenty scratching of his copious stomachs and chestal areas.

Elated, he stretches his head back (to look at the scratching mister) like some 40’s pin-up doll (which he is).

In the (Upper) Bored Room

“Please come to order!”

(We’ve snuck into a board meeting : penthouse windows, laptops at every seat)

“First report for the chairman?”

Mister Smitty, (aka “The Chairman”) in an excessively over-padded office chair, sleeps.

Insiders tell us that these meeting follow strict protocols (here described):

1) Do not report any fluctuations in expenses, revenues, etc. that shall disturb The Smee.

2) If The Smee stirs, proceed with clear hearts, desist from petty internicene arguments about payscale, seniority, office space, etc. – in short, anything that The Smee (in his infinite wisdom) will not cotton to.

3) Adjourn at first sign that The Smee gets a notion to eat or adventurize.
“Meeting adjourned!”

On Rear’n ‘N Matur’n ‘em

Mister Smitty is thinking (about what’s) outside the box!

When the honorable Smee enters a box (placed randomly for his delectation), the first thing said cosmic venturer does is to get all-up-in-der and scratch all (6) sides (doing his ludicrous calculations like a Count’em physicist).

This music is music (to The Misters’ ears).

Later, becalmed, The Smee peers out the front of the box, like a man who has only recently unchained himself from the depths of his cave, and rediscovers the many-more-than-six-sided world of those crazy Misters and their so-called reality.

-- then plunges back inside to re-scratch-ify and re-calculate what the hell is going on!

‘Someone’ is Waiting

When The Misters want to refer to the Smee without saying his name, they say things like:

“Mister, ‘Someone’ is drinking his water!” “Mister, ‘Someone’ is showering” (meaning when he sits person-like in the middle of the room and commence-ifies to lick hisself all over). “Mister, ‘Someone’ is eating his grasses.” “Mister, ‘Someone’ is hunting.” “Mister, ‘Someone’ is praying.” “Mister, ‘Someone’—

[--is pulling the plug on this inane blog post –ed.]

The Bees’ Needs

Alarmed by the precipitous and calamitous decrease in the world’s bee population, the Smee does his part by cavorting with the bees!

As though they were depicted in a children’s book, gamboling and frolicking amongst each other’s claws and stingers, the Bees & Smee wile away these last remaining moments we have on earth together in a harmonious tandem of buzzing and swirling.

Call me’ e-mail

A cry in the night!

Is it the Smee? Is it a fight? To the finish?

The Misters run to the railings, gunwales, the mizzen mast, to the fo’c’s’le, but all is black … as a black cat! But all is quiet on the nor’eastern-sou’western fronts.

“saw the wee black cat at sundown” comes the ringing from amidships.

“saw the faux-Princess crossing into the southern forest,” says the sextant.

Meanwhile The Misters pace the quarter deck and brood. Then, turning of a sudden to the crew they bark:

“Have ye see the White Smee!?”

Jar’d ‘n ‘e air

Mister Smitty likes to garden!

Apart from his large-scale farming endeavors (see jolly tractor photo), The Smee enjoys recreational gardening. Whenever This Mister descends to inspect-ify the plants

(read: avoid reading papers),

The Smitty comes to assist!

But most of all he likes to get right in the middle of the gardening table and plop down next to the trowel. This keeps the essential gardening tools, pots -- yea, the great table itself – from flying off into space.

Thank you, Mr. Smee!

I Want to Play a Game...

Poor Mister Smitty had the tips of his ears chopped off by Jigsaw!!!

Poor Mister Smitty he doesn't know how to get out of his trap...the dastardly Elizabethan collar killing device. His time is running out. He has two more days to figure it out.

Come on Mister Smitty...you can do it!!!

Sly Maneuvers

Mister Smitty likes to divide and conquer!

Like a child who’s learned to play one parent against the other, the Smitty will pull any and all of his cute maneuvers

(for a complete list of same, see “The Whole Smee Cat (a log)” )

a wink, a figure 8 weaving of the legs, a gentle “mao” etc. – in order to get the scratching/combing/brushing/feeding/watering or lap-riding he feels he so richly deserves.

The Name of the Smee, Part IV

Crowds gathered (and chanting madly) have now been determined to be not so much in wait of the Smitty’s first name being revealed (soon, soon) but in opposition to the continuance of this drawn-out miniseries, indulging our time and frustrating the quickly dwindling readership of our fan(s?).

With that in mind, let us proceed then to knock down the door (incite riot here) plunge inside, and –

-- but there’s no one here! They’ve all gone: taken the secret name and vamoosed the camp. They’ve even taken the camp: there’s no building here anymore in which a slot can deliver the secret name, I, your trusty reporter am likewise no longer --
[at this point the transmission cuts off – ed.]

The Name of the Smee, Part Three

Conjecture!

Possible first names in the mix include nicknames (or the “speakable” names of the Smee) culled from the vast archives:

The Smitty, The Smee, Mr. Smee, The Smit-ational Device, Comrade Smitski, Xmi-te, Bruddah Smee, Monsieur Smitte, etc.

Of these, experts posit that the truth lies somewhere in the mid “L” -- but experts have been unable to locate the “L’ and so perhaps are misguided.

We’ll take this break and be back as soon as a paper is waved through that slot indicating the posting of the unspeakable (first) name of the Smee is spoken (on paper).
Roger, is that white smoke I’m seeing issuing from the relevant chimney?



The Name of the Smee, Part IV

The Name of the Smee, Part II

We are live outside the executive offices of Mr. Smitty’s blog for what is promised to be the revelation of the ne’er-to-fore spoken first name of the Smee.
While we wait for the first printout of the soon-to-be revealing posting, let’s go to our roundtable (please join our video conference) of Mr. Smitty experts.
First let’s go to professor Popoki, of Bahda U., author of SmellslikeSmee.com, a webring of discussion groups who dissect and analyze the blog postings of this website.
“Eh tanks brah. How you stay? You know we have the local-kine slant on stuffs so we look to interpret clues that relate to the ‘aina, yah? You know what is: “location, location, location”? Well, you could translate ‘em as: “da ‘aina, da ‘aina, da ‘aina,” yeah?
Anyway, we stay ready to translate the unspeakable (wen broke da mouth) name local-style, bumbai.”
Next, it’s professor Dat Wright, Flip Wilson Professor of Ebonics at the University of Nuffsaid.
“Yo, check it: Mr. Smitty has GOT to –
[in the immortal words of Polonius: “This is too long.” –ed. We will return at the first sign of content]
[Is that a promise? – other ed.]

Nomen-c(l)at-ure

Confusions have been swirling in the streets!
In some quarters, rumors abound concerning Mister Smitty’s first name (which they consider a secret held by this site (its subsidiaries, heirs, and aasigns) to be revealed only in that most tedious of ways, the Multi-Part Series.
Let’s recall some of those most dreaded multi-parted serieses, shall we?: There was the oh-(not)so-clever “Da Smitty Code,” the suspenseful “Plastic Trash Bag Mystery” (or was it “misery”?) and that most loathed of all multi-parters: “Da Vater Code” – a misguided attempt by bloggists to wrap the conundrum of the Smitty’s water drinking preferences inside the enigma of physics, weights and measures, etc. (Archimedes, passim).
[read it quickly, before it’s expunged! – ed.]
“ANY-way!”
Let it be said here that we intend no such depressing multi-partem postings. We understand from our chatrooms, comments, and snail-mail letters (including one composed of letters cut from magazines) that these serieses are odious in the extreme.
Nevertheless, since we have at present wandered so far afield of our purpose that we must apologize, we must cut this posting off at the head, lest it grow longer.
Sadly, the quest for the illusively unspeakable (first) name of the Smitty is –
T- B- C-NT-N--D!

Boxed-In

Mister Smee is in the box!

Mister Smitty likes to get hisself all up inside boxes (when, in the course of porch events, they occur)

“Mister, to state the obvious, it’s like the womb!”

Return to paradise. Return to forever. Paradise now. Jump here for eternity. If I could hold time in a bottle…

“Mister, it’s like packaged purring!”

Insane Posse of Clowns

Mister Smee has a posse!

Mister Smee has an entourage, his yes-men, his retinue, his sycophants, his homies, his crew, his bruddahs.

Mister Smee has peeps who’ve got his back. Their names?

Mister & Mister (and all our dear reader(s?))!

BBQuotient

Mister Smitty likes the BBQ!

All (the live-long) day the Smee lounged under the table upon which perches the small BBQ grill.

This being summer, the afforded shade there keeps his delicate pink ears of the Smee from developing the sores that lead to You-Know-What-ectomies.

Even when we rolled out the shank of the evening, did the Smee remain ‘neath the warming coals (though the flying sparks concerned the Misters mightily).

Mr. Smee!

Sneezy Smitty

Mister Smitty sneezed on my foot!

The Misters were returning a bit late (6 PM) for the Smitty’s main feeding time (3:30).

“I’m shutting off the motor so we can hear the Smitty’s plaintive cooing.”
(which decodes as: “I’m hella hungry, yo. Where you been?”)

“Hi Mister Smee!” (wicked retarded waving of hands by the Misters).

“Mao!”

“Mr. Smee!”

“Mao. Mao”

“Mr. Smee”

[repeat chorus endlessly – ed.] [less sarcasm in the sweet moments, eh? – other ed.]

And then the Smitty sneezed on me.

It was a lusty, full-nosed sneeze that landed on my mostly bare Teva©-covered feet.

“Mister, now that the Smee has sneezed on me, I‘ll never wash my foot.”

Explorers Day

Mister Smitty is an explorer!

He’s even now as we speak in the (great) Northern Woods!

Just past the “clubhouse” -- t’other side of the single floating string of barbed wire -- lie the great Northern Woods (where horses have been wont to roam and from whence, in a storied yesteryear, a cat (we) named “Mini Me” (see The Compleat History of Mister Smitty’s Peeps, Volume 1) used to issue hisself.

This foray into the Northern Woods marks a deeper level of cavort-ation on the part of the Smee, who has not been seen to have penetrated said woods to such an extent heretofore.

Will he keep going until he reaches the tennis court, or more: till he circumnavigate the globe?