Puff Daddy

Mister Smitty is a Marshmallow Peeps!

Check it, yo:

                He white (don’t tell him though).

                He delicious and sich.

                He cute ‘n all dat.

[I thought Marshmallow Peeps were yellow or purple, not white. – ed.]

[Ok, so, what: you want us to erase the whole entry, then? – other ed.]

Can Handle?

Mister Smitty has agents!

The Misters “handle” the Smitty’s representation.

“What about that picture of the Smee?”

“Couldn’t upload it.”

“What about that ______ (fax, memo, phone call, etc. fill-in-the-blank)?”

“Huh?”

“Mister, do you think the Smee will discover our ineptitude and fire us as agents?”

“Mister, “WILL” discover?”

Putative Puke

Mr. Smitty barfed!

Color photos (not available at press time) indicate the substance(s) in question were mostly grasses.

“That’s those ‘garden greens’ mixed into his wet food, yo.”

“Or our actual greens from our actual garden.” (pace Marianne Moore)

(The Smee is a shameless grass-muncher)

“That’s how he cleans his teeth.”

“And his stomach, apparently.”

Human Instruction Manual

Pussy Whipped!

A user’s guide  -- or -- how to train those pesky humans in your life

- from one cat to another by Mister Smee.

Available from Simon & Shoe(land)-ster for $29.95 (or the equivalent in cat food (high-end, only)).

Order at our Web $ite! (previously issued as “Dummies for Dummies”)

Escorts Waiting

Mr. Smitty has an escort service!

Whenever whomever of the Misters returns to the compound, Mr. Smitty saunters over to escort the aforesaid him safely home.

Mr. Smitty places himself in the path of the oncoming Mister(s) and waits until one or both Misters have passed by him en route to the house. Then, satisfied that they shall no longer be lost, The Smity bounds past them, up the stairs, to be the first inside.

Once the wayward Mister(s) have settled down in their box, The Smee, satisfied that their wanderlust is temporarily  spent, takes himself off duty and vamooses himself off the premises to cavort and adventurize hisself.

Read My Feets!

Refrigerator repair? Call Mr. Smitty!

Let’s re-enact a commercial-ripe moment of The Misters’ daily round:

“Mister, the fridge door don’t shut r(t)ight at the bottom.”

“Mister? But that’s exactly where the Smitty hangs.”

Days pass …

“Mister, I’ve discovered the problem! The out-stickingness of plastic grill kickplate thingy on the bottom is keeping the door from closing all good li’dat.”

“And The Smitty knew it all the time, Look: his feets are pointing right there to the bottom of the fridge!”

(Mr. Smitty: “Duh.”)

“Mister, The Smee is a refrigerator repairman green energy saving specialista!”