The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2025 Edition - Episode 16

 "I say," Smush said. "Is that a dirigible?"  

"A what?" Mogey inquired. 

"You know... one of those big airship thingies."

"A blimp?"

"Yes, that's right," Smush agreed.

"Why didn't you just call it a blimp then?" Mogey asked. "What's all this dirigible fancy-talk?"

"Well, I didn't want to offend you."

"And why, exactly, would I be offended by the word 'blimp?'" Mogey demanded.

"Erm," Smush said awkwardly, "no reason."

Mogey stared at his friend as a man who hasn't yet made up his mind about whether or not to eat a healthy lunch might glare at Enrico Baloney, the Owner/Operator of the famed 58th Street hot dog cart.

"Alright," said Mogey at last, "better make it five dogs with extra mustard. But no buns on 'em: I'm eating a healthy lunch." 

"What?" Smush asked.

"Ahem! What I meant to say was: point me in the direction of the dirigible. I've got to lay eyes on this plump beauty."

The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2025 Edition - Episode 15

Mogey and Smush were picking their way along the railroad tracks one gloomy day when the Teethington to Tongueborough freight train came rumbling along. As it passed, Mogey and Smush couldn't help but notice that one of the railcars was piled high with golden lemons. They further could not avoid observing that the trapdoor beneath the lemon car hung a tad askew, trailing a long line of citrus in the train's wake. And finally, it was simply impossible to miss the fact that no one aboard the train seemed aware of the lemon leakage. 

As the Teethington to Tongueborough rolled out of sight, the pals greedily began to sweep lemons into their haversacks.

"You know what they say," Smush stated. "When life gives you lemons...."

"Find yourself some limes, sodium citrate, and yellow dye number 5, and cook up a batch of homemade lemon-lime gatorade," Mogey concluded. 

"Exactly." 

"But where are we going to find limes, sodium citrate, and yellow dye number 5?" Mogey inquired. 

"We won't have to move a muscle," Smush announced sagely. "The Sugarville to Sweatburgh freight is due in 45 minutes, and you know what Sweatburgh is famous for, don't you?" 

"Isn't that where the..." Mogey began, and his eyes widened with delight, "...enormous gatorade factory is located?!?"

"Indeed it is," Smush said. "That train is going to be loaded! It'll have at least two gondolas full of limes, an entire boxcar jam-packed with sodium citrate, and the caboose? Brimming to the gills with yellow dye number 5." 

The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2025 Edition - Episode 14

 While strolling through the park one day in the merry, merry month of April, Smush was accosted by an extremely impassioned Mogey. 

"Smush! SMUUUUSH!" Mogey howled from the other side of the gazebo. 

Smush doffed his top hat and peered at his pal with a not insignificant amount of mortification: this was no way to be seen in public, let alone along the refined paths of Snoot Park. "What is it, Mogey?" he inquired as his chum breathlessly approached, holding a large box before him.

"Thank goodness I've found you!" Mogey panted. "I have the most incredible business plan. There's not a moment to lose!" He whipped a cloth from the top of the box to reveal a still life scene in three dimensions.

"Are you pitching me your business plan in diorama form?" Smush asked.

"Don't be daft, Smush. This is just a dry run. You and I are going to use this diorama to pitch Baron Houlawhoop together. Now, I call it..." Mogey paused for dramatic effect, "Mogey's Frog Farm." 

Smush blinked several times, but said nothing.

"What's everyone farming these days?" Mogey continued. "Cattle? Sheep? Potatoes? Been there; done that!"

"No you haven't--" 

"But what's no one farming?"

"I'm guessing... frogs?" Smush ventured.

"FROGS!" Mogey exclaimed. He waved vaguely at the diorama, which Smush now realized depicted a figure wearing hip waders (very likely representing Mogey himself) standing in a pond, surrounded by half a dozen tiny frogs. It wasn't very good. "Introducing: Mogey's Frog Farm."

"But what do they... y'know... do?"

"What's it matter what they do?" Mogey snapped. "Didn't you hear me tell you this is the only farm in the world with no competitors?"

"I'll be seeing you, Mogey," Smush replied, un-doffing his hat.

"Wait!" Mogey cried. "I didn't even tell you about the best part: the name of our website!"

"Go on then," Smush said, pausing despite himself.

"Our website. Is... (drumroll please)... MogeysFrogFarm dot com!" 

The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2025 Edition - Episode 13

"You own this guy, champ," Mogey encouraged Smush. "He's got nothing on you."

"I dunno," Smush replied, bouncing on his toes, "he seems pretty good. He's got an undefeated record, after all."

"Naw, champ," Mogey assured him. "He's only gone against tomato cans, I promise you that. And have a seat, would you? You'll tucker your toes right out with all that bouncing."

Just then, Smush's opponent passed by, casting an ominous pall over the dressing room. Wrigglin' Rip Bankins wore a pompadour combed half a foot high, and carried a pair of his trademark ostrich feathers. Smush snatched up his own iconic microfiber duster and gave Wrigglin' Rip a stink-eye stinkier than the eye of Pablo Underhill, skunk-breeder extraordinaire. Despite his private words to Mogey, as reigning champion of the world-famous Tickle Tilt, Smush would not be going down without a fight. For the Tickle Tilt had but one rule, a rule that ensured almost any outcome was possible from any given match: Don't laugh first.

The opponents entered the ring - metaphorically speaking, of course. The actual Tickle Tilt field of play was more akin to a children's sandbox than a boxing ring. As the challenger, Wrigglin' Rip would be tickling first, which is how Smush preferred it. Smush was a strong tickler and a decent ticklee, but his truly elite skill was trash talk. Trash talk was never banned in Tickle Tilts (and in some tournaments it was outright encouraged), but the young challengers who came up through the prep school circuit had never encountered the likes of Smush before. He knew how to cut deep.

"Egads," Smush intoned as Wrigglin' Rip approached, ostrich feathers wriggling vigorously. 

"Get him, champ," Mogey said from Smush's corner (again, metaphorically - Mogey was sitting upon an upturned bucket of fried chicken a few feet away).

"You, sir," Smush announced, gritting his teeth as the feathers brushed against his neck with monumental tickling power, "are a ruffian... a beast... a...." he hesitated, and the crowd gasped, "a blighter."

Wrigglin' Rip fainted dead away. As he lay there, Smush calmly removed one of his opponent's polished oxfords and put his microfiber duster to work on the challenger's manicured toes. When Wrigglin' Rip revived, he was already laughing uproariously, and the legend of Smush continued to grow.

Some called him "The Untickleable," others "General George Armstrong Duster." A rhyme became popular among local children: Smush, Smush, respectfully hush / He'll tickle his enemies' dreams down the flush! 

But Smush? Smush remained humble. As humble as one can after seven straight Tickle Tilt championships. Humble enough to retire to a quiet life of teaching youngsters that most ancient art of tickling and trash talk.