Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Honestly, I’m glad when schools delve into poetry or offer students some semblance of art and music appreciation classes.

But I worry about society’s overreliance on critics, reviewers, and public scolds.

Apparently, we would all be wandering around aimlessly if no one performed the public service of doling out expert advice on books, movies, theater, wine, home decor and the like. (“Duh…I tried putting something sophisticated on my hipster vinyl record player. Unfortunately, it was a Chardonnay wine. Compelling puff of smoke, though. Five stars to the volunteer fire department.”)

Granted, if you find a critic you trust, their recommendations can save you valuable time that would otherwise be wasted on dead ends and wild goose chases. Of course, you will most likely turn around and squander the time describing your pain level to the chiropractor. (“I don’t know about a scale of 1 to 10, but it’s a rollicking, sweeping, post-modern type of pain…”)

I’m a simple man (as evidenced by the fact that I still haven’t given a rave review of this whole “multicellular” experiment).

I grew up eating/appreciating what was set before me. (One reason I currently don’t appreciate having bathroom scales set before me. But I digress.) The oft-quoted “It’s got a good beat, it’s easy to dance to” analysis from Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand” still sounds like a downright adequate way of rating songs.

A few years back, whenever my son needed vintage garb for a special event at school, he didn’t say, “Let’s rummage through the back of the closet.” It was more like “Strip down and I’ll wear whatyou’re wearing for Eighties Day.” (Hey, Piano Man – I never quit wearing a younger man’s clothes.)

Unpretentiousness runs in the family. When seven out of five TV critics declare that a Netflix movie make them want to gouge out their eyes and dismantle the entire internet, I know it’s a guaranteed flick for getting my wife in the mood for romance.

Maybe the restaurant reviews I dread are for overly ritzy eateries. I can’t concentrate on how the chef is preparing the cuisine when my mind drifts to how the credit card company is preparing to chase me to the ends of the earth.

Motivational speakers lecture us that we should “live in the moment.” But critics make it hard to live in the moment when you tour the art gallery. Instead of admiring the brushstrokes and moving on, you have to live in 1540 and develop an elaborate backstory for why a peasant farmer would slop his hogs. (“And why does the visiting nobleman have that enigmatic clothespin on his nose???”)

Don’t get me wrong. If you’re a professional concert reviewer or even an amateur walking encyclopedia, more power to you. Just don’t assume that the ability to close your eyes and discern exactly what color Band-Aid was on the pinkie finger of Blind Spleen Jefferson as he played guitar on your favorite tune is going to get you on the short list for admittance to the survivalist shelter.

(“I woke up this morning/duh duh duh duh DUH/Begged for entrance to the bunker/duh duh duh duh DUH….”)

Perhaps we should start rating the critics.

“Does this critic save you from dead ends?”

“I’ll let you know after the school subjects him to dodgeball appreciation class. Oooo…that’s gonna leave a gritty, nihilistic mark! And I don’t mean allegorically!”

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Even people who don’t celebrate Passover have been exposed to lessons from the Exodus (if only through Cecil B. DeMille’s “The Ten Commandments”), but some of us retain water better than we retain the significance of the parting of the Red Sea.

For example, the very ground on which Moses stood before the burning bush was holy, so God is infinitely holier. Alas, not even religious people always acknowledge that sacredness.

I strive not to be one of those people who invoke God’s name every time someone cuts me off in traffic or offers a contrary political opinion. I enjoy sharing comic strips online, but I balk at the ones portraying the Almighty as a bumbling sitcom dad. Don’t get me started on conversations peppered with ubiquitous, gratuitous exclamations of “OMG!” Perhaps we could spotlight how juvenile this outburst is by replacing it with exclamations based on other objects of worship. (“Taylor Swift! My boyfriend remembered our anniversary!” “72-inch TV! The neighbors finally moved that junker car.”)

God knew exactly who He was when He addressed Moses on Mount Horeb. He is the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob. The eternal LORD identified Himself as I AM THAT I AM. His revelation of His nature and His expectations were meant to be accepted as an ancient version of “This is the way I roll.”

Nowadays, we let everyone self-identify except God. Tone-deaf declarations of “MY God would never…” or “If I were God, I would…” are blithely dispensed. We self-servingly treat the Almighty like the product of Build-A-Deity Workshop. At our peril, we expect God to act out the lyrics of a 1968 song by The American Breed. (“Bend me, shape me, any way you want me…”)

God instructed Moses to notify pharaoh exactly who had sent him with the message “Let my people go.” Too often, the Creator is an afterthought when we explain our actions. “Shucks, it was nothing” or “It was something my grandpa always said” crowds out giving glory to God for our talents and values.

God had a role to play in the Exodus. So did Moses. So did the other Israelites. Nowadays we go to extremes. We either try to carry the whole world on our shoulders or curse God for not fixing everything for us while we goof off.

A significant portion of Israel’s 430-year sojourn in Egypt was a period of harsh slavery. But God used signs and wonders to upset the status quo of seemingly interminable oppression.

Today, many of us are unable to see the Big Picture or play the Long Game. We become either too comfortable with or too resigned to our situations. But the God who created the law of inertia can (on His own time table) help us break the shackles of an abusive relationship, a dead-end job or a substance-abuse addiction.

These are a few of the disparities that come readily to mind. I’m guessing you could come up with some more of your own.

The lessons of Exodus should be woven into the fabric of our daily lives. But too many people are content to settle for superficial awareness and glib wisecracks about “plagues of locusts.”

We can all do better. Try to be a more reverent person, in spite of bad habits and endless obstacles.

Let your excuses go.

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Certainly, I look forward to becoming reacquainted with all the groovy hairstyles, dated slang and kitschy doodads in a couple of years when my high school classmates open our 50-year time capsule. But I suspect most patriotic citizens are currently more focused on America’s Time Capsule.

That’s the one commemorating the United States Semiquincentennial. It’s a 3-foot-by-2-foot stainless steel cylindrical vessel (“3-foot-by-2-foot? My kid has a Stanley tumbler bigger than that!”) to be buried in Philadelphia’s Independence National Historic Park on July 4, 2026 and to be ceremoniously opened on July 4, 2276 (the nation’s 500th birthday).

I’m heartened that planners have enough optimism to believe that the nation will still stand in 250 years (after an “existential crisis” every 15 minutes). I’m heartened that we think the national motto will be in the soul-stirring spirit of “E pluribus unum” rather than the dystopian “Inde est quod res gratas habere non possumus” (“This is why we can’t have nice things”).

Our country was birthed in the violence of the Revolutionary War, and there will doubtless be hyper-competitive brouhahas on the TV panel shows between now and July 4. (“I am an EXPERT on how people in 2276 will react to the time capsule.” “Hmph! I am an AUTHORITY on how people in 2276 will react to the time capsule.” “Bah! I am in touch with sources CLOSE TO THE SITUATION of how people in 2276 will react to the time capsule. Let’s rumble!”)

I know your imagination runs wild as you brainstorm things that would best represent your state or territory, but the America250 Commission has been a stickler about items that are too bulky, too prone to corrosion or too likely to interact poorly with other artifacts.

This is to avoid what has been dubbed “the WKRP effect.” America would be the laughingstock of the world if we had a rogue governor lamenting, “As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could survive a quarter-millennium inside a stainless-steel cylindrical vessel!.”

The container and its contents could conceivably remain intact for 250 years (if we resist the initial pushback from the “Are you sure that COMPOSTING flags, medals and student essays isn’t a better plan?” busybodies, but things could go sideways in as little as 15 or 20 years. (“Season 37 of ‘Storage Wars’ needs something really special to boost the ratings. Hey, what if the National Park Service has missed some rent payments???”)

Even if the written documents remain in pristine condition, cultural and technological changes could take a toll. After 250 years, will anyone even be able to interpret them? (“What is this ‘Times New Roman’ font? Summon the Chief Scientist and the High Priest of Entrails Reading! Both on vacation? It’s re-gifting time then!”)

We Americans owe a great debt to our forebears who built this great nation. I’m less sure what we owe to the people of 2276, so the mischievous side of me thinks maybe we could yank their chain a little.

(“Here are the cremated remains of a time traveler who came back to tell us of your progress. We salute you for resolutely surviving the Zombie Apocalypse of 2275. No, wait – that was the Zombie Apocalypse of 2277! My bad. Um, you have not yet begun to fight. Be brave. The Class of 1978 is re-burying polyester leisure suits for the cause…”)


–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Blame it on Daylight Saving Time discombobulating my circadian rhythm, but a smorgasbord of random thoughts has swirled in my noggin recently.

I suspect other folks have something different in mind when they boast, “Livin’ the dream.” When I’m livin’ the dream, it usually means I’m not wearing any pants and I think I can fly to the assignment I haven’t studied for.

Yes, in this era of divisive social media, I admit I have strangers living rent-free in my brain. Just don’t tell them about the asbestos and lead paint.

No wonder the centuries-old question “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” has never been adequately answered. Your calculations must account for the wallflower angels lurking in the corner, the angels rushing off to Hollywood with an idea for “Dancing with the Seamstresses” and the angels who are gun-shy from stepping on a Lego. To say nothing of the heavenly messengers who are more interested in solving, “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

Most people are blissfully unaware of public figures satirized in the original Mother Goose rhymes, but those with an appreciation for poetry are nonetheless fortunate that the verses were written in simpler times. Nowadays, we would have “(REDACTED) was a merry old soul,” “(REDACTED) has lost her sheep” and “There was (REDACTED); she had so many children, she didn’t know what to do.”

How are you supposed to respond if someone scolds you, “You kiss your momma with that mouth?” I vote for “I tried kissing her with my elbow, but she was allergic to the moisturizer.”

If we tell an automotive mechanic that our vehicle is making a “funny” sound, how would we describe the normal sound? (“The engine seems contemplative today. Those carburetors are sober as a judge. Windshield wipers are counting their blessings one by one. Look out! The tailpipe is spewing gravitas!”)

I sympathize with the anguish and disillusionment of parents who have lost a child. But it’s possible to overthink the “natural order of things” and exactly when spouses, offspring, etcetera are supposed to shuffle off this mortal coil. If we’re going to micromanage lifespans, we might as well go whole hog and assign the relative death order of siblings, the cousin who experienced a drunken “wardrobe malfunction” while toasting the bride and groom , Aunt Prunella’s fourth husband, faithful rescue pooch Trailblazer, grandchildren who can’t be bothered to write a “thank you” note and all the rest. (“My evil twin? Well, he can die – again – whenever the writers run out of things for him to do.”)

Can there really be that many people who “die surrounded by their loved ones”? Bless their hearts, but I’ve known people whose obits should probably read, “and their dimwit relatives spilled out into the hallway single-file.”

“The secret ingredient is love.” You’ve probably been told that when begging for a cherished recipe. But I’ll bet your doctor has never told you, “Love is blocking six major arteries.”

Whatever the impact on your circadian rhythm, I hope you have pleasant days ahead.

As one reader commented, “Spring is when the days are long and the Tyree columns are mercifully short.”

Hmph. If I can just get my pants off, I’m flying down to settle this. Yes, sir, just me and Yosemite Sam…

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I have a certain fondness for springtime (I like cutting back on propane usage and I cherish my wife’s pre-spring ritual of photographing our son in front of our daffodils), but I don’t go hog wild and pig crazy.

For instance, some folks are selfishly focused on their kite-flying and quaint festivals as the weather grows milder. My empathetic nature makes me worry about the welfare of all those goobers (you know the ones) who have braved every blizzard with a heavy jacket and SHORTS.

Maybe I should find those fashion icons a place to hibernate until late autumn. Or maybe I could get a boombox and play that The Lovin’ Spoonful song “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?” for them 24-7!!!

I realize faith in the eventual arrival of spring benefits the motel business in January and February (with the more-grounded people informing their friends that they and their %&$# seed catalog should “Get a room!”), but some gardening enthusiasts can’t wait a second longer. They rush the season and do their planting riskily early. (“Yeah, I believe in Bigfoot and alien autopsies and honest politicians. But a late frost??? Preposterous.”)

People want to pack a lot of living into three springtime months. “Make hay while the sun shines. Hit the ground running.” Of course, most of us don’t have to make hay at all, and you may hit the ground HOPPING if you disturb a colony of ground wasps.

Incurable romantics are encouraged by Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s immortal words, “In the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.” Don’t forget, the sobering flip side is “In the spring, an old man’s fancy lightly turn to thoughts of ‘Now, why in the world did I come into the garage and pick up this Weed Eater?’”

Voters chomping at the bit for spring have become a powerful lobbying force in Washington, D.C. Surely you’ve heard of the proposed Cut the Groundhog Out of the Loop bill. If enacted, whenever BABY NEW YEAR fails to see his shadow, we’ll have an early spring.

The political priorities of these people can be quite ironic. They watch the nightly news and worry over “forever wars.” Then they gamely murmur, “Maybe THIS will be the year I finally outsmart the aphids, mealybugs, Japanese beetles and cutworms! Maybe if I supplement the usual pesticides with a really big anvil from the Acme Corporation…”

I am bemused by the macho competitiveness surrounding lawn mowing and landscaping. Everyone wants to be the envy of the neighborhood, while I’m content to be the sloth.

Some people revel in the “rebirth” aspect of spring, but Mother Nature always gets her revenge for the stretch marks! (“You get some allergies, and you get some allergies and you get some allergies!”)

Spring is always stressful for me because there are more unwanted kittens than I could ever adopt. Strange how tomcats are oblivious to the inconvenience of yowling at 3 a.m., but they are keenly aware of their biological clock ticking.

To their credit, diehard springtime embracers bravely accept the season as a package deal. (“We need another trellis and some lawn flags. That delightful tornado already relocated the gazebo to the other side of the yard. Hey, aren’t those my jacket and shorts in the top of the elm tree?”)

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Per Ardua.” It really rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?

According to internet sources devoted to family crests, coats of arms and surname histories, the Tyree family motto is Latin for “through difficulties.”

There’s no law against owning both a kilt and a thesaurus, so the motto of my Scots ancestors can also be translated as “through adversity” or “through hardships” or “threw out the leftover sheep organ-meats pudding while cursing whatever bagpipes-for-brains chef invented such a cuisine.”

When I think of the “difficulties” of generations past, I imagine a relentless stream of cholera, floods, droughts and oppression by the English crown. Certainly a far cry from what passes for difficulties today. (“What do you mean it will take more than 10 minutes to get a customized pizza delivered in heavy traffic???”) Some people tossed logs; now their descendants can’t toss their laundry into the hamper. (“He shoots, he…never mind.”)

Yes, I merely think about the “Per Ardua” slogan because I’m too stingy to splurge on any family crest paraphernalia. Especially from the company that has the family motto “Nascitur minutatim” (“There’s one born every minute”).

I’ll admit the image of a hand holding a dagger on the Tyree family crest is way cool, but it underscores the fact that some people cause their own hardship. (“You shouldn’t have shown the MacDougals the new crest. Now they’re buying a catapult.”) Would it have killed one of the clans to have a crest decorated with the Keep On Truckin’ guy?

What about y’all? Do you have an inspiring family motto?

I have a high degree of accuracy at guessing mottoes, especially when it happens to belong to the “Nostra materia non putet” (“Our stuff don’t stink”) crowd.

Sad but true, a lot of families are saddled with the motto “Aliquando haec omnia publicani erunt,” which translates as “Someday all of this will be the tax collector’s.”

Over yonder is a family that looks like a “Luro hoc non est quod simile est” (“I swear this isn’t what it looks like”) crew.

Some families have stratospheric aspirations, but their more down-to-earth neighbors generally settle for “Sume unum, transi circum” (“Take one down, pass it around…”)

Some mottoes offer fatherly advice, such as “Heus, non obligatus sum condiciones aeris totius viciniae praebere” (otherwise known as “Hey, I”m not obligated to provide air conditioning for the entire neighborhood”).

Other mottoes are more defensive, such as “Numquam sapis cur non ut ullus ex fratribus vel sororibus videas” (“Never mind why you don’t look like any of your brothers or sisters”).

Where would our civility and family loyalty be without mottoes such as “Perge et nice aviam tuam; vespertilio senex in aeternum vivere non potest”? Yes, that’s “Go ahead and be nice to your grandmother; the old bat can’t live forever.”

And an alarming number of families seem to have the motto “Suspicor te ninium bonum esse ut consobrinum tuum ducas,” which translates as “I guess you think you’re too good to marry your cousin.”

I’ve had my share of difficulties over the years, so I keep “Per Ardua” in the back of my mind as I face the world.

Hard work and perseverance are the motto as I face the slings and arrows of…

Oh, no! The telemarketers have learned to use catapults!

Oblivisci perseverantiam; superstes meus tectumque non putet.

Translation: forget perseverance; my survival shelter don’t stink.

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Is it time for the educational system to go “old school” again?

According to NBC News, concerned parents nationwide are rebelling against the heavy reliance on laptops and tablets by school districts.

These parents are championing a more balanced curriculum that still has room for pencils, paper and honest-to-goodness physical books. (“Let’s make the #2 Number One again!”)

So they are perceived as “walking the walk,” many of the more diehard reformers organize their retro campaigns without texting, phoning or emailing like-minded individuals. Instead, they get Stinky McGuire to pass a note asking, “Do you like my plan for deemphasizing digital education? Check yes or no.”

Some educators stick up for the pandemic-driven digital paradigm because it allegedly prepares students for the modern workforce. (“All in all, you’re just another brick in the wall. Hey, does anybody remember that video on the theory of picking up a brick to build a wall?”)

Sure, nothing helps you compete against robot workers better than a hunched back, bloodshot eyes and a flair for visiting porn sites while the teacher isn’t looking.

And the companies supplying the hardware and software for a virtual learning experience are quick to tell you how efficiently students can shovel in the information with high-tech tools. The only thing more educational is eavesdropping on their corporate retreats. You’ll learn to laugh maniacally all the way to the bank, in 176 languages.

Still, my sympathies lie with the crusaders trying to recalibrate and create a blending of digital and “analog” learning.

(For the sake of full disclosure, I must admit that I labored in the writing instruments industry from 1983-1998 and recently started receiving a small pension from that endeavor. If my bias in this matter provokes a strong response from you, I will fall back on a life lesson I learned in a less hectic low-tech academic setting: I’m rubber and you’re glue…)

Desperately scribbling lecture notes has fallen out of favor. Handwriting a “What I Did On Summer Vacation” essay on wide-ruled paper seems quaint. Screen addiction detracts from actual rough-and-tumble playtime. And these developments have devastated the fine motor skills of youngsters. They also stir up the evolution controversy. (“Scientists say life began in a primordial soup — which looked a lot like Mikey in the back row. Can someone pour him into his seat?”)

The ever-present glow from screens makes classic literature such as “Rip Van Winkle” incomprehensible to today’s wired-up audience. (“How could someone sleep for 20 years when it takes me 20 years just to FALL asleep?”)

Research shows that reading from physical books leads to longer attention spans and better comprehension than screen-based reading. Of course, some students will deny this. (“My Chromebook let me study the Preamble to the Constitution just fine. I still can’t decide which was my favorite part: the bit about ‘righty tighty, lefty loosey’ or the bit about ‘Love means never having to say you’re sorry.’”)

If a natural disaster or foreign invasion leaves America off the grid for a prolonged time, how will electronics-dependent citizens record their daily activities or communicate? Imagine the plight of school bullies! (“If I could just remember how to form an ‘L’ on my forehead, I’d tell you what I think of you, you loser!”)

Don’t dawdle about making your opinion known.

Get the lead out — and write with it!

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Lean on me/When you’re not strong/And I’ll be your friend/I’ll help you carry your Frisbee.” – apologies to Bill Withers.

I was intrigued by a recent article by Margret Grebowicz, a philosophy professor at Missouri University of Science and Technology, raising an alarm about Americans’ growing emotional dependency on their dogs.

(Well, it was either an alarm or tree limbs brushing against the kitchen window. Either way, let’s go DEFCON 1 with running around and barking!)

True, we’ve always had folks who enjoyed the company of dogs more than the company of humans. (“Okay, son, you married a lawyer – but can you retrieve a duck in your mouth? Didn’t think so.”)

Still, the pandemic exacerbated the gradual unraveling of traditional face-to-face social cohesiveness. Now that online banking, Amazon shopping, Zoom meetings, drive-through dining and family-splitting political differences have become downright upright, canines are more valued for filling shoes than fetching shoes.

Yes, the fabric of society has definitely changed since the 80s and “Cheers” (“Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name…”). Now the vibe is more “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody sniffs your butt…”

Even a walk in the dog park has changed drastically. Once upon a time, you’d go to the park thinking, “I wonder if that blonde with the Schnauzer would give me the time of day if I asked for a date?” Now it’s “I wonder if that Schnauzer with the blonde would give me some spiritual advice?”

Understandably, when your friends and family members keep their eyes glued to their phone 24-7, you turn for solace to someone who…keeps something glued to furniture legs 24-7. (Okay, bad example. Baaaad example.)

Pouring your heart out to your dog has always been a rather one-sided affair, but pet owners insist on using dogs more and more as a sounding board or confidante — even if the advice is cryptic. (“I can’t tell if you’re heaving because you agree with my assessment of getting back together with my ex — or because you found that month-old roast in the garbage can.”)

Sentient beings of all species need to feel needed, but people are saddling their pooches with responsibilities for which they are totally unsuited. (“Yes, I have listed Spot as my emergency contact. If anything happens, make sure you impress upon him that the emergency is a heart attack and not a can opener on the fritz.”)

Seriously, it’s an embarrassment of elementary school proportions when you have to explain, “Yes, I took all the necessary steps to grant Rover financial power of attorney, but he…he ate the documentation.”

Man’s Best Friend has long been lauded with slogans such as “They ask for so little and deserve so much”; but as they become more and more the focus of their master’s attention, humans’ worst traits could rub off on them. (“Don’t expect guilty ‘puppy dog eyes’ from ME, chum. A salesman made that stain on the carpet. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”)

Veterinarians are concerned that people lavishing money and attention on “fur babies” may demand unnecessary tests, procedures and medications. (“Doc, you don’t know for sure that King didn’t contract something from the Red Baron while serving as a World War I flying ace…”)

Show some balance.

Guess I’d better scoot, before y’all switch from “Happiness is a warm puppy” to “Happiness is a warm fireplace for Tyree’s foolishness.”

*Sigh*

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“You don’t have to tell your guts!”

My mother’s colorful phrase for practicing verbal restraint would be mocked by proponents of the viral dating trend called “hot take dating.”

Once upon a time, people in the dating game practiced their best behavior and tiptoed around potentially controversial topics. When I first met my wife and she asked where I attended church, I hastily volunteered the location name rather than the denomination, so as not to offend her United Methodist sensiblities.

(Even more squeamish folks would react to smalltalk like “Nice weather, isn’t it?” with “Nice weather? Um, er, well…I’d like to phone a friend!”)

But now it’s “warts and all, take it or leave it” from the get-go.

In “hot take dating,” participants bluntly inform potential romantic partners of their extreme political views, fringe religious convictions, non-negotiable stances on gender roles and childrearing, quirks (charming and not-so-charming) and outstanding warrants.

They also “show their math” on how they calculated that Greenland would be juuuuuust big enough to bury all the classe of losers they declare should be dispatched with the aid of a ball peen hammer.

“Hot take dating” is lauded as an example of efficiency. Why waste your time on dead ends and wild goose chases when you can better waste time on the things that made you unattached to start with? (“Sweet! I only had to try 15 coffee shops until I found free wi-fi so I could listen to my podcast, ‘Learn to speak Klingon with a 15th-century Ottoman accent.’”)

We have given our son a short list of red flags that indicate a potential date isn’t marriage material, but “hot take” enthusiasts can crank out deal-breakers at the drop of a hat. (“People who drop hats make me want to vomit!”)

While you’re drawing lines in the sand and administering your litmus tests, your potential mate might just interpret it as a challenge to CHANGE you. (“I have yet to meet the narcoleptic, serial-killing off-key whistler I can’t cure!”)

Maybe you’ll find a soulmate who truly “gets” all your baggage — but they might merely be a pervy masochist. (“Yes! Set up all the Halloween deocrations on the lawn before Memorial Day! But do it nice and slow…oh, baby!”)

If your date agrees to a second meeting, it might mean you found a “keeper” — or maybe they’re just not a good listener. (“Oopsie. I guess I wasn’t paying attention on our first date, when you said you despise both cats and bagpipes. We’ll laugh about this someday, but guess what Mittens has been practicing for our wedding reception…?”)

Done with respect and common sense, laser-focused “hot take dating” has potential; but don’t develop a false sene of security. It’s not a magic talisman. (“But…but…I confided that I double-dip potato chips. How could she dump me for my rich, handsome roommate???”)

There’s still a lot to be said for old-fashioned romance: maintaining an air of mystery and discovering your partner layer by layer. We still need couples who can roll with the metaphorical punches, adapt to differing perspectives and grow old together. (“And another thing: I hate Creation Science, too! Everything evolves — everything! Except relationships!”)


I hope Cupid can navigate this Brave New World of dating.

Uh oh…it’s Cupid’s Ball Peen Hammer! Tell your skull! Tell your guts!

In English! Not Ottoman Klingon! Not Ottoman Klingon!

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“There was shrinkage! Shrinkage!” – George Costanza

For years, my various physicians let me skate by.

I would dutifully (if trepidatiously) hop onto the scales for my weight assessment, but I was allowed to fudge on my Body Mass Index by self-identifying my height.

Not so this last visit. In an “Up against the wall!” moment reminiscent of a gambling den raid, I was confronted with the realization that I have shrunk two inches since my peak. (Who needs tongue depressors when the clinic has self-image depressors?)

Granted, I had already downgraded my self-identification several years ago when I was at the McWane Science Center in Birmingham, Alabama and a ceiling-mounted laser doohickey gave me the unsolicited information that I was one inch shorter than I thought. (“Second opinion: that comb-over ain’t foolin’ anybody! Better self-deprecation through science!”)

Loss of height is a normal part of the aging process (part of the anthropological shift from “hunter-gatherer’ to “hunter-gatherer of senior discounts”), and maybe I have actually lost a full two inches – or maybe my “official” measurement from high school was overly ambitious.

The faculty did run the measurements like a “Lucy and Ethel in the candy factory” assembly-line process, and they did dispense some other information that, in retrospect, is highly dubious. (“The dinosaurs would still be alive today if they had ducked under these wooden desks. No unidentifiable mammal-ish lifeforms were killed in the preparation of this meal. Once you earn your diploma, there will be a tug-of-war between companies desperately seeking laps runners and companies desperately seeking sentence diagrammers.”)

Perhaps this medical-chart update is not as jarring for me as for some of my classmates who always felt “10-feet tall and bulletproof.” I harbored more realistic expectations of being “5-foot-11 and, say, do you realize how many major arteries are severed by flicking paper footballs each year?”

Nothing dampens your virility like gradually going from “How’s the weather up there?” to “Stand on this milk crate and tell me if my underarm deodorant is still working.”

Not to be overly melodramatic, but this is the sort of milestone that forces you to look your own mortality in the face. Granted, you have to stand on tiptoes and crane your neck, but you look your own mortality in the face. (“Whoa! At this rate, I could use a shoebox for a casket!”)

On the other hand, in the grand scheme of things, this is nothing to get bent out of shape over. No, we have our old pal osteoporosis for that. (“Young lady, could you get the calcium tablets off the top shelf for me? I assume you’re a young lady. All I can see is the top of my shoes.”)

I turned to AI for solace. X’s Grok chatbot reassured me that my height is average (or just a skosh above average) for males my age. But maybe Grok is programmed to sugarcoat replies to users’ plaintive inquiries. (“You would be surprised by how many Nobel laureates abuse handicapped parking spaces. In excess of 110 percent of America’s governors have reported erotic dreams about Rosie the robot in the ‘Jetsons’ cartoons…”)

*Sigh* I could stand taller if only my old high school would send some encouraging words.

“School? Nah, your parents walked five miles to and from the MALT SHOP in waist-deep snow, uphill both ways.”

There was vindication! Vindication!

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”