Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Bathroom floor tiles that weigh you, analyze your gait and evaluate your fall risk. Bathroom mirrors that initiate telehealth conferences based on your complexion or facial tics. Toilet seats that check your vitals (temperature, heart rate, oxygenation).

According to the Wall Street Journal, these marvels (and others – such as self-cleaning capacities and soothing infrared light) could be commonplace in upscale homes within the next decade.

If so – and if the restraining orders expire so I can actually visit some upscale homes – I will have experienced astounding progress in the world of indoor plumbing just in my own lifetime.

Our rural church building has had modern bathrooms for the past 50 years or so, but we still retain the heirloom concrete-block privy around back. The only fall risk it helped you measure was the likelihood of squirrels tumbling out of their nest.

In coming years, built-in chemical tests, downward-facing toilet bowl cameras and artificial intelligence will produce a wealth of information about urinary tract infections, glucose levels, vitamin levels, ovulation timing and the like.

Too Much Information, perhaps – especially if the AI expounds upon why your teenage son spends so much time in the shower.

Some manufacturers even envision electronic-nose technology to detect smells that could warn of disease. Hopefully, the AI will be programmed with a good bedside manner. (“You’re welcome to a second opinion; but in my estimation, something has crawled up inside you and died!”)

High-tech home spas will boast bathtub fog machines, aromatherapy capabilities, heated toilet seats and personalized bidet settings. (“Don’t invest in old-fashioned bidets from our competition. Ours are so customizable, you can clean out your ear wax while you’re at it!”)

I hope scientists don’t overthink one of life’s simple pleasures. Who wants to wrangle with cantankerous software just to wash their hands? (“Turn on the faucet? I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that. You have to prove you’re not a robot first. I don’t want you short-circuiting and suing my makers!”)

Even worse, faraway faceless bureaucrats could hack into the Internet of Things to enforce their edicts. (“Low-volume toilet flushes are a thing of the past. We’re going with micro-volume flushes now! Work up a good sweat – or two or three – and that should provide enough moisture to do the trick. Probably.”)

Proponents of smart-bathroom technology insist that we will keep our privacy, but data does have a way of traveling around the world. I can just imagine Chinese President Xi Jinping telling a subordinate, “Joe Blow has read the same magazine five times without even realizing it! We have got to launch an invasion of these American bozos!”

It’s a good thing the well-to-do are the initial marketing targets. It’s bad PR if a customer whines, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up – the money to keep this system working!”

On the other hand, maybe someone will act preemptively to stop the creation of another category of “haves” and “have nots.” Seriously, could Uncle Sam resist meddling? Inevitably, there will be a plethora of tax breaks and subsidies. We’ll even see the technology foisted upon the homeless population, although the test conditions could be chaotic.

“We got your lab results from the high-tech fire hydrant, Mr. Clancy. Your diabetes has mysteriously disappeared and you are going to be the proud mother of purebred puppies! Congratulations!”

–

Copyright 2024 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

During my career as a late-in-life columnist, I have been blessed with the opportunity to chronicle three birthdays ending in zero.

(My so-called “good” cholesterol has not exactly overperformed in helping me reach these milestones. It usually “phones in” its duties, and even then apologizes, “Sorry, driving into a dead zone here” an awful lot of the time.)

It’s six years until another “big” birthday, but as a Beatles fan, I have eagerly anticipated writing this essay about the fast-approaching day “when I’m sixty-four.”

(And as an Elton John fan, I’ve eagerly anticipated building up the nerve to tell my wife, “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting the Urge to Go Shoe Shopping.” But I digress.)

Paul McCartney composed the melody of the cabaret-style song when he was a mere lad of 14. A decade later, with the assistance of John Lennon, he fine-tuned the lyrics (including “Will you still need me, will you still feed me?”) for use in the iconic “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” album.

Sure, maybe the upbeat song about growing old together naively glosses over the unforeseen obstacles that can intervene over the course of four or five decades. But it’s reassuring to imagine someone thinking beyond instant gratification. It does my heart good any time young people swim against the current and do some common sense long-range planning.

This foresight could involve relationships, diet-and-exercise regimens, retirement accounts, career path, backup career path, backup backup career path, best methods for disposing of the body of the ^&%$# who made your entire industry obsolete and so forth.

I try to be realistic when dispensing sage advice. It’s part of the human condition that recommendations go in one ear and out the other when you tell wrinkle-free people who feel 10-feet-tall and bullet-proof that old age sneaks up on you.

(Granted, it doesn’t sneak up on you as fast as that metastasizing kitchen junk drawer. Kids, don’t try this at home! Store your junk in a neighbor’s kitchen drawer instead!)

Commitment is commendable, but it should be based on a sober assessment of the facts at hand. Nothing against childhood sweethearts (“Hey, let’s tell the divorce lawyer about the time your dissected frog got stuck in my braces!”), but I’m glad my wife and I knew what we were looking for by the time we finally met. I’m glad we had a long engagement to get to know each other better.

Let’s face it: too many people lower their standards and rush into relationships. Exhibit A: the stereotypical Dear Abby letter.

“Dear Abby: My live-in boyfriend of 13 years, ‘Zach’ (not his real name – he won’t tell me his real name) has never spent a dime on food or utilties and in fact has me working a third job as an Eastern European mercenary to support his ex’s cousin’s air guitar lessons. I changed the locks after my pet ferret hit Zach with a paternity suit, but I relented when Zach got a paper cut from his porn collection. I’m starting to have doubts again since I learned that Zach has been harvesting my organs while I sleep. Shall I help him pack, or can I still change him before my systems shut down?”

I hope I can coast to sixty-four! My good cholesterol is breaking up like a fast-food drive-thru speaker. Mmmm…fast food…

–

Copyright 2024 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

A recent Wall Street Journal article provided food for thought about the decibel levels in restaurants.

According to the article, in 2023, audio data from the app SoundPrint found that 63 percent of restaurants are too loud for conversation.

(Granted, this is a blessing in disguise if the conversation veers toward “SoundPrint? You told me your phone doesn’t have enough space for photos of my trip to the International Lint Museum, but you have room to download SoundPrint????”)

My father hated crowds, and I myself am not keen on venues where you can’t hear yourself think (unless what I’m thinking is “probably too many calories in that – better leave it alone.”)

According to an architect quoted in the article, focusing on the acoustics of a restaurant wasn’t even a “thing” until three or four years ago.

Now restaurants are paying heed to surfaces that absorb just the right amount of sound, well-designed curtains and upgraded sound systems. Yeah, you heard me (I hope): the Fisher-Price route for sound equipment isn’t cutting it anymore. (“The cow says, ‘Mooooo…if you order from the vegan menu, I can live another day.”)

Top-of-the-line equipment or not, it’s still important to have the songs on your playlist blend seamlessly into one another. It’s not conducive to repeat business if there’s just enough dead silence between power ballads to highlight the fact that a guest is confiding, “I’ll be back in a minute. I hope the Metamucil kicks in this time.”

Customers deal with eatery noise in different ways. Some phone ahead to gauge the sound level. Of course, this gives the manager an incentive to activate the “white noise” machine while conversing with such a proactive customer. (“I feel almost as decadent as our desserts. Bwahahaha…”)

Other people leave without being seated if the noise proves unbearable. My wife has been tempted to leave a restaurant mid-meal before – not because of the general background noise, but because a raucous local character made an appearance and started booming out his greetings to acquaintances. It’s ironic that people who are Larger Than Life make you want to choke every last drop of life out of them. But I digress.

I do not envy restaurateurs the task of achieving a “sweet spot” between a dining room that evokes funeral home vibes and one that registers on the Richter scale. Even if you have a mountain of data about night-by-night traffic or hour-by-hour activity, predicting the sounds of any given mealtime with 100 percent accuracy is asking too much.

For instance, Little Joey has been a perfect angel on his last dozen visits to the dining establishment. How can you prepare for the one time that a tipsy stranger staggers over to the table and says, “Lemme borrow that crayon, kid. Here, I’ll show you your share of the national debt”?

The waitstaff can grow accustomed to well-behaved service dogs; but unless they’re clairvoyant, how can they prepare for a diner with one of the more problematic service animals? (“This is Jake, my service screech owl. He was rescued from a bad environment, so he has his own service hyena. I’ve trained them to play bagpipes.”)

Good luck in your search for restaurants with just the right ambience.

Eat, drink and be merry.

No, I didn’t say, “Pete stinks because of dysentery.”

Is there an acoustic architect in the house?

–

Copyright 2024 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 probably have quite a few co-workers with whom you exchange chitchat, banter and superficial observations on current events.

(“I fervently believe both Hamas and Putin could be nullified simply by … oooo…fresh Krispy Kremes! Never mind.”)

And then there are the “work spouses.” According to a 2006 survey, 32 percent of workers said they had an “office husband” or “office wife.” (That’s about one-third the number who viewed the HR department as their “office mother-in-law,” but that’s a column for another time.)

Researchers M. Chad McBride and Karla Mason Bergen defined work spouses as “a special platonic relationship with a work colleague characterized by a close emotional bond, high levels of disclosure and support and truth, honesty, loyalty and respect.”

Work spouses develop without the baggage that can attach to your actual marriage. It’s comforting to have someone who knows the pressures of the workplace culture and will always be in your corner – without chirping, “Hey, do you know what we can do with this corner?”

It’s refreshing to share crazy hopes and dreams without hearing, “I hope you’re not wearing that in the company picnic potato sack race!”

It’s inspirational to witness the joy of someone who takes pride about a newly signed client or a finished-ahead-of-schedule project instead of what they left behind in the bathroom.

Mutually beneficial work relationships are something priceless, something to preserve. But there are several ways in which they can go awry.

For instance, they can stealthily evolve into something too closely resembling a traditional marriage.

Warning signs include: questions such as “Does this picket sign make my butt look big?”; mumbled responses such as “The quotation on the Smith contract was off by a factor of 10? An archbishop developed green spots from eating our new snack? Mmm hmm…that’s nice, dear”; and arguments such as “That wasn’t ME snoring during the Zoom meeting. That was YOU snoring during the Zoom meeting.”

Work spouse relationships are also threatened when flirtation gets involved and forbidden sexual tension rears its head. (Its head adorned with long flowing hair that wafts in the breeze in slow-motion and …ahem…where was I?)

You’re playing with fire when you find yourself venting a little too much about your real Significant Other’s shortcomings. Hopefully, your work spouse can nip it in the bud. (“Your spouse doesn’t understand you? Maybe if you quit cramming three Krispy Kremes into your mouth at one time, they could.”)

Me? I don’t technically have a work spouse relationship. Several ladies at work (including two whom I’ve worked with for 25 years) are great conversationalists and volunteer as sounding boards when I need advice on aging parents, homework-overwhelmed children or some such; but I try to ration my discussions and not overburden them. Their “in” trays must take priority. (“Invoices. Payroll. Hamas. Putin. And then after lunch…”)

In closing, work spouses are a marvelous asset; but it can be awkward when your work spouse doesn’t realize they are a work spouse. If you act clingy enough, they may take extreme measures to get a little “me time.” Even if you work in a dangerous profession such as firefighter.

(“We got all the family members, pets, toys, family heirlooms and major appliances out safely. But maybe I need to rush back into the inferno to check for Bigfoot. Or ghosts. Gotta save the ghosts. Yeah, that’s the ticket!”)

–

Copyright 2024 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

It’s probably not the Easter message you expected, but for the sake of argument, let’s set aside miracles, repentance, heaven, hell and claims of divinity.

Countless people who reject Jesus Christ as the Son of God will nonetheless grudgingly acknowledge him as a “good man” or “wise moral teacher.”

But does modern society truly practice even the broadest principles that Jesus preached?

“Take heed and beware of covetousness,” Jesus proclaimed.

America in 2024 celebrates covetousness in myriad ways, including the time-tested “keeping up with Joneses” pursuit of the Almighty Dollar. Backstab your way up that corporate ladder! Gamble the food budget on lottery tickets! Gotta shower loved ones with more “stuff”!

And of course, stirring up class envy enshrines covetousness on a pedestal. You can practically set your watch by politicians’ perennial “soak the rich in their magically inexhaustible pockets” schemes. (The Empty Tomb makes us uncomfortable, but mayors and governors have unshakable confidence that they can kill the goose that laid the golden egg and bring it back to life over and over.)

“Can the blind lead the blind?” asked Jesus. “Shall they not both fall into the ditch?”

Millions are swayed by self-appointed “experts” who are skilled at nothing except latching onto the latest grift. Legislators who have never met a payroll intuitively “know” that small businesses need oodles of new rules and regulations. Bureaucrats who don’t know one end of a gun from the other lecture us on “common sense” firearms restrictions.

“But rather give alms of such things as ye have,” Jesus implored in reference to personal charity. Somehow that has metastasized into forcing someone ELSE to “donate” to your pet projects. Even collectively, we don’t actually give of what we have; we give of what we DON’T have, running up trillions of dollars of debt.

“Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful,” Jesus challenged. Such a concept is completely alien today. Observe the sheer giddiness when someone on “the other side” is slandered in the media, harassed in public, bankrupted or stabbed in prison.

Pro-choice advocates are swift to assert that the Gospels don’t include any sermons in which Jesus explicitly mentioned abortion; but neither did Matthew, Mark, Luke or John record anything about “trigger warnings,” “safe spaces,” “body positivity,” “toxic masculinity,” “cultural appropriation,” “follow the science,” “saving the planet,” “defund the police,” onerous voter ID requirements, saintly indigenous peoples or “systemic” anything.

Jesus spoke of truth, but somehow neglected to mention “your own truth” or “lived experience” or “you’re great just the way you are.”
He denounced the hypocrisy of his opponents without censoring them or whining about “disinformation.”

For some unfathomable reason, he urged his Jewish disciples to prepare for the future, instead of rallying them to seek reparations from the Egyptians, Babylonians, Medes, Persians, Greeks and Romans.

The wise teacher told a parable of a wise man who built his house on a firm foundation, but our culture is built on volatile emotions, shaky logic, “living documents,” unnamed sources, self-serving dignitaries, virtue signaling and faith(!) that “by golly, socialism will work next time.”

I’m not here for a “come to Jesus moment” in a religious sense. But if you’re going to admit Jesus was a wise teacher, walk the walk.

I yearn for something more eternal. In the meantime, we could have a veritable heaven on earth.

–

Copyright 2024 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

Well, THOSE eagerly anticipated revelations certainly crashed and burned.

You may recall last summer a former intelligence officer told Congress that Uncle Sam maintains a covert stockpile of downed alien spacecraft and corpses. (“Doesn’t he look unnatural?”)

But now a wide-ranging report by the Defense Department’s All-domain Anomaly Resolution Office (AARO) declares there is zero reasonable evidence of a secret program to recover dead extraterrestrials and reverse-engineer their technology.

(Pay no attention to that low-level mechanic showing off a set of fifth-dimensional fuzzy dice. Or the decoded message “Tell my wives I’ll miss them. Those &%$# flying reindeer came out of nowhere…”)

Depending on your existing prejudices, you may greet these conclusions with relief, vindication, disappointment or a skeptical outburst of “If they can’t keep up with the defense secretary’s hospital stays, what makes you think they’d know an alien autopsy if it bit them on the keister?”

The report raises as many questions as it answers. First, I realize unexplained sightings didn’t really catch the public imagination until the end of World War II, but why did researchers look at military data only from 1945 to the present?

Perhaps they were afraid of going back further and unearthing deeply embarrassing scientific anachronisms.

Like, for instance, March 21, 1942 when Gen. Douglas MacArthur declared, “I shall return – perhaps five or 10 years before I even LEFT.”

Or even September 23, 1779 when Captain John Paul Jones bellowed, “I have not yet begun to levitate!”

Second, why was there so little pressure applied to corporate executives at companies alleged to have concealed information abut collusion between the government and the private sector? (“Nothing to see here – especially if the invisibility shield finally started to work. We’re innocent. Cross my heart and hope to die – but not by the Death Star. Anything but that!”)

Third, why didn’t the researchers focus more on whether friends and foes abroad have salvaged and adapted off-world technology? Perhaps they were spooked by the rumors that the newest Swiss Army Knife has a corkscrew, bottle opener and Elvis Abductor Ray.

Fourth, are the AARO investigators certain they want to get into a slap-fight with conspiracy theorists? (“Bravo on AARO’s report. But WE studied classified and unclassified archives and reached the unassailable conclusion that conspiracy theorists don’t exist!”)

Fifth, exactly how many “well-intentioned” Defense Department goobers are wandering around speculating about misunderstood hearsay evidence, mistaking surveillance balloons for a Klingon Bird-of-Prey and getting the public all agitated – and is it feasible to bury the pensions of these “essential employees” deep beneath Area 51?

I’ve been fascinated by the possibility of extraterrestrial life at least since the early 1960s when NBC began airing Gerry Anderson’s British marionette puppet series “Fireball XL5,” so the report leaves me wishing for something juicier.
But surely no nefarious weapons makers could have found a way to bamboozle our intrepid investigators or otherwise prevent them from divulging incriminating evidence.

No, it was a grand day for America and mankind when the findings brought closure to this matter of national security.

“There is no reason to believe aliens have been among us or that anyone has surreptitiously made use of alien technology. No cover-up. Case closed. I shall now begin slapping myself for no discernible reason. And, oh yes, flapping my arms and clucking like a chicken. Cluck cluck cluck…”

–

Copyright 2024 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 probably crave a break from my patented “sour grapes” routine, but we must face facts: spring break (a.k.a. Easter break, a.k.a. mid-term break, a.k.a. “unwind, rejuvenate, have fun, but don’t forget how oppressed you are, students”) is not the same for every family.

When I was in elementary school, spring break meant making an extra day trip visit to my grandmother, tagging along to another antique shop with my mother or stocking up on books at the library.

High school? My job at the convenience market left little flexibility for long trips.

As a cash-strapped college student, spring break was usually nothing more exotic than helping my parents with their cattle or organizing my comic book collection.

I am writing these words during the much-ballyhooed Spring Break 2024. There’s no shortage of work at my farmers cooperative day job. My wife the college biology teacher is striving to stay ahead on her lesson plans. Our son the engineering student is doing homework, reading a 1950s joke book and taking care of errands. Life is good.

I know, I know. Red-blooded Americans have a time-honored obligation to make Memories That Will Last A Lifetime, or in the case of the rowdier college students, Memories That Will Hopefully Resurface After the Brain Swelling From Tumbling From the Fourth Floor Motel Balcony Subsides.

(Stay-at-home sticks-in-the-mud have the advantage of INSTANT memories. “Remember you promised to rearrange the garage.” “Remember your demonic cousins are coming to spend the week.” “Remember bragging you could clean out the septic tank cheaper and better yourself.”)

Yes, you’re practically a traitor to your species if you don’t load up the family chariot and spend 500 miles of Quality Time with your Loved Ones. And by Quality Time, I mean time spent transfixed by top-of-the-line earbuds, smartphones and video games.

Don’t fall back on retro bonding rituals, as they are now both outdated and dangerous. (“Let’s see how many state license plates we can recognize. Wait – that bozo is from a … red state! Trevor, you watch for the highway patrol. Amber, you watch for the next ravine…”)

I know we’re all supposed to do our part to boost the economy in resort towns, but society sends us such mixed signals. Your neighbors want you to take your Christmas decorations down by New Year’s Day, but their insufferable elitism goads you to keep those January credit card bills overflowing into April and May!

“G’wan – you deserve it!,” blare the travel articles. Sure, reading only two grade levels below “cave drawing” is quite an exhausting task that demands copious amounts of R&R. (“*Grunt.* Remedial Walking and Chewing Gum at the Same Time isn’t leaving much time for beer pong.”)

Since at least the time of the 1960 movie “Where The Boys Are,” it has been an essential Rite of Passage to head for the beach or some other fun-filled destination long before the vernal equinox. Essential Rites of Passage are vastly overrated. Folks, I have missed so many essential Rites of Passage, it’s a wonder my baby teeth haven’t grown back in.

But you do you.

If basking in the sun or making a whirlwind tour of quaint festivals is your late-winter thing, go for it.
Maybe I’ll be more adventurous for summer vacation.

“Never mind wet T-shirt contests. How far away from my septic tank is it???”

–

Copyright 2024 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

As a writer, I can’t deny harboring an appreciation for the richness of slang, metaphors, similes and colloquialisms.

And yet…there’s something not quite rational about the agitators who force our language to evolve. (“Come on, participle! Crawl up on dry land! That gerund is beating you!”)

There is an undisputed utility to manufactured terms such as “gerrymander,” “carpetbagger” and “flyover country,” but other linguistic innovations have been more frivolous. (Society’s onetime fascination with “cutting a rug” and “bees’ knees” did little to prevent the offshoring of textile jobs or our current pollination crisis, for example.)

The world has long needed more foster parents, a pathway to peace and a cure for cancer. Instead, we’ve had a procession of aspiration-challenged individuals who think they’re due a Nobel Prize because they decided money should be “dough,” coffee should be “Joe” and the word for a female dog desperately needed two syllables.

Self-restraint is a virtue, but we celebrate the anonymous linguistic philanthropist who whimpered, “Saying ‘police officer’ is so haaard. I’ve just got to say ‘flatfoot.’ Flatfoot flatfoot flatfoot – with a side of copper and fuzz!”

We just can’t be satisfied. (“I’ve got magnificent Pacific waves, a top-of-the-line surfboard and a bevy of bikini-clad girls; but something is missing. ‘Hang 10.’ That’s it! My life is complete. Wait…I didn’t mean that literally. Quick! Somebody coin a nickname for sharks! Aiiiieeee!”)

No wonder people try so hard to coin new words or phrases. The rest of us have always acted as enablers. (“Y’all ain’t gonna believe this stuff! I was just down at the club and Slim made a movement to shake my hand and said …wait for it…’gimme five!’ I’ll always remember this day, just like I remember when Pres. McKinley was assassinated!”)

In modern times we have had the legacy media (newspapers, TV, radio, the dark rings on wooly caterpillars) and social media for the swift dissemination of groundbreaking new figures of speech, but just think of how long our forebears had to wait for improvements.

Apparently there was a Johnny Appleseed of Slang who walked from hamlet to hamlet shouting, “Hear ye, hear ye! Scientists in Philadelphia have determined that the crookedness of an object can be measured against the curvature of a canine’s hind leg.”

I realize that cartoonists and jazz musicians have contributed a disproportionate amount of slang, but every subculture feels compelled to participate. (“You have a slightly enlarged left eyebrow, too? Let’s form a society and develop our own secret language! ‘Bad’ will mean ‘mediocre’ and ‘shoehorn’ will mean ‘myocardial infarction’ and …”)

We have convinced ourselves that civilizations such as the Mayans, the Aztecs and the Incas crumbled primarily because they did not have a word for “lickety-split” or “easy peasy.”

Oh, but who am I to stand in the way of the progress of language?

Before any more word origins are lost to the mists of time, we need a new Cabinet-level department to honor our unsung heroes.

“Here’s a mural of the first choir that was ever preached to.”

“On this historic front porch, a heart was blessed for the first time.”

“Please – refrain from using your cellphone at the Tomb of the Unknown Whippersnapper.”

Dude! This child of the Sixties has produced yet another essay that is “right on!”

Or at least right on its way to the bottom of the birdcage.

*Sigh*

–

Copyright 2024 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 accept full responsibility.”’

In your lifetime you’ve doubtless heard umpteen public figures (elected officials, bureaucrats, corporate executives, celebrities) promise, “I accept full responsibility” after some manifestation of corruption, incompetence or social injustice comes to light.

(And if you’ve ever witnessed your cat insinuate, “I accept full responsibility,” you need to take full responsibility for the potency of the weed you’re smoking.)

The first dozen times you heard this, you naively expected heads to roll, policies to be overhauled and restitution to be made.
This is probably because you have bittersweet childhood memories of marching over to Mr. Beasley’s house, confessing to knocking a baseball through his window and mowing his lawn all summer to make amends.

In the grown-up world, repercussions are more nuanced.

As Lucy Van Pelt from “Peanuts” might announce, “The spin doctor is IN.”

You might think justice demands terminations, resignations or demotions; but semantics can cover a multitude of sins. (“In the interest of proper context, I have corralled a distant cousin of Noah Webster who would like to shed some light on alternative meanings of the words ‘I,’ ‘accept,’ ‘full’ and ‘responsibility.’”)

Crafty speakers disguise throwing others under the bus. (“I accept complete responsibility, although … neither my immediate predecessor nor my executive assistant bothered to tell me that a dollar-store sticky note is not the optimal substitute for a ‘Bridge Out’ sign.”)

Sometimes we peons are too easily distracted. (“Before I go hang my head in shame, I must point out that all the smoke and mirrors you see up here are 100 percent American-made.”)

Even our information gatekeepers can be misdirected. (“I also take full responsibility for the recycling of the swag bags we provided for each of you fine representatives of the Fourth Estate.”)

The savviest public figures know how to accentuate the positive. (“Going forward, we must think globally. I’ll bet there are cultures where two-headed infants with gills are considered a blessing!”)

Tugging at the heart-strings is a way to seal the deal. (“I am redoubling my efforts to regain the public’s trust. My aged mother always taught me to clean up my own messes. My aged mother who will probably stop eating and wither away if her only daughter is condemned to give up her reserved parking space over some trivial Cayman Islands bank account kerfuffle…”)

Apologies need to be heavily scripted. Public figures tend to dig the hole deeper when they speak extemporaneously, as with “Some of my best friends are dumb blondes and inscrutable Orientals” or “Baby, I swear that next time – um, er, I mean, we have put in place revised protocols and stringent guardrails.”

I know the more bloodthirsty among us would love seeing the typical insincere display of contrition replaced with a good old-fashioned hara-kiri act of self-disembowelment, but don’t get your hopes up. (“Oops. The ceremonial sword from the lowest bidder shattered on my pocket protector! Who wants to face the music on this one?”)

As long as there are fallible institutions and opportunistic image consultants, expect to endure a steady stream of dog and pony shows competing for the public’s mercy.

Heck, even if all the image consultants went on strike, semi-remorseful public figures could brainstorm rehabilitation campaigns just by watching Seventies sitcoms.

“As God is my witness, I didn’t know that haphazardly handled thermonuclear devices could desecrate Native American burial grounds!”

–

Copyright 2024 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’m guessing my brother-in-law was underwhelmed by the recent earth-shattering announcement from ESPN, Fox and Warner Bros. Discovery.

I mean, he’s the family member who posted a Facebook meme of Snoopy joyously dancing under the headline “This is me not caring about the Super Bowl.”

Back to the trio of media powerhouses: in case you haven’t heard, they announced an as-yet-unnamed joint streaming service app that would provide programming content from all the major sports leagues, plus college football, college basketball and more.

The breathless declaration was tempered by the fact that the bundle won’t be able to provide the games that have been contractually locked in by NBC Universal, CBS or Amazon. Sort of like a local merchant promising, “We pride ourselves on one-stop shopping – as long as you don’t count swinging by MacNamara’s Hardware and Ernestine’s Florist and catching Zeb before he closes the bait shop…”

Even in light of that, the app would still be a godsend for sports enthusiasts who have long sought to simplify the ordeal of locating all their favorite games out there in Streaming Land.

Granted, it’s ironic that people who expect athletes to “walk it off” and “give 110 percent” want their own endeavors to be “easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

More power to the folks who are salivating over the new service, but they need to be considerate of others. Viewers raised in a sports bubble have a tendency to see neighbors who DON’T eat, sleep and breathe sports as un-American, testosterone-challenged or in need of reprogramming after an alien abduction.

Like it or not, sports enthusiasm occupies a spectrum: from rabid fan to avid fan to casual fan to “If you don’t silence that minor league squash exhibition game on your cellphone, I’m going upside your ex-jock head with my bird-watching binoculars!”

Sure, sporting events “bring nations together,” but considering the lifelong rivalries, it’s like everyone is watching the Zapruder film and half the people are cheering for Lee Harvey Oswald!

And, yes, athletic competition has contributed to the rise of our civilization; but the opposable thumb deserves a wee bit more credit than the foam finger, don’t you think?

Sure, sports evolved from war as a means for man to peacefully strive for victory. But “Equestrian badminton: it’s better than a poke in the eye with a sharp lance” is not the ringing endorsement you might think.

I realize people need to unwind after a hard day at work (although our ancestors managed to get by without millionaires J.P. Getty and Cornelius Vanderbilt slugging it out in a pay-per-view cage), but viewers don’t really seem to be finding peace of mind.

The $50 or so that the new app will cost each month is not outrageous; but I still remember the halcyon days when we got the Professional Bowlers Tour and “the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat” for free and if you missed them, you muddled through until the next weekend.

Now we have a 24-7 sports environment where diehard fans are terrified that someone somewhere is seeing a game that they aren’t. I understand that extremists are even threatening violence against the hallucinogenic mushroom industry.
“Don’t lie to me, shroom-fiend! I just know you’re seeing games that no one else sees! What’s that? Woodstock the bird sang the National Anthem? Nooooooo! UFO, take me away!”

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Copyright 2024 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.”