Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Just because there are trained professionals dealing with the infrastructure, logistics and marketing of the Summer Olympics, it doesn’t let the rest of us off the hook.

To fulfill our obligations as world citizens, instead of just blundering into nearly three weeks of pageantry and athleticism, we should apply critical thinking to the whole phenomenon.

But you’re probably way ahead of me. You’ve doubtless pondered why we don’t have Spring and Autumn Olympics. I can just imagine the former anchored by Synchronized Finally Taking the %#$@ Christmas Lights Down and the latter prominently featuring Greco-Roman Projectile Vomiting Because of Bio-engineered Pumpkin Spice Cattle Flatulence.

And let’s consider all the Olympics viewers who bellyached about their curriculum all through school. (“When will I ever use this so-called knowledge in the real world?”) Suddenly, when a TV network beckons, they dive headfirst into a crash course on all the intricacies of an obscure sport that will not rise to their consciousness again for another four years.

Unless their niece develops an unplanned pregnancy. (“Come on! Think! What was it the rugby sevens coach said about tracking down a deadbeat dad and garnishing his wages???”)

Olympic athletes are generally regarded as inspirational figures, but the Olympic-industrial complex actually perpetrates an insidious scheme for discouraging future competitors.

While the athletes are pushing their bodies to the fullest potential, the rest of us are bombarded with endless commercials for fast food, beer, video games and addictive apps. One of my friends reached to pick up a dictionary to search for “sedentary,” but he threw out his back.

(Hey, maybe the average Joe could achieve his 15 minutes of fame if a deal was struck for weightlifters to compete to see how many couch potatoes they could lift!)

Don’t you love the hoity-toity way different types of sports are described as “disciplines”? Not to brag, but Refraining from Meeting That Jerk in HR Out Behind the Building is a discipline all to itself.

True, I admire athletes who are hyper-focused and can become really, really good at one specific task. But that’s a luxury most of us in the real world aren’t afforded. (“I aced turning the ‘Yes, we’re open’ sign toward the parking lot, but I really, really hope Larry is available at 5:00 to turn it back to ‘Sorry, we’re closed.’”)

Maybe you’re satisfied with the color commentary on Olympic events, but I think it would be a breath of fresh air if interviewers gave some airtime to an athlete who has a background with no particular hardships, no lifelong ambitions, just an “Aw shucks, those steroids were going to waste and I had nothing better to do” demeanor.

That’s right: we need a break from “The lightning storm reduced me to ashes, but my great-grandmother’s spirit convinced everyone in my village to donate an organ to construct the lean, mean limping machine you see before you.”

Okay, the Olympic Games are lauded for bringing the nations of the world closer together, but sometimes that’s not a compliment. (“My event is so unpopular, they found a way to show it live at 3:00 a.m. in every time zone around the world!”)

Maybe my snark will never get me on a box of Wheaties, but the Quaker Oats mascot did say, “Nothing is better for thee than me meeting you out behind the building…”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Although I receive three or more official doctor’s office blood pressure readings annually, I have procrastinated about regularly assessing my blood pressure at home.

I’m sincerely striving to behave responsibly. My father died of a massive heart attack and my maternal grandmother suffered a series of ministrokes in her later years, so I know hypertension is no laughing matter.

Unless…

…it’s deadline time and you need a humor column before your editor blows a cardiac gasket!

One reason I had adopted a “no news is good news” approach to b.p. awareness is that I dreaded adding more pharmaceuticals to my pillbox. I mean, some people carry a medicine chest that tempts you to chant, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!”

Another excuse was an overabundance of sometimes conflicting online tips for the ideal equipment and conditions for home tests.

Reading between the lines, I could see that one physician thought that my wrist cuff was merely “better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.” (“Oh, and four out of five doctors concede that your favorite thermometer is marginally superior to sticking your left big toe in the trash compactor.”)

Furthermore, I was doing commendably well with the whole systolic/diastolic thingie until 2017, when the threshold for hypertension was dramatically reduced by the American College of Cardiology, the American Heart Association and the American Benevolent Order of Party Poopers.

I suppose I’ve dodged my share of bullets while neglecting my blood pressure. (Ironically, dodging those metaphorical bullets constitutes a large percentage of my exercise regimen.)

I could stand to lose some weight (when did “more to love” become “more to resuscitate”?), but I have several heart-health factors working in my favor. Alas, the passage of time is not one of them.

Blood vessels become less flexible with age, which is another reason for thinking “youth is wasted on the wrong people.” Kids can cower before monsters under the bed, stress out over playground bullies, obsess over the Elf on the Shelf and still hold up enough fingers to indicate their b.p.!

I finally resolved to be more disciplined about home readings because I yearned to say, “Ha!” to those inexplicably high doctor’s office measurements. I know “white coat hypertension” is a real phenomenon, but my experiences have been ridiculous.

I can avoid caffeine, fire the Morton Salt girl, carpool to the clinic with the Dalai Lama and go to my happy place for 20 minutes –before the nurse asks, “Are you certain you weren’t being beckoned toward a bright light?”

There are a million reasons to do the things needed to keep your numbers under control. For one, an article says that a lower b.p. reading can contribute to improved brain health. Admittedly, the authors may have high blood pressure themselves, as they went on to say, “And with your improved brain, you can study the fairies dancing on your lawn in the moonlight.”

Oh, sure, it means a lot of “minor lifestyle adjustments” and “barely noticeable sacrifices”; but maintaining a log of your readings and developing a plan with your physician can work wonders.

Everyone should aspire to stay alive and healthy so they can watch their grandchildren grow up to …replace their hobbies with sleep time, graze the lawn, have an exercise bike surgically attached to their buttocks…

It’s the circle of half-life.

*Sigh*

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

A recent news development has left some folks scandalized and others envious.

(And still others grumbling, “I don’t need no stinking news developments! I’m too busy getting ready to vote!”)

I’m speaking of the revelation that former New England Patriots coaching legend Bill Belichick (age 72) is dating 24-year-old beauty pageant contestant Jordon Hudson.

(Please hold your fainting spells or “Attaboy!” outbursts until later.)

This (and similar situations, including reports that 49-year-old Leonardo DiCaprio refuses to date women older than 25) has Americans reexamining the issue of an acceptable age gap between romantic partners.

(Some celebrities push the boundaries. May-December relationship? More like April-half-past-next-Groundhog-Day relationship! A few of them have dabbled with the idea of a mail-order bride but aren’t sure the Pony Express delivers to their gated community.)

I’ll probably write about older ladies someday, but this week I’m focusing on the older man/younger woman paradigm.

Society remains divided over what to call a man dating women who are decades younger. Cradle-robbing old goat? Sexy senior citizen? Sly “dawg”? Future victim on a true-crime podcast? (“Everyone tried warning Sam, but he just wouldn’t listen. Or COULDN’T listen. He had a bad habit of settling for cheap knockoff hearing-aid batteries so he could pay for his girlfriend’s yoga lessons…”)

On the flip side, are their youthful girlfriends attention-craving gold diggers? Or are they “old souls” who appreciate a wiser, more experienced partner?

(These wiser, more experienced partners are probably sharp enough to save their “fixed income” jabber for the McDonald’s Coffee Club crew – and to chirp, “Hey, kids…mi yard es su yard!” when in earshot of their more idealistic lover.)

If these young ladies listen too much to their detractors, it can have a devastating effect on their self-confidence at job interviews. (“My best qualifications are that I graduated summa cum laude and broke a national swimming record. My worst trait? I hate to admit it, but I’ve just learned that I’m … I’m … young enough to be somebody’s granddaughter!”)

There’s a lot to be said for dating someone from your own generation (my wife and I just barely missed it, as I’m from the last part of the Baby Boom and she’s from near the beginning of Generation X); but many widowers, divorcees and confirmed bachelors are reluctant to date someone near their own age.

It’s not just because of wrinkles and gray hair. They realize that their contemporaries also come with a lifetime of accumulated preferences, connections and obligations. (“No, John, I didn’t bring any grandchildren photos this time. It seemed to bother you last week. But I did bring six albums of little Ethan’s great-grandkittens…”)

Far be it from me to impose arbitrary standards on the happiness of total strangers. If you can enter a relationship with eyes wide open (and cataracts scheduled for removal), negotiate around certain obstacles (“I’ll go to your Taylor concert, if you agree I don’t have to get my pacemaker pierced, darlin’”) and fan the flames of love, more power to you.

I salute you. No, don’t salute back! Gotta watch that rotator cuff!

I’m just minding my own business.

Speaking of business, what a bonanza it would be if you could corner the market on violinists performing at ritzy restaurants as savvy seniors popped the question: “Can you get this prenuptial agreement back to me by Friday, signed and notarized?”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“I’ve been everywhere, man/I’ve been everywhere, man…” – as sung by Hank Snow.

I was overjoyed to hear that one of my high school classmates and his wife recently completed their bucket-list project of visiting all 50 states.

(Alas, one of the less-studious members of our class stopped agonizingly short of that milestone, declaring, “You can’t fool me! There are only 49 states, ever since scientists decided Pluto isn’t really a state.”)

As I researched the 50-state accomplishment, I discovered that there is no universal standard for what constitutes a “visit” to a state.

For instance, the Fifty State Club (founded in 2006 to celebrate and encourage travelers on their journey) sets a fairly low bar: put your feet on the ground and breathe the air. (In other words, no points for driving straight across a state without even a bathroom break or simply changing planes at the airport.)

Individuals establish their own parameters for a “real” visit to a state: snap a picture at the state line, eat local cuisine, spend the night, sing Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land,” honor O.J. Simpson by following at least one lead for tracking down “the real killer,” and so on.

An increasingly popular benchmark is “Speak truth to power” in each state. (“Mr. Dog Catcher, you have some @%^&$ ugly mutts in this state.”)

People embark on a 50-state trek for myriad reasons: patriotism, meeting new people, the desire for fresh experiences, the chance to file a personal-injury lawsuit after tumbling down the front steps of each state capitol building…

Many retirees see their golden years as the perfect opportunity to check those states off their list. My mother has gone the opposite way.

Before she got married, she made memorable excursions from rural Tennessee to New York City and Hershey, Pennsylvania (and she and Dad honeymooned in Florida); but she grew more and more dismissive of travel. More recently, if you tried to tell her about the sights and sounds you experienced, she would be satisfied to see an Excel spreadsheet of what time you got HOME from each trip.

More power to the people who can pull off a 50-state project, just as long as they appreciate how privileged they are to have the necessary health, time, finances and workarounds for obligations. A lot of people would have to cobble together a strategy such as “Okay, if we pull the plug on Mom, list the kennel as one of our creditors on the bankruptcy application, remove your frisbee-size cataracts and convince my boss that I won’t fall asleep in the mop room so often if I get twice as much paid time off, I think we can swing it.”

Me? Travel enthusiasts celebrate themselves for having an “adventurous spirit.” I have an adventurous spirit, but I’d like to keep it inside my body for a few more years instead of plunging into a ravine while snapping a selfie…

I enjoyed adding Missouri to the list of states I have visited (my wife had a convention in St. Louis in May), but I don’t have a burning passion for visiting every single state. If it happens, it happens.

(But it’ll happen faster if some enterprising state gets a Gateway Arch that erupts every 60 to 110 minutes or a Gateway Arch perched atop a rock-carved head of Theodore Roosevelt or…)

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Don’t you dare call me without texting first!” blared a recent headline in the Wall Street Journal.

Yes, forget about Taiwan and other potential hot spots; battle lines are being drawn over the divisive issue of modern telephone etiquette.

(“Plenty of ink for the battle lines, since we didn’t use any codifying the unwritten rules of cellphone etiquette!”)

Some combatants are merely miffed or startled (“The call is coming from inside your circle of friends!”) about receiving an unexpected personal call.

(I understand. My heart skips a beat when I see the number for my mother’s nursing home on caller ID, even though it’s usually something innocuous like “Is it okay to vaccinate your mom against the previous vaccine?”)

But other telecommunications troopers are prepared to end a lifelong friendship or craft voodoo dolls of everyone who will be at Thanksgiving dinner – if the people in their life don’t unfailingly give them a texted “heads up” about any upcoming vocalized conversation.

According to the Journal, society definitely contains a few outliers (young people who love to get a surprise phone call and senior citizens who are hooked on texting); but in general, Gen Z and Millennials are the most thin-skinned about having their inviolable schedule disturbed by (YUCK!) CALLERS.

Extremists in these groups are probably unnerved because they think you’re going to ask them to help blaze a trail through the wilderness or hand-milk a dinosaur or something.

Who dares question the righteous indignation of individuals who find their tranquility shattered by “well-meaning” friends, relatives or the “Chatty Cathy” neighbor who prattles on and on in that wheezing voice about rescuing six dogs from the blazing inferno that used to be the text-hugger’s house?

Honestly, you spend all morning posting photos of your iguanas, footwear, charcuterie board and colonoscopy on a bazillion social media sites and then some jackass throws you off your game by ringing up to let you know they’ve been thinking about you!

I hate to admit it, but we older folks need to accept the blame for our misspent youth. We wasted our formative years learning how to build bridges, cure diseases and compose symphonies when we should obviously have majored in Forecasting Everything That People Will Get Their Panties In A Wad About In 2024!

But, playing devil’s advocate for a moment, would our republic even exist if the new rules of communications etiquette had been in place during colonial times? Would there have been sufficient time for Ben Franklin to print handbills in Philadelphia and get them to Massachusetts promptly enough to let the citizenry know, “Be prepared for one P. Revere to ride through the countryside on the 18th of April sometime around twelve-ish with an urgent message”?

Or what if Alexander Graham Bell had spilled acid on himself and telegraphed, “Mr. Watson, have your people text my people”?

Call me a wild and crazy guy, but I tend to make a case-by-case judgment of whether a text or out-of-the-blue call best suits the needs of all involved. Including the National Security Agency. (“Don’t mind us. Distinct speech or unambiguous emojis – they’re both cool. Be sure to name names.”)

Maybe I haven’t left you ROFL, but next week I’m going to write one of my funniest columns ever. I’m not going to just phone it in.
Not unless I text you first.

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Some fathers are entirely too serious.

They’re paranoid about their children finding out that they had their own youthful indiscretions and regrettable choices.

(“I don’t make mistakes. You can ask any of your six stepmoms.”)

My late father ‘fessed up to his own errors in judgment, like when he was in the schoolyard and a classmate yelled to him from a second-story window to toss up some of the abundant hedge apples (a.k.a. Osage oranges) that littered the ground.

Just as the classmate accumulated an armload of the fruit for some immature plot, a teacher suddenly opened the door. Down went the fruit right on top of Dad. As the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the cranium, elbow, spleen…

Another time, Dad and his cousin Bill amused themselves with the old string-tied-to-a-wallet gag. But one passerby spied them in hiding and cut the string, gaining a free wallet. Guess Dad and Bill didn’t skip the extended warranty at the five-and-dime again!

When he was a little older, Dad was plowing in the hot sun. He brainstormed the bright idea of lying down in the spring to cool off. The shock of the contrast nearly killed him, which of course, would have set off a ripple in time affecting MY existence. Brrr. I suddenly felt someone plowing on my grave.

Adulthood did not stop Dad’s impulsiveness. He particularly enjoyed good-natured pranks pulled on a slow-witted co-worker named Eric (or “EAR-ick,” as everyone pronounced it). Once Dad invited, “Shake a leg, Eric.” Eric obliged. “Now shake the other leg.” Eric obliged again. Finallly, Dad suggested, “Now shake both legs.” Eric gamely achieved some prototype of what would later be dubbed “hang time” — before falling flat on his keister.

But Dad’s favorite Eric incident involved invading Eric’s personal space with an accusatory inquiry of “Eric, what’s this I hear about you slumbering in bed???”

Caught off-guard, all Eric could offer was a spluttered denial. (“It’s a damn lie! Not in three years! Three years!”)

Codger-hood did not see a decline in mischief. When the ad salesman for the local paper came by Dad’s workplace to drum up business, Dad hit him up with a puzzle. (“When I was 40 years old, our bookkeeper was 10 – one-quarter of my age. When I was 45, she was 15 – or one-third my age. Now that I’m 60 and she’s 30, she’s half my age. When will we be the same age?”)

The little gears started turning in the salesman’s head as he counted on his fingers. He finally said, “I know there’s an answer to this. Let me drop off some papers at the office and I’ll be right back.”

The salesman did not reappear until the next scheduled advertising spiel. And the matter of the bookkeeper’s age went mercifully unmentioned.

If your father is still living, be sure to thank him for the fun he has brought to your life.

Me? I’ll reminisce about the fellow who boasted of his new gazebo.

Dad faked a “sour grapes” demeanor and sighed, “I’m proud for you, but I wouldn’t even know what to feed the darned thing!”

Thankfully, Dad’s humor lives on in my son.

And for those of you quipping, “Guess these things skip a generation,” I’ve got a big pile of hedge apples and a warmed-up pitching arm…

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

June 7 will be a bittersweet day in TV history, as the final “Wheel of Fortune” hosted by Pat Sajak airs.

Sajak announced his retirement plans a year ago, allowing himself time for a VICT_RY L_P, naming of a successor and cleaning all the spare bullion out of the sofa in the dressing room.

“Wheel of Fortune” has been like comfort food or an oasis in a chaotic world, so millions of viewers are saddened by Sajak’s departure; but very few were truly caught off-guard by the announcement. The “Wheel” target audience is more likely to be shocked by defibrillators than by showbiz wheeling and dealing.

Not everyone is impressed with Sajak’s accomplishments, but that can be attributed to jealousy. (“Big deal. I could stand there for 41 seasons hosting a gameshow – if I hadn’t flunked Public Speaking and if I was remotely affable and if I had paid my dues in radio and if I didn’t have bone spurs and if they could fit the studio into my parents’ basement and if…”)

Many youngsters mistook “Wheel” for a science-fiction program. (“A dude sticks with the same job for more than six months? And he doesn’t get a cappuccino break and video-game break between each spin? Who writes this stuff – George Lucas???”)

Sajak is undoubtedly retiring at the perfect time. Not only does he have nothing else to prove, but societal pressures are starting to breathe down the neck of the broadcast. Maybe you heard about the contestant declaring, “Pat, I’d like to shoplift a vowel.” And don’t get me started on the discussions about changing the name of the show to “Wheel of Fortunes Stolen from the Exploited Masses.”

Speaking of changes, “Wheel” remains a Big Fish in the shrinking pond of traditional TV; but surely Sajak saw budget cuts looming. (Remember, the cast of the popular “Blue Bloods” had to accept a 25-percent pay cut just to get a final season.) Wheels are an extravagance, so why not go retro with “Sled of Fortune”? And Wild Cards could be replaced with business cards. (“The lighting director also empties septic tanks on the side.”)

“Wheel of Fortune” will still be in capable hands, as Vanna White has signed another two-year contract and Ryan Seacrest will slide into Sajak’s hosting position.

Things should chug right along, even though some viewers think Seacrest is already overexposed. Perhaps, since the same day he signed with “Wheel,” he also inked deals to host 13 bar mitzvahs, the election of the next pope and all eight hours of “Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Millard Fillmore’s Birthday Eve” – as well as providing the voices of Siri, Alexa and the little voice in the back of your head that tells you to leave a note when you ding someone’s car in the parking garage.

Even Sajak will be around for at least three more years, in an off-screen capacity as “consultant.” Not sure what consulting a finely tuned machine needs, though. (“Pretty gown for Vanna? Sure, why not? Don’t forget commercial breaks! Braille Week? Somehow, I just don’t have a feel for it…”)

Speaking as someone who remembers Pat Sajak since his days as a Nashville weather forecaster, I hope he enjoys many happy adventures ahead.

And that his guardian angel isn’t constantly hyperventilating, “You moron! I can’t believe you don’t know the answer to this!”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“And when I die / and when I’m gone / there’ll be one child born, in this world / to carry on / to carry on.”

The song written by Laura Nyro and most famously performed by Blood, Sweat & Tears may have been overly optimistic.

According to the Wall Street Journal, the world is rapidly approaching a tipping point at which the birth rate won’t be enough to keep the population constant.

Climate-change prophets are probably jumping for joy (“Darn! I expelled more carbon dioxide. I should’ve settled for the wry smile!”), but demographics experts envision a multitude of problems in coming decades.

The economic impact of an aging population is obvious. With fewer consumers, who will maintain factory output by purchasing all the junk that keeps our landfills filled? All the messages we transmit into outer space in hopes of contacting aliens will have to include “We (heart) litterbugs!”

Nations will experience more and more difficulty meeting military enlistment goals. It’s like the Sixties slogan “Suppose they gave a war and nobody came – because they were all playing bingo.”

With fewer wage earners paying into Social Security, Medicare and pension funds, seniors will need to be increasingly inventive at making ends meet. (“Glad I still have my Daisy Red Ryder BB rifle. Them drones is good eatin’!”)

Don’t get me started on the inevitable theological dilemmas. (“How can I be holier than thou when there’s a shortage of ‘thous’?”)

Analysts also worry that having fewer siblings and cousins will leave future generations socially stunted. Well, in this case, AI can probably tell you all the same information as siblings and cousins. Just ask, “Who did Grandma really leave the heirloom jewelry to?” and get ready for an earful.

Infertility issues play a role in the declining birthrate, but the WSJ story focused on other factors. Bless the couples with the time, money and patience to produce large broods. But there is also a growing global recognition that (a) uteruses aren’t meant to be T-shirt cannons and (b) there’s something creepy about moms confiding, “Don’t tell the others, but you were always one of my three favorite backup children.”

The governments of various nations are encouraging childbirth with tactics such as tax deductions, extended maternity leave and expanded daycare; but so far, it’s difficult to reverse the downward trend.

Sure, parents would love to pitch in and honor a social compact; but they are hesitant to make a lifetime commitment when they have flashbacks to their childhood “best friend” cajoling them, “Hey, let’s both make a funny face during the class photograph. *Snicker* *Snicker*”

Perhaps Uncle Sam could make multiple rugrats more appealing by dispatching the Secret Service to clear the carpet of all those LEGO bricks, the Army Corps of Engineers to assemble swing sets or the Department of Transportation to reconfigure all GPS devices to declare, “Yes, we’re there yet!”

“Existential threats” are a dime a dozen; but unchecked, the population trend could be a genuine one.

If our species does become extinct, perhaps it would open opportunities for some enterprising cicada cinematographer.

I can see it now: inspired by the works of Michael Crichton, a double bill of “Trailer Park” and “Trailer World.” Cloned humans menace unsuspecting cockroaches! No blood, sweat or tears; but lots of clones thundering, “My nonexistent grandchildren never bother to call! I’m stomping mad!”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Yes, I was hunkered down paying rapt attention to the weather report on May 8 when an EF-3 tornado rampaged through a neighboring county.

Understandably, I was intrigued by a May 11 “New York Post” article about a technological push to manipulate the weather.

Eleven states already maintain “old school” programs of seeding clouds with silver iodide to generate precipitation. But around the world, weather wizards are brainstorming other tactics for dealing with droughts, flash floods and related meteorological situations.

Just imagine: drones that shoot clouds with electrical charges, “bubble curtains” that slow down hurricanes, giant wind turbines to stop typhoons, lasers to deflect lightning bolts, and similarly high-tech means of telling Mother Nature, “Just calm down.”

(The article did not quantify how much time the scientists spent in the dog house after that bit of unsolicited advice.)

Scientists quoted in the “Post” story advised that hopes of achieving total weather control may be pie in the sky, but we already see promising results from methods that once sounded like something out of science fiction. (“A rain-out for the annual Rutabaga Festival? Not if I can apply a Vulcan nerve pinch to that storm system…”)

My son, the engineering student, would probably love for me to delve into the technical aspects of the different weather-control schemes, but right now I’m more interested in speculating about who is going to be in charge.

Drones and 3-D printers have become widespread, so maybe someday weather-control equipment will likewise trickle down to the average person. I’m afraid that will make the aforementioned average person even less likely to get enough exercise. (“Sweet! I managed to program pre-made snow angels and simulated puffs of winter breath! Now let’s see if I can conjure up just enough of a breeze to waft my hoagie to my recliner…”)

Of course this will make extra work for insurance agents. Policies will have to be rewritten to replace “acts of God” with “acts of some dipwad trying to impress women with transcontinental fog events.”

Or maybe giant corporations will maintain centralized control of the weather-altering gizmos. The free enterprise system has contributed greatly to our prosperity, but I hate to think of Wall Street or Silicon Valley sullying life’s simple pleasures. (“Into each life, some rain must fall – but if you don’t spring for the extended rainfall warranty, I wouldn’t bother investing in any new galoshes, dude.”)

I’m sure the feds will want to get involved in the weather business. (“I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you…understand that your pile of melting hailstones constitutes an endangered wetland that necessitates…”)

Weather patterns do not observe national borders; rain artificially induced for the benefit of Country X can leave dried-up husks of clouds drifting over parched Country Y. So the United Nations will doubtless want a role in mediating disputes. Unfortunately, given the reputation of U.N. bureaucrats, a member nation’s plaintive cry of “Make it rain” will leave the bureaucrats anxiously looking around for strippers.

Whatever happens, I hope there is always a human element in modifying the weather. Artificial intelligence can accomplish some awesome things, but I worry about the inevitable glitches.

(“Oh, you wanted a nimbostratus cloud! Nimbostratus cloud, mushroom cloud – I always get those two confused. Anyway, gray skies are gonna clear up, put on a happy fa–hey, where did your face go???”)

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

As I sit here admiring my 88-cent container of mustard, I can’t help feeling self-conscious.

I know that restaurants advertise their “value menus” and retailers offer no-frills knockoffs of their glitziest products, but I keep picturing the corporate CEOs loathing such concessions as a necessary evil to appease the (ugh!) cheapskate rabble.

(“I thought all the franchise owners got the memo to partner with Billy Graham Evangelistic Association and upsell customers the Eternally Happy Meal!”)

The overused word “value” grates on my nerves, anyway. Shouldn’t it be a “given” that all shoppers seek value for their hard-earned dollars? Who walks into a True Value hardware store and says, “I want a ball peen hammer that contains 999,999 insect parts per million — and keep the change”?

Sometimes it’s readily apparent which functions, ingredients or durability expectations are surrendered when passing up premium products. Other times, not so much. A modestly priced haunted house tour should be judged by the entertainment value of severed heads and swooping bats, not by the thread count of the ghosts!

Okay, I understand that “value” has become a buzzword because it’s only one of many factors that enter into a purchase decision — factors such as medical issues, i.e. making your sister eat her heart out when she sees your awesome new carpet!

Yes, rampant consumerism places mystique, flair and other intangibles on a pedestal. Speaking of intangibles, your car may soon be out of your reach when it’s repossessed because of your top-of-the-line shopping sprees. Maybe the new owner will grant you visitation rights for those coveted windshield wiper blades that mimic the aroma of Gwyneth Paltrow’s nether regions.

I’m not obsessed with status symbols. With few exceptions, I am happy with store-brand foodstuffs and toiletries. I hate paying extra for “the name.” Unless I need a fake passport to escape Nazi Germany, I’m not paying for a name!

My wife and I recently clawed our way back into the middle class, but we remain frugal. Time-tested furniture, an unassuming 28-inch TV, coupons, portion control and duct tape are the order of the day. I can manage without overpriced “decadent desserts.” Slightly off-color desserts are more my speed.

I’m glad neither of us had appendicitis during our lean years, because a doorknob and a string are mighty tempting for such operations.

Fun fact: a recent Gallup survey reveals that feet are deliriously happy with reasonably comfortable shoes and generic odor-eaters and couldn’t care less that LeBron James ceremonially broke wind in the general direction of the sneaker assembly line. Go figure!

Granted, people can run the risk of being penny wise and pound foolish. Melissa and I want our cats to have good nutrition. After years of bad luck with used cars, we have gotten comfortable with buying brand-new, brand-name vehicles, but only after due diligence of studying “Consumer Reports” for gas mileage, safety features and maintenance issues.

Regardless of sticker price, we’re not buying a Horseless Carriage-mobile assembled with slave labor in The Only Former Soviet Republic That Putin Wouldn’t Take Back On A Dare.

Situations evolve. Shopping advice is not one-size-fits-all. Figure out your own balance of practicality and ostentation, of quality and price.

Just don’t let social media influencers endanger your health.

“I’m choking! No, don’t perform the Heimlich maneuver! It’s too simple! There must be bells and whistles! I need bells and –gakk!!”

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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.”