Cagle World

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*

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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 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!”

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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’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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

What an amazing coincidence!

Two days after Apple released its much-ballyhooed Vision Pro contraption, Joni Mitchell gave her first Grammy Awards performance.

It’s a coincidence because someday hordes of Vision Pro devotees will doubtless be warbling, “I’ve looked at life from no sides now/Tripped over something, might be a cow…”

Surely you’ve heard of Vision Pro. Apple insists on calling it a “spatial computer,” but reviewers tend to describe it as something like “a mixed reality headset that displays either augmented reality content overlaid on the physical world around you, or immersive entirely virtual reality content.” Either way, distraction and hijinks ensue.

I cringe when my mother continually bellyaches about people being absorbed in their tablets or smartphones instead of chatting with strangers, but this portends to be like gadget obsession on steroids.

Sales are booming. The poor schmucks who formerly could plunge to their death only while shooting a selfie now have whole new high-tech ways to ask for trouble, as they climb stairs, cross busy streets and operate motor vehicles. (“Honest, officer – I only had a couple of megapixels.”)

Apple is promoting the device with the slogan “Be in the moment,” which is short for “Be in the moment, not in that ditch or that open manhole or that ice sculpture … in the moment!”

A TV commercial announcer speed-reading the side effects of a new shingles drug would have a hard time reciting all the warnings Apple lists for when/where/how to use Vision Pro. (“If your contact with the asphalt lasts for more than four hours, consult a coroner.”)

I’m starting to think the only appropriate place is in the storm shelter of an FBI safe house while wearing a chastity belt and sitting under the Cone of Silence.

I worry about theft, impaired face-to-face relations and split-second decisions necessitated by Vision Pro owners, lost in their own little world, gyrating in public. (“Envy him or perform the Heimlich maneuver??? Think quick!”)

“Be the first in your neighborhood!” adopters of Vision Pro are learning to tune out static from social media trolls, but how do you keep your dignity when even your pets are patronizing you? (“Awwww…he’s so cute, like he’s chasing a laser pointer.”)

The hipsters who see the potential of Vision Pro are quick to point out, “They used to laugh at AirPods, too.” Or, more accurately, “They used to laugh at AirPods, too!! Oh, for cryin’ out loud, they used to laugh at AirPods, too!!!!!!!!!!!”)

Sure, I can appreciate the value of Vision Pro for meditation. Users can ponder eternal questions, such as “What is the sound of one girlfriend storming out after I spent $3499 on a toy and 10 bucks on her Valentine candy?”

I’m still “once burned, twice shy” after ordering the infamous X-Ray Specs from an old comic book, but I’ll give the benefit of the doubt to those who truly feel they need a Vision Pro (provided they don’t use it to order Joy Buzzers or Adorable Sea Monkeys).

I’m sure Vision Pro will provide good, clean fun or enhanced productivity for those who can handle it, but I’m afraid a lot of people will let their coping skills atrophy.

(“We’ll solve this problem, darlin’. This ain’t my first rodeo. No, wait. It IS my first rodeo. All those other rodeos were virtual rodeos. We are up the creek!”)

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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

While struggling to find a suitable angle for this Valentine’s Day essay, I lucked upon some “Reader’s Digest” clickbait.

The article talked about psychologist Arthur Aron’s 1997 study, in which he brainstormed 36 questions (including “What would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?”) that can theoretically accelerate intimacy between two strangers (or rekindle romance in long-term relationships).

Bravo. People typically do an awful job when left to improvise.

First dates tend to be characterized by superficial chitchat, phoniness or cringey obsession with exes. (“Ha! And Clara swore I’d never manage to land a date with another real, live girl! Uh, that is a beauty mark and not an air inlet on your neck, isn’t it?”)

The long-established couples inevitably communicate through grunts, inane observations and vain attempts at spontaneity. (“No, wait — this time grouse about the weatherman, put out the cat and fidget with the thermostat in reverse order. Born to be wiiiiiiiild…”)

Finish each other’s sentences? These time-tested couples finish each other’s flatulence.

Aron’s 36 questions seem quite adequate for breaking the ice or making jaded companions see each other in a different light, but I’m sure legions of self-styled psychologists are itching to devise their own questions.

Don’t.

You will regret diving into the dating pool with questions such as:

“How hard a slap on the wrist do you think stalkers should receive?”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding about supper, but did you never notice how much ‘my treat’ sounds like ‘dine and dash’?”

“Wow, this joint brings out the really fancy shivs for cutting the steak, doesn’t it?”

“Isn’t it romantic how your dreamy blue eyes distract me from thinking about the screams of the calf you’re eating?”

“I think society needs the term ‘cult-adjacent,’ don’t you?”

“How can you ask me if I believe in commitment right after I told you about my 72-hour video game marathon?”

“Do you realize how much you remind me of my great-granddaughter?”

It’s not just novices. Retirees, empty-nesters and their ilk are not immune from blurting out queries that lack Aron’s finesse.

“If I ever bend over and pick up my dirty socks for the second time in my life, what brand of liniment do you think would be best?”

“If your brother ever pries his butt off of our spare sofa, do you suppose it should be donated to Goodwill, the Smithsonian or the Environmental Protection Agency?”

“Forget blue pills! How come nobody ever warns you about snores that last longer than four hours?”

“If, God forbid, you tumble down the basement steps while I’m on a business retreat…in a perfect world, which of the pets would eat you first?”

“Remember the time we…no, wait — that was Junior’s piano teacher and her husband.”

“Why don’t we invite the Millers over for a clothing-optional ‘The Heck With Out-of-Network Dermatologists, We’ll Just Figure Out Our Own Irregularly Shaped Moles, Thank You Very Much’ party?”

“If you could invite anyone in the whole world to dinner … do you think we could sneak your mother into their trunk while they’re distracted?”

Don’t mind me. Go ahead and enhance your love life however you please.

Me? I’ll shake things up in my 32-year marriage by practicing portion control.

I’ll control the portion of my wife’s dietary advice that sinks in!

And convince myself that my “perfect” day involves sleeping in the dog house.

*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

Are truancy officers about to get help in fighting absenteeism?

According to the New York Post, the Ohio legislature is considering a bipartisan pilot program that would make cash transfers to select kindergarten and ninth-grade students if they show up a whopping 90 percent of the time.

(One of my friends remarked that the $1.5 million project is called a pilot program because it makes as much sense as a beagle flying a WW I Sopwith Camel. But I digress.)

Schools have exhausted other methods of motivating students (year-round dunking machines showed promise, but principals balked when hydrochloric acid kept mysteriously disappearing from the chemistry lab), so the payment experiment is part of throwing things against the wall and seeing what sticks.

(“No, Bobby, we’re not going to pay you not to throw things against the wall.”)

I admire the good intentions of the legislators (and like-minded lawmakers in other states), but there are limitless ways for this to implode.

For starters, you realize, of course, that getting a reluctant student to darken the doorway of home room is just the first tentative step of having them participate, learn and truly earn a diploma.

Some cagey young entrepreneur will inevitably game the system with budget-busting add-ons. (“Now that I’m here, teacher, perhaps you would like to see our price list. I recommend our savory ‘walk single file/show your work’ combo platter.”)

These same entrepreneurs may draw inspiration from the existence of substitute teachers and delegate some responsibilities. (“No, you haven’t seen me before. I’m a substitute Caitlyn. We do a 70-30 split while she’s playing hooky.”)

Granted, pay-for-attendance may curtail some social justice controversies. (“Who cares what my pronoun is? Here’s my Cayman Islands routing number. That’s all I care about.”)

And at least disenchanted students will no longer have the old “When will I ever use the stuff they teach in school in real life?” lament. (“Can’t wait until I’m a surgeon and start negotiating about hanging around AFTER I open up the thoracic cavity! KA-CHING!”)

A sizable percentage of potential dropouts will inevitably decide that the payments are either irresistible or insultingly low. For the former, that could mean dragging themselves to school even when their medical condition makes it unwise. (“I was determined to deliver my big essay today, no matter what. Where is it, you ask? My plague-infested pet rat ate it.”)

As for students who become immune to the initial financial rewards, states and school districts may have to take drastic steps, involving property tax, pension funds and other resources. (“The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round – even without fancy-schmancy new tires.”)

And let’s be realistic. Boredom, laziness and social awkwardness are not the only reasons students avoid school. Some come from a bad home environment and would not necessarily retain control of their attendance bonus. (“Mrs. Johnson, could the school board possibly swing letting me earn attendance points on weekends, too? Dad’s teen-age girlfriend really needs that boob job.”)

I wish school systems well going forward, but there will be animosity from generations of scholars who maintained near-perfect attendance with no reward other than a passing remark in the graduation line.

(“Okay, the young punks get half the money after displaying good attendance – and the other half after they walk five miles to and from school in snow, uphill both ways.”)

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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

Despite my best preventive measures, I have spent decades enduring the “stillgottas.”

If you are unfamiliar with the medical terminology, it’s the why-can’t-it-be-terminal-and-give-me-the-sweet-release-of-death condition characterized by perpetually gasping, “I’ve still gotta grab item A and finish project B and clean item C and research the efficacy of an Epi-Pen after absent-mindedly ingesting mystery food D and…”

Some guys have a fabulous career releasing their inner drag queen, but all I can muster is being a third-rate Soccer Mom.

The stillgottas can erupt at any time of day, but for me they are worst between 5:00 a.m. and 7:15 a.m., as I rush to hit the road and join the rat race. (D’oh! Forgot to set the mouse trap!)

If I have awakened during the night, my mind has already raced to strategize everything that must be accomplished before I can wail, “Maybe I’ll do better tomorrow” and gallop to the SUV. I know I need to hit the ground running – unless one of the cats has produced a particularly viscous hairball, in which case I hit the linoleum skidding.

Fix that breakfast. Pack that lunch. Take those pills. Apply that deodorant. Charge that cellphone. Pay that bill. Spritz that eyeglasses cleaner. Check that tire pressure. Find that cleanest dirty shirt. Pay Kris Kristofferson royalties for that last remark…

The stillgottas are never satisfied. No matter how down-to-the-minute I schedule my morning, there’s always a surprise, like the load of laundry that was supposed to be dry and ready for putting away, but instead includes a mangled wad of soggy sheets and towels that apparently attempted to master the Kama Sutra.

Guilt feelings make the stillgottas worse. Even with a microwave oven, indoor plumbing and squeeze-bottle condiments, I’m always bemoaning my first-world problems. (D’oh! Took five whole minutes to scan those photographs of my ancestors plowing with mules!)

True, my mornings would be more laid-back if I didn’t try being a responsible adult. For my wife’s sake, I try to: hang clean, dry kitchen towels; get the coffee maker ready; take out the garbage; defrost her windshield; perform other chores and leave a nice note.

If only I had access to an “Amazing Race” Express Pass! (“Sorry I failed to flush, ate the last doughnut and left the cats’ water bowl empty, but I have this handy-dandy Exp…wait! What do you mean you’re sending my comic book collection on a one-way cruise???”)

I also burden myself with too many hobbies and obligations. I strive to speed-read at least three newspapers a day, post memories and memes on social media and answer emails. If all the people I’ve stalled with “Things have been crazy around here” met in one room and compared notes, they would surely conclude that I live with Jack Nicholson and Nurse Ratched.

I used to get perturbed at my parents for returning from exhibiting at the Nashville Fairgrounds Flea Market and just collapsing on the sofa. But I see now that staggering into one’s “castle” is just as daunting a task as leaving it. There are always perishable groceries to put away, receipts to file in a safe place, mail to sort before it gets lost, towels and sheets to refer to a crisis pregnancy center…

Ohhh…still gotta concoct a final paragraph! Writer’s block is just another word for nothing left to lose…
*Sigh* Here’s your &^%$# money, Kris!

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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

Without much fanfare (okay, I did write and voice a radio commercial noting the milestone), I recently marked 25 years of my “day job” working for a farmers cooperative.

I realize lots of other people have spent at least 25 years with a single employer; but given the impact of mergers, layoffs, obsolete professions, mandatory drug tests, anger management issues and online job listings, our accomplishment is nothing to sneeze at, either.

I appreciate the stability and family atmosphere at the cooperative. I have built a quarter-century worth of memories rather than spending 25 years dwelling on “the road not taken.” (“Tyree, somewhere out there in the multiverse, there’s a you who backpacks through Europe with Stephen Hawking! Aren’t you jealous???” “Does Other Me get an employee discount on cat de-wormer? Hmmm?”)

I know not everyone shares my philosophy. Whether seeking freedom, novelty or Big Bucks, countless workers admire the greener grass on the other side of the fence.

My late friend “R.L.” fit squarely into the freedom camp. I swear this happy-go-lucky fellow must have held down 400 different jobs over the years. And by “held down,” I mean “let them float away and trigger a ‘99 Luftballons’ scenario.”

Major police departments have determined that wearing Kevlar body armor runs a distant second to carrying a copy of R.L.’s resume in your shirt.

R.L. once acquired a coveted position at the highest-paying factory in town and merrily quit a week later to pursue a freelance job prospecting for Styrofoam or something.

I can sort of understand the wayfaring approach to employment, although the value of a benefits package is not to be lightly dismissed. A defiant “I don’t want anybody telling me what to do” often gives way to “Turn your head and cough – and then tell me how you plan to pay for medical services rendered, Mr. No Strings on Me!”

Side note: if you’re looking for a side gig, you should operate a year-round haunted house catering to fly-by-night laborers. Imagine holding a flashlight pointed up at your face in a pitch-black room as you whisper, “And the next morning, next to the bloody hook on the car door handle was …a fully vested 401(k) account! Woooooo…”

Some people are always chasing a bright, shiny object. Of course, they can become ensnared if the employment agency lands them a job on the laser pointer assembly line. (“Darn! Now I’ve fulfilled my probationary period! I’m mad enough to cough up a hairball!”)

Not everyone is so footloose about a steady income. Some ambitious people are always networking and watching for the chance to get in on the ground floor of a lucrative enterprise. They feel obligated to realize their God-given talents to the fullest and create a world in which little children of all colors and nationalities can join hands and announce, “Wow! Did you see the trophy wife that Mikey’s dad can afford?”

All kidding aside, you do you.

As long as you don’t fall into the extremes of hopeless underachiever or family-neglecting workaholic, decide what’s the proper length of time to stay with one employer.

And, employers, measure twice and cut once when trying to scrimp on your human resources.

This public service announcement has been brought to you by Convert Your Cubicle Into A Pinata, a subsidiary of There’s Packing Materials in Them Thar Hills, Incorporated.

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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

Oh, for simpler times with fewer adult responsibilities and fewer high-tech distractions!

Then I might manage to finish reading two excellent autobiographies (Henry Winkler’s “Being Henry: The Fonz – And Beyond” and the late Garry Marshall’s “My Happy Days in Hollywood”) before The Big Day.

The Big Day?

Yes, January 15 marks the 50th anniversary of the premiere of ABC’s nostalgic hit sitcom “Happy Days.”

Back in the day, “Happy Days” and its two most successful spin-offs (“Laverne and Shirley” and “Mork & Mindy”) were among my favorite programs. When Arthur “Fonzie” Fonzarelli humbled himself enough to use reading glasses, it helped me feel better about my own first trip to the optometrist. (Would it have killed His Coolness to hang around to lend moral support for my later colonoscopy, prostate exams, et cetera? Aaaaay!)

Sure, snootier critics looked down on “Happy Days” for presenting an idealized, sanitized interpretation of the Fifties; but I don’t think any purpose would have been served by the catch-phrase “Sit on it” being replaced with “Sit on it – but not you, Rosa Parks! Stand up!”

I’m glad the beloved series (which ran for 11 seasons and 255 episodes) was celebrated with interview/clip reunions in 1992 and 2005, but it’s undoubtedly for the best that the series hasn’t gone the trendy “hey, kids, grab a defibrillator and we’ll do a reboot” route.

The original elements of the show simply wouldn’t mesh with 2024 sensibilities.

Can you imagine a frisky Richie Cunningham (Ron Howard) crooning, “I found my signed and notarized consent form on Blueberry Hill”?

Wouldn’t it be more sad than funny for Fonzie to give Siri his magical jukebox whack – and then get fried by AI laser in retaliation?

It would become tedious if Ralph Malph’s every utterance of “I still got it!” triggered a pre-dawn IRS raid.

Can’t Arnold’s Drive-In remain Arnold’s Drive-In – instead of Arnold’s Drive-In Quick Before the EV Battery Explodes?

Do we want to see Al Delvecchio’s mournful “Yeeep, yep, yep, yep, yep” replaced with “Neeeds context, needs context, needs context…”?

The courts have quite enough on their plates without “You’re such a Potsie!” being deemed hate speech.

I’m afraid a reboot would ring untrue if it had folksy “Mr. and Mrs. C.” dispensing something other than sage advice. (“You made a commitment to take two different dates to the prom? You need to do the right thing; Venmo me 50 bucks and I’ll dispense you enough weed to get through it.”)

Honestly, would it really be an improvement for the infamous “Fonzie Jumps the Shark” episode to be replaced with Fonzie Collides with a Wind Turbine?

The upbeat theme song was fine just as it was. The sense of innocence would be lost if it was reworded to include “These days are ours, Happy and free, These days are ours, although we really should pause to acknowledge the indigenous peoples who had happy days in the Midwest previously…”

*Sigh* I probably won’t finish the autobiographies in time, but while cleaning out an old truck I sold, I found my high school T-shirt that my mother had (less than successfully) ironed a Fonzie transfer onto. Maybe I’ll try it on for old times.

Whoa! I’m not blaming it on Joanie Cunningham, but maybe there’s been a bit too much “shortcake” over the past 40-odd years!

Yeeep, yep, yep…

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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

Okay, maybe I’m approaching this from a position of privilege.

One of my earliest memories is of tagging along to my mother’s former grammar school when she voted. Social Studies was one of my favorite elementary school classes. Mr. Lowry’s junior high Civics class taught us about polling, current events and debate skills. I made straight A’s when I minored in Political Science in college.

So I’m a wee bit prejudiced when I applaud the arrival of the book “Restoring the City on a Hill: U.S. History & Civics in America’s Schools.”

The authors recommend a rebooted K-12 emphasis on the documents, historical figures, Supreme Court cases, core principles and sacred duties that used to bring us together as Americans.

(To their credit, the authors avoid divisiveness by relegating the easily misinterpreted phrase “dumb as a sack of wet rocks” to the appendix of a future edition.)

At least 9 out of 10 applicants for legal immigration routinely pass a rigorous citizenship test, but an alarmingly high percentage of native-born Americans experience difficulty listing the three branches of government (“Lather, rinse, repeat?”) or remembering the name of their state legislator. (“My letter to Mr. Free Beans and Barbecue got returned by the United States Postal Service, which I believe was founded as part of the space shuttle program!”)

We were more knowledgeable back in my day, but even then, civic awareness was on a downhill slide. It was a matter of priorities; many of my peers would’ve loved reading The Federalist Papers, but first they had to score some Zig-Zag papers.

Many school districts don’t really offer old-fashioned Civics instruction anymore, unless you count endless school-spirit “dress-up” days where students poke around in their parents’ closet and ask what happened to the powdered wigs they wore in school.

If we’re to find solutions to our apathy and ignorance, we have to ask ourselves if we’re part of the problem.

If you think that “the right to assemble” was put into the Bill of Rights because of bribes from IKEA…

If you think that “bicameral” has something to do with the spectrum of confections…

If you think the Electoral College should let its athletes profit from merchandising…

If you think the inscription beneath the Statue of Liberty says, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…we’ll leave a light on for you…”

If you think that “civic engagement” is a step toward marrying your Honda…

…you just might need to get a refresher course.

If our graduates are going to maximize their performance in the Real World and serve as an inspiration for newly minted citizens, they need at least a working knowledge of eminent domain, filibusters, jury duty, petitions, referendums, trade deficits and the causes of inflation.

But let’s strive for neutrality. Some schools that do provide Civics courses encourage the teachers to use them as training grounds for misguided activism. (“Today we’re going to protest the inequity of the summer solstice. Everyone glue your hands to the sun. Ouch! Owie!”)

Yes, some educators yearn to indoctrinate their students into dissing our traditions and institutions. On the plus side, at least this uncovers other inadequacies.

“I’m not standing for the National Anthem. I’m taking a …bendy thing between the upper part of your leg and the lower part of your leg.”

*Sigh* Maybe it’s time to reevaluate biology as well.

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Copyright 2023 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.”