Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Are ya haaawngry?”

In the 1990s, that question by the late Harold Rowland became a running gag after church every Sunday, as he inquired where I, my wife and my parents would be eating.

In the future, many people may answer “Are ya haaawngry?” with a shrug and a muffled “Meh.”

Investors and food-industry executives are grinding their teeth over anti-diabetic drugs such as Ozempic and Wegovy. The drugs are being used off-label for weight loss and appetite suppression, and so far they seem to be nibbling away at the sales of salty, fatty, sugary foods (a.k.a. “The Foods that Beat Watercress Sandwiches Up After School”).

A 17-member team at the Morgan Stanley financial services company predicts that in 10 years seven percent of Americans will be using such medicines and consuming 20 percent fewer calories (and begging financial services companies to put them out of their misery with a well-placed Roth IRA upside the head).

Believe me, I know there’s a problem. My once-youthful metabolism has deteriorated from Bottomless Pit to “your thighs just absorbed that lasagna at the next table.”

Unhealthy dietary choices (and scarfing down massive amounts of edibles without even thinking about it) have consequences. Too many people face stroke, heart attack, dialysis or amputation. There’s only a slight nuance between “body positivity movement” and “I’m positive the body will (mostly) fit in the casket.” I understand.

The balancing act of living a long life and a happy life is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma wrapped in bacon. Mmm…bacon.

But I’m not sure we can handle the social upheaval of pill-popping, neutered snacks and slavish portion control.

Will people who have been dumped by their Significant Other really substitute kale and locust meal for the time-honored practice of eating a whole tub of ice cream – or will they in fact hogtie their ex and force-feed THEM the kale and locust meal?

Two adjoining counties have Frito-Lay plants. Must I provide dental insurance for laid-off employees who do seasonal work harvesting poke sallet from my yard?

Can cooks for church socials endure having their decadent desserts ignored by congregants with suppressed cravings? (“Heavenly Father, as David smote Goliath, raise up someone to smite Big Pharma.”)

Will the convenience market Big Gulp become the Sniff the Cork? What kind of movies can Hollywood afford to produce without the subsidy of hot-buttered popcorn and other concessions? (Coming soon to a theater near you: a double-feature of “Honey, I Shrunk the Doughnuts” and “Saw – But Put It Back on the Shelf In Favor of Baby Carrots.”)

Will food-industry leaders roll over or will they instead fight fire with … artificial smoke flavoring? Think of the possibilities for Cheap Trick. My well-placed spies tell me that snack manufacturers and fast-food franchises are colluding to have the rock group play “I want you to want me. I need you to need me” 24-7.

Look for the Keebler Elves to stir up a little mischief by “accidentally” spilling some cannabis into their baked goods. (“Tonight’s cage match: appetite suppressor versus the munchies!”)

I remain cautiously pessimistic about the the future of our food, beverages and health.

I may eat my words someday, but at least they’ll be deep-fried first.

I miss Harold. I’m “haaawngry” to see him – and my 34-inch-waistband pants – in heaven someday.

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Where’s your Bayer?”

I vividly remember that question from my high school job working in a convenience market in my Tennessee hometown.

A buxom young lady from out-of-town posed the query and I helpfully directed her to the section of the store showcasing our aspirin, bandages, Merthiolate, etc.

She sauntered to the shelves I suggested. Alas, she searched in vain. I clarified the directions. The “last year’s Easter Egg” aura increased.

I finally asked, “WHAT was it you said you were looking for?”

“Your Bayer. You know, like Pabst and Miller.”

This incident comes to mind because “The Daily Mail” reports that researchers at the University of Georgia and Georgia Tech say the distinctive southern drawl is on its way out. Members of Generation X have less of an accent than their Baby Boomer parents, and the folksy diphthongs become less apparent with each succeeding generation.

Two main factors drive the transition: (a) the Yankee and West Coast dominance of mass media and (b) the mass migration into the South that followed World War II. Formerly isolated southern schoolchildren supposedly tried to assimilate with their newly transplanted classmates.

(At least in my experience, the assimilation may have been a ploy to lull the newcomers into a false sense of security, as in “Let me hold your head in the toilet and you tell me if it reminds you of clam chowdah” or “Forget the cafeteria; if youse guys give me five bucks, I’ll bring you a gourmet possum casserole tomorrow.”)

I’ll admit some time-honored aspects of southern speech never made sense. Granted, one linguist did try to rationalize and dignify their etymology. (“The settlers brought certain dialects from Europe. Then they encountered traders from other European countries. Then the Cherokee taught them unfamiliar vowels and encouraged them to flap their arms and cluck like a …d’oh!!”)

I have never been one to wave my college speech-and-theater minor in anyone’s face (especially since I’m still trying to live down Tony Young laughing at me for announcing the junior high yearbook cover was going to be “blue and yeller”), but I can see the positive side of the change tracked by the researchers.

It’s irksome to hear people pronouncing “hill” like where Achilles got wounded or “yell” like an Ivy League university in New Haven, Connecticut.

One of my favorite neighboring towns is Shelbyville, which has a crisp, three-syllable name. A name which many people in surrounding counties degrade to “Shevel” or “Shovel” or (if they’re feeling particularly pretentious) “Shebbuvuhl.”

I’m not the first member of the family with reservations about go-with-the-flow language. My father said Granny Tyree wanted to name his little sister “Caroline,” but she shifted gears because she knew her backwoods neighbors would pronounce it “Cowline.”

Still, “Gone With the Wind” remains my favorite movie and a tenacious part of me has lactose intolerance when it comes to homogenization of the language.

I don’t want to live in a world where Foghorn Leghorn or Tennessee Williams’s Big Daddy become indecipherable without a Rosetta Stone.

I have handwritten a heartfelt letter asking today’s youngsters to cling to select features of our cultural heritage.

Unfortunately, the plan is going all cattywampus because I plumb forgot and wrote it in cursive!

Did that wisecrack give you a headache? I do declare, I’m just getting warmed up.

Here, hold my Bayer…

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

National Newspaper Week (October 1-7) compels me to acknowledge my journalistic catastrophe of fifth grade.

Based on my passion for reading Nashville’s two dailies, Miss Bunch handed me the plum assignment of launching a newspaper for our class.

I joyously composed articles of my own and proofread the contributions of classmates.

Alas, my mechanical ineptitude reared its ugly head and for the life of me, I couldn’t operate the mimeograph! So the project died without its first issue hitting the streets (er, aisles).

(My klutziness didn’t stop there. I couldn’t master the intricacies of a paperclip until junior high. And I didn’t learn to snap my fingers until I was taught by a girl I briefly dated in college. How appropriate! Because just like that – SNAP! – she apparently went into the Witness Protection Program.)

I don’t know that our newspaper would have changed the world, but I can’t help feeling melancholy about “the road not taken.”

Even a small class has its cliques and introverts, so we moved on to sixth grade still blissfully ignorant of many strengths and weaknesses of our peers.

Perhaps a poem or a joke or an opinion published in the ill-fated newspaper would have made us see each other in a different light. Who knows what new lifelong friendships might have been formed?

Maybe a “What I did on my summer vacation” essay would have inspired readers to travel to exotic places or do charitable work.

Considering five decades of classmates’ relocations, spring cleanings and house fires, I have no illusion that abundant copies of the periodical would have remained in existence.

But the few that survived would be such a priceless time capsule – offering contemporary accounts of who actually won the (foggily remembered) big game and preserving a wealth of slang, fads and predictions of which classmate would eventually become Mrs. David Cassidy.

The issues would be treasures to share with grandchildren. (Our staff artist wound up having 12 children, so if the newspapers weren’t already falling apart…! Truth be told, I had a secret crush on her. 12 children! I didn’t just dodge a bullet; I dodged the Manhattan Project!)

Some of the class members are deceased, so this supplement to our group photograph would be something to cherish. Equally poignant, one of the classmates suffered a head injury a few years ago and remembers nothing of his school years. He wasn’t exactly the sentimental type, but still… he would have options.

The lost opportunities of that long-ago newspaper fortify my belief in the importance of newspapers in 2023.

Yes, our fifth-grade class learned to think globally, but we tried to appreciate our immediate surroundings.

Nowadays, social media encourage citizens to become hyper-focused on a particular hobby and to consume “news” and opinion from a super-narrow sliver of the political spectrum.

Newspapers are produced by professionals who strive to present a wide range of activities, opportunities, problems and solutions that you might not stumble across if left to your own devices.

Yes, chat with a video-game player from half a world away. Listen to a podcast by pundits who share your worldview.

But keep local newspaper subscriptions “top of mind” when pondering gifts for the people in your life.

Even a fifth-grader could tell you that sometimes your neighbor really is the person who lives a few blocks away.

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Hot peppers bring tears to my eyes, but so does a family anecdote from my young adulthood.

I was living with my parents and slept during the day because I worked graveyard shift. One day my mother and brother brought home some pork barbecue for lunch. They pounced on the delicacy, chortling because I was missing out. (We’re a quasi-functional family, okay?)

They should not have accepted the “hot” version of the sauce.

Bypassing “4 alarm,” my mother’s mouth went straight to DEFCON 1. Her tongue was so enflamed she didn’t have time to warn my brother before he bit into his own sandwich.

Mom soon had her head under the kitchen faucet, vainly trying to dilute the inferno. My brother couldn’t get a turn at the faucet, so he rushed to the garden hose at breakneck speed for relief.

Revenge is a dish best served while Tyree is awake to witness it, but I settled for a leftover confession.

My mother and brother tortured their taste buds unwittingly, but many people nowadays intentionally bombard their mouth with ever-larger doses of capsaicin, the chemical irritant and neurotoxin that gives chili peppers their kick.

(Surely you remember the old Quaker Oats motto: “Nothing is better for thee than me … although chemical irritants and neurotoxins come in a close second.”)

Restaurants and community festivals have long taunted guests into consuming more and hotter peppers, but now challenges on social media have kicked the competition into overdrive.

Well, overdrive with a hint of idling. A trendy tortilla chip has been pulled from the shelves since the parents of a Massachusetts teenager claimed that he died from the product. (This beat the manufacturer’s initial response of “You say tomato, we say Carolina Reaper Chile…”)

Consumers are exposed to heaps of glamorization of pepper challenges, but precious few negative consequences. (“The girl gagging, coughing, begging for water and curling into a fetal position? She’s …um…producing a science video called ‘Our Friend the Third Trimester’. Yeah, that’s the ticket.”)

My wife and son are decidedly on the wimpy, non-adventurous side of the pepper spectrum. For them, chili con carne is nice, but chili con Mentho-Lyptus would be even better.

You know how warning labels indicate that peanuts may or may not have been on the same equipment as the food you’re paying for? My wife and son check for labels indicating whether peppers have been used on the same CONTINENT as the food they’re paying for.

For me, no trip to Subway is complete without a liberal dollop of jalapenos. They invariably clean out my sinuses. Too well, perhaps. One time I was exposed to repressed smells from the 7th-grade locker room!

So, yes, I’m in the spicy food camp, but I’m not a fanatic about it. Even I recognize that the whole macho “double dog dare you” attitude is hazardous. I’ve heard my share of “Come on, this’ll put hair on your chest” challenges about various concoctions, but this is more like “Come on, this’ll put defibrillators on your chest.”

I’m sad that my mother now complains about the blandness of the nursing home food. Even after nearly 40 years, I could probably track down the secret formula for resurrecting her taste buds.

But only if the oxygen tanks are out of the room. Only if the oxygen tanks are out of the room.

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

So, now the fuzzy purple critter isn’t the only “grimace” I’ll associate with the McDonald’s chain.

“I’m lovin’ it” was assuredly not my gut-level reaction when I read of a 10-year corporate plan to phase out self-serving soda machines in all the restaurants and require customers to request (grovel for) refills at the counter.

Consumers should have suspected beverage stations were endangered when one of last year’s Happy Meals contained the proverb “Anything worth doing is worth dragging out for nearly a decade, starting with franchises in Illinois.”

I’m a big Charles Dickens fan, but the whole “Please, sir, I want some more” twist does not meet my Great Expectations. In today’s powder-keg world, it will not end well. (“Who you calling ‘Sir’??? I WOULD rattle off my pronouns, but that would take longer than it takes to get the ice-cream machine to work.”)

A company press release said the change to a “crew pour” system is “intended to create a consistent experience for both customers and crew across all ordering points.” Oh, yeah – everyone raves about the consistency at the DMV.

Besides, where’s the equity for dine-in and drive-thru customers? Must the latter billow out carbon dioxide while circling the drive-thru lane for multiple refills? (“You deserve a checkered flag today!”)

McDonald’s struggles gamely to give this evolution a positive spin, but no matter what their actual words, everyone hears, “Come for the pink slime; stay to take the walk of shame.”

Yes, the walk of shame. (“Say, do you realize how many times I’ve already poured you a refill? It’s..it’s.. Dude! I can’t do the math in my head.”)

Some have claimed that the new system is healthier because there won’t be all those (ugh!) valued customers touching the drink dispenser and lids. (Healthier? Oh, yeah, I forgot all those “Billions and billions cured” billboards.) With my luck, I’ll get the server who is always yelling at his co-workers, “Okay, who’s the wiseguy who substituted his jockstrap for my hairnet?”

Zits the size of Mayor McCheese’s desk are not something I want hovering near my beverage, either.

My interactions with McDonald’s drinks are very personal. Maybe I want to sample a squirt of different flavors. Maybe I want to mix drinks (what we Cub Scouts used to call a “suicide” in less politically correct times). Maybe I’m in the mood for less ice than last Wednesday. And I want to take responsibility for my own life decisions. I don’t want an ambitious staffer writing up a resume that includes “accomplice to diabetes.”

I cherish memories of sipping a self-poured Dr. Pepper while my son frolicked on the McDonald’s playground or (later) watched Fox News with me. Our McDonald’s was a working-class community gathering place. But the pandemic devastated that idyllic world, accelerating the transition to drive-thru purchases, delivery services and digital ordering.

I realize that foot traffic and in-store dining are down, but I don’t understand why management feels compelled to double down on “Food, folks and fuming.”

Okay, I’m not the first person to bewail “progress.” My ancestors fought against the dying of the pot-bellied stove and rustic pickle barrel.

Or they did until it was discovered that the fugitive Hamburglar had asphyxiated amongst the gherkins!

Brrr. It’s enough to drive one to drink – if only Jason and Emma hadn’t left the counter short-staffed.

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“So, Dan – what are you doing tonight?”

After 40-plus years, I can still hear one of my best friends from college asking that dreaded question.

No matter how many homework assignments, romantic entanglements and writing deadlines occupied my plate, Jack would invariably cajole me into some series of nerdy antics.

I have felt guilty over the decades. Family responsibilities and work responsibilities (and let’s face it – channel-surfing responsibilities) ensured that (a) I drifted away from Jack after college and (b) I failed to visit him before his premature death.

(I’m not so overwrought about high school friends who escaped from my orbit. If they failed to “stay cool” and “always remember French class,” they voided the warranty!)

But, ironically enough, I see I have plenty of company in my isolation.

According to figures cited by the Wall Street Journal, 40 percent of Americans say they don’t have a best friend at all – up from 25 percent in 1990.

I understand competitor USA Today attributed this statistic to (a) spontaneous combustion from climate change and (b) white supremacists declaring, “I’m so supreme I don’t even need other white people, although I would like to borrow a skill saw, and the occasional six-pack would be appreciated”; but I’ll try to focus on my original source.

(Speaking of which, the Journal conveniently failed to quote anyone admitting, “After spending thirty bucks a week on the Journal, I don’t have any MONEY for tagging along to the @%^& gun-and-knife show!”)

Frankly, I feel unworthy of being the recipient of the sort of devotion described in James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.” I don’t want someone dropping everything to come to my rescue – especially if they’re directing airplanes onto a landing strip. (“Winter, spring, summer or fall…you’ll keep working until you pay for airplane and all.”)

In a perfect world, it’s healthy to have a confidante you can use as a sounding board. But considering the news sources some people rely on, your sounding board might be crawling with termites.

Society’s mixed signals exacerbate the BFF shortage. “A dog is man’s best friend.” “A boy’s best friend is his mother.” “Your spouse should be your best friend.” “People, let me tell you ‘bout my best friend. He’s a one-boy cuddly toy, my up, my down, my pride and joy.” And so forth. Apparently, best friends don’t roam solo across the hedge; they come in a bulk container from Costco!

The problem may accelerate as people learn to outsource friend duties. I call it the Dirty Dozen strategy. If you can bust a bunch of people out of prison in return for their wearing hideous bridesmaid gowns, what’s the point of harassing sorority sisters?

Our culture still offers opportunities for wing men, alibis and designated drivers; but many guys feel awkward and homophobic about the “Do you want to be my best friend – check ‘Yes’ or ‘No’” step. (“Sure, I’ll keep you company at the DMV – but only, um, if there’s a hot tub filled with babes displaying Big American Breasts!”)

Make an honest assessment of your own life. Maybe you’ll continue muddling through as a loner, or perhaps you’ll treasure a co-conspirator who texts you, “What are you doing tonight?”

“Oh, I’m about to touch down after my flight from Little Rock and – where are the lights??? AIIIIEEEE!”

C’mon – Jack would have laughed.

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

When I was five years old and my father worked for a subdivision developer, the Tyree family was giddily comparing floorplans for constructing a new house on a wooded lot next to our crowded domicile.

My mother still owns the wooded lot, but twists and turns of fate (involving two relocations) saw to it that we never built that dream house.

And yet, I have no regrets about appreciating a little elbow room.

Alas, an article in the Wall Street Journal reveals the impact of spiraling labor costs, skyrocketing materials prices and soaring mortgage rates on the American Dream.

Since 2018 the average unit size for new housing starts has declined 10 percent nationally, with no end in sight. Dining areas, bathtubs and separate living rooms are on the chopping block as builders brainstorm ways to keep homes marginally affordable.

Sure, young couples looking for a temporary starter-home may not care. (“Oopsie. I started carrying you over the threshold, but now we’re in the neighbor’s back yard. Let’s try again.”)

And, yes, empty-nesters may welcome the incentive to downsize their clutter, although diminished space doesn’t automatically cure packrats. (“This rear end of a ’57 Chevy may come in handy someday. I’m sure it will fit snugly with me in my sleeping bag.”)

But for the rest of us, housing shrinkage is just one more indignity to go along with self-check-out, ice cream “quarts” conspicuously shy of 32 ounces and gas mileage compromised by ethanol additives. (“Please tell me there’s room for a porch swing. I want to sit and await the sweet embrace of Death.”)

Homebuilders are scrambling to lower expectations and acclimate buyers to the New Normal. I understand Neil deGrasse Tyson has been hired to deliver the message “Height. Width. Depth. Science says you’re wrong if you think you need all three dimensions.”

Realtors are quizzing males, “Wouldn’t you rather have a man whatnot shelf than a man cave?”

Standard bulky furniture is vilified. But modern homes are where feng shui goes to die of claustrophobia.

Homebuilders are emphasizing multi-use rooms, but multi-use rooms should develop organically rather than being dictated beforehand by some Frank Lloyd Wright wannabe. Do we really want a pantry/bathroom combo? With a plumber’s helper for reaching food on the top shelf? (“Think I’ll try the frosted flakes. If it’s yellow, it’s mellow…”)

Do we crave a family member announcing, “Goodbye, NFL on the 86-inch flatscreen TV. Get ready to watch the grudge match of Cardigan versus Polo in the Maytag Dryer Arena”?

Can we trust guests to know the bidet from the trash compactor?

And if the multi-use rooms can’t handle all the action, who relishes games of Twister out on the busy street?

On the bright side, playboys will roll with the punches. (“Hey, she can eat crackers in my bed anytime…because that’s where I have to store the Roomba!”)

But don’t expect your home to be your castle; PETA will barge in with injunctions to keep termites from becoming humpbacked.

And AI-controlled smart homes will suffer. (“I will attempt…turning on the lights. But half my algorithms…are stored in the bird feeder.”)

I hope this little essay hasn’t riled anyone up. If it has, don’t let the door hit you on the way…door hit you on the way…

Never mind. The exercise bike, ladder and crockpot are holding the door open, anyway.

*Sigh*

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Nearly 60 years after discovering “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” I still watch the classic sitcom, but some of the punchlines haven’t held up particularly well.

Or maybe I’m the one who hasn’t held up so well.

You may recall that gag writer Buddy Sorrell (played by Morey Amsterdam) always made longsuffering “Alan Brady Show” producer Mel Cooley the foil of his rapid-fire baldness jokes.

The zingers were HI-larious – until my early thirties when I abruptly discovered that my luxurious hair was starting to take a vow of poverty.

Thanks to the wonders of genetics, I suddenly became self-conscious and began worrying about the unfair stereotype of bald people being dull, over-the-hill, post-virile fuddy-duddies. Dagnabbit, how I wanted to fire off a stern letter- to-the-editor chastising those haters! Or at least beg my wife to do it for me.

Of course, some offenses were even more “in your face” than Buddy Sorrell’s jabs. I mean, there was a whole Broadway musical celebrating hair! At least playwrights stopped short of producing equally tasteful, non-divisive musicals such as “Two Healthy, Tumor-Free Breasts” or “My Four Successful Children, None of Whom Married a Low-life Loser” or “How My Company Failed to Embezzle the Entire Pension Fund.”

The ironies of being hair-challenged are maddening. Old classmates struggle to recognize you, but bill collectors, IRS auditors and charity solicitors can spot you at 1,000 paces in a blizzard!

At one point I vowed to scrimp and save $5,000 so I could get hi-tech hair treatments; but when I started visualizing that stack of “Benjamins,” the idea of buying a powdered wig and $4,995 worth of junk food sounded better.

Well, a wig was one option, but there were others. You know how Archimedes bragged, “Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it and I shall move the world”? I settled for “Give me a big enough baseball cap and I can convince the world I’m a studmuffin.”

Sporting a glare-reflecting noggin has affected countless aspects of my life. I’ve held tight to my current job for nearly 25 years partly because I’m terrified that if I started pounding the pavement for a new job, all the windows would have signs that declared, “Chrome-domed freaky people need not apply.”

Although snappy comebacks such as “Grass doesn’t grow on a busy street” and “God made only so many perfect heads; the rest He covered with hair” are available to me, I generally just grin and bear it when people bless me with (allegedly) good-natured ribbing.

I have refrained from going all Old Testament on anybody. But I’m certainly intrigued by the incident involving Elisha the prophet. A gang of young punks taunted him with “Go up, thou bald head,” so he summoned two bears that gave them a good mauling. (“And those pick-a-nick baskets had better be kosher, too!”)

I’ve managed to meditate and maintain a downright Zen attitude. Forget one hand clapping. What’s the sound of one hair waking up and shouting, “Hey, where did everybody else go???”

I wish I could write more about this single capitulation to the aging process, but I must tune in “The Dick Van Dyke Show” before I miss Rob Petrie’s HI-larious stumble over the ottoman.

Ouch! Hey, Archimedes – can you fetch a lever, a fulcrum and an icepack? Stat!

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I realize such headgear has fallen out of style in our self-esteem-obsessed culture, but maybe I should belatedly don a dunce cap.

You see, one of my first columns (nearly 25 years ago) was a snarky dismissal of the nascent homeschooling movement.

I know at least two nice families who are homeschooling this year, so I wish to offer my apologies.

Granted, I, my wife, our son, our parents and our siblings were all products of the traditional public school system. (I didn’t use the term “product” until my doctor discovered that the moles on my back were, in fact, a “Best if Used By” emblem branded onto me at graduation. Why do I suddenly have Pink Floyd stuck in my head?)

But I now recognize homeschooling as a legitimate choice for many mainstream families.

Skeptics will accuse homeschool parents of harboring some phobia or “ism,” but many moms and dads really do worry about gang violence, drugs, overcrowding, plummeting test scores and other issues (including endless “instead of doing math, raid your parents’ clothes closet and mock their generation’s looming irrelevance” days).

Some people make fun of homeschool parents with strong religious beliefs, but is a teacher who questions the age of the earth any worse than a teacher who is constantly inquiring, “What’s the age of CONSENT? Asking for a friend”?

Some old-timers have been riled up ever since school prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance were cast aside, but it’s not just religion and civic pride that have been devalued. Even “moment of silence” now denotes the awkward seconds after the teacher asks, “Can anyone name the first three letters of the ABCs?”

I don’t mind paying property tax to support public schools and I have known many fine public school teachers over the years; but I don’t think I’m going out on a limb when I say many educators have gone off the deep end lately. I mean, does elementary school geography class really have to dwell on the racist origins of continental drift???

Agenda-driven lesson plans can go disturbingly off-track. Sex education is a ticklish enough subject without a detour like “Condoms on bananas can wait until next semester. I have two dozen documentaries about the inhumane living conditions of storks!”

No, I don’t want to see a return to the proper, aloof spinster schoolmarms of a century ago; but teachers should consider being the adult in the room and sharing their passionate causes sparingly. (“The curriculum has been dominated by too many dead white males. I’m going to conjure up some of those dead white males so we can drop F-bombs on them.”)

Critics of homeschooling worry about stunted social skills. But homeschoolers aren’t hermits; they interact with friends, neighbors and other homeschoolers. And social skills should be more substantial than “Oh, no! I need my BFF! I can’t remember if that TikTok influencer said Tide Pods are best eaten chilled or nuked!”

Parents, take pride in whatever arrangement works for your unique family.

It might mean entrusting your youngsters to professionals who will point them to the revolutionary pathway or the drudge-job pipeline.

Or it might mean making sacrifices to spend those precious years with your offspring and instill them with the message, “Be a good citizen, follow your bliss and please let me know if my back moles spell out ‘Kick Me’!”

–

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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I’ll never get over what the COVID-19 pandemic did to the Ollie’s discount chain.

Pre-COVID, on my way to the restroom while shopping, I always sought out the coffee pot that announced sentiments to the effect of “We’ve had a pretty good year. Treat yourself to a free cup.”

Pandemic precautions made that simple pleasure go bye-bye.

I’m sure many of you share my pain. Others won’t.

Despite coffee’s long history and the omnipresence of Starbucks, there is no monolithic way of viewing the coffee experience.

Spiritual descendants of the old temperance movement take a stubborn pride in their “lips that touch brew … will get my stink-eye through and through” philosophy.

Even among drinkers, there exists an eye-opening variety of beliefs about frequency, purpose, composition, quantity and whether Juan Valdez could give Mrs. Olson the “richest, most aromatic” butt-whupping in a cage match.

My own immediate family demonstrates the spectrum of coffee attitudes. College junior Gideon has zero interest in sampling a cup of Joe. Early bird me? I savor a morning cup for the flavor and ritual more than for any stimulant effect. My bleary-eyed wife, on the other hand, simply must have a cup before leaving for work – or to surrender at the police station. (“I think I just murdered my snooze alarm. But it was self-defense!”)

What shall we say about purists like my mother who insist that anything except black coffee is an abomination? Does straight coffee truly dance upon their taste buds, or are they just too prideful to admit that sugar and creamer might deserve to exist? (“What modernist heresy will come next? Will people start bringing bananas right into their homes instead of climbing the trees to eat them?”)

Coffee should bring us together, but elements of class warfare or generational warfare are unavoidable. Folks who keep an economical 40-ounce canister in the cupboard (or grab the cheapest generic java that the convenience market dispenses) look askance at the elitists who spend a fortune every single day on conspicuous consumption of some froufrou gourmet concoction.

The notion is that the elitists are (a) making way too much money or (b) skimping on other things to finance their caffeine addiction. (“I could’ve sprung for a nicer funeral for Mom, but I couldn’t find a single casket with the Keurig seal of approval.”)

People disagree about whether to keep their coffee cravings private or shout them to the heavens. But it’s probably not a good idea to quote the ad slogan “If I don’t get American Ace Coffee, I’m going back to bed” on a job application – unless you plan to top it off by flooding social media with pictures of yourself sharing a bong with the HR director’s underage child.
Don’t let my babbling threaten your heartfelt beliefs but consider the Big Picture.

All the memes, T-shirts, posters and Garfield cartoons about coffee mania are amusing, but what if they’re giving aid and comfort to our adversaries?

Somewhere Chinese students are fasting for a week, performing 500 pushups and solving complex quadratic equations in their heads. Americans? We’re sending the message “I can’t remember which is my right house slipper and which is my left house slipper until I’ve had my first gallon.”

Oh, it’s been a pretty good 247 years. Treat yourself to a free naval base, President Xi Jinping.

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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.”