Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

If I could somehow call my father in the Great Beyond, I’d confess that I’m turning into him.

I always felt sorry for Dad because inertia took control, and he continued paying a monthly rental fee on his landline phone for years and years after telephone industry deregulation made it possible for consumers to own their unit outright.

Well, yours truly has been paying for both wireless service and a seldom-used landline (from a different provider) for an embarrassingly long time.

(In my defense, until just recently, our cellphone coverage would huff and puff and not penetrate the front door. For years, it was as if we sprinkled Passover lamb’s blood on the doorposts and lintel to ward off the Angel of Death and, oh yeah, doctor’s appointment changes and severe weather alerts.)

I’ve appreciated 30 years of cheerful service from the maintenance team (“We’ll remove the drooping tree limb that’s causing static, although that acorn over yonder may still be problematic…”); but I finally cut the cord today, discontinuing both landline phone and DSL internet service.

I realize a landline remains a lifeline for many people (including traditionalists who keep a set of birdwatching binoculars nearby for pursuing the rare ruby-throated printed phone book); but since I communicate with most friends and relatives either through social media or face-to-face, it became a luxury that was nickeling-and-diming me to death.

It was a nuisance as well. Signing up for a “Do not call” list was like posting a “Wet Paint” sign or ripping off a tourniquet in shark-infested waters.

Once in a blue moon, I enjoyed a surprise chat with a long-lost cousin; but mostly my family encountered a suppertime barrage of calls alternating between (a) “Would you like to participate in an unbiased survey about which corner of hell should be reserved for the leading Democrat/Republican/Whig candidate?,” (b) “We’d like to thank you in advance for your donation to the Sheriff of Nottingham’s Benevolent Fund,” (c) “Cost-effective Replacement Wasp Nests are easier to install that you might think” and (d) “Oops…we got the wrong continent, but maybe you’d like to hear this Amber Alert, anyway.”

Don’t get me started on our internet experience. Sure, our DSL was cutting-edge at the time we graduated from a dial-up connection; but its “I think I can, I think I can” tenacity just couldn’t handle the era of streaming. Netflix and chill? No, it was more like “Netflix and maybe it’ll finish buffering by the end of the next ice age.”

I felt guilty about how many years of service we squeezed out of our DSL modem/router. But when we went searching from store to store for a replacement, I could see the “What century are you from?” look in the eyes of merchants. They humored us by advising, “If you really want to share communications, we have this lantern and this horse. Now practice saying, ‘One if by land and two if by sea…’”

I’m sure I’ll adapt to the reality of not having a (costly) backup plan, but I still regret mischievous stunts I never got to execute. My wife and I often fantasized about keeping an airhorn handy for unwelcome callers.

And if only I could channel my father to respond to an overly bubbly telephone solicitor!

“Good evening. Am I speaking to Danny Tyree?”

“Not anymore, jackass!” SLAM!!!

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My family will soon take advantage of our state’s tax-free weekend for clothing and school supplies, but none of our hard-earned money will go for distressed clothing.

Coincidentally, none of the money we spend at the food court will purchase pre-chewed burritos. Call us rebels.

Silly me, I had assumed that America’s fascination with faded/torn/threadbare clothing would be a passing fad; but it seems to have settled in as the New Abnormal, along with backwards baseball caps, droopy pants and calling an inaccurate weathercaster “literally Hitler.”

Sure, I save worn-out jeans and sneakers for lawnmowing purposes and respect hand-me-downs as a time-honored tradition; but I refuse to slobber over intentionally imperfect merchandise. Not even for the patriotic aspects: “America: where anyone can grow up to look like a ragamuffin.”

When I was 14 years old and working at my uncle’s junkyard, my clothing often sustained holes from battery acid. During my 18 years working in a warehouse, my garments underwent every indignity known to man. These were regrettable mishaps, but they were also badges of honor.

Perhaps you remember the 1980s Smith Barney investment firm commercial with distinguished actor John Houseman declaring, “Smith Barney: They make money the old-fashioned way. They earn it.”

Most of the people “keepin’ it real” by pretending to be hoboes haven’t earned it. Sorry if I sound like a grumpy old man, but it’s frustrating to think that I may someday find myself explaining to the police, “No, officer, I swear I didn’t sic my dog on the kids who wouldn’t get off my lawn. They already looked like that.”

I sometimes discover too late that one of my favorite garments has a frayed collar or conspicuous ink spot, but some distressed garments on the market go above and beyond the call of duty. They’ve been sliced, diced and experienced Robert Oppenheimer detonating something on them.

A vintage bargain from Goodwill is understandable, but the prices on some coveted garments make me think “relaxed fit.” No, not as in “relaxed fit waistband.” I mean “relaxed fit cranium.” These people’s brains have “done fell out.”

I realize rebellious consumers feel that purchasing distressed clothing is a way of Sticking It to the Man. The abundant rips certainly make it easy to tell The Man from The Woman.

The tattered look helps lonely people identify with rockstars, except for the part about rockstars getting royalty checks instead of daddy subsidizing a minimum-wage job.

The disheveled style helps compassionate elitists identify with the working man – or at least the working seven-year-old Asian orphan who stains the fabric.

People cruising around for distressed garments have more than too much time on their hands. They also have money burning a hole in their pocket. (“Yay! The money burned a hole in the pocket! Now let’s see if it will burn a hole in the crotch, too!”)

Many people customize/accessorize their distressed garments (and I have a grudging admiration for their creativity), but there are also fashion professionals who consider themselves to be Designers. Just realize they set a low bar. A ferret in a burlap bag could be a designer in these instances.

*Sigh* I just hope the frontload-your-problems mentality remains confined to clothing. We don’t need healthy individuals telling a doctor, “I want a second opinion, Doc! That quack refused to give me crows’ feet, osteoporosis and receding gums!”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Sometimes topics simply demand more research than a deadline allows.

I couldn’t do justice to this week’s topic, so I’m kicking the can down the road by dishing out another batch of research-free random thoughts.

I’ll confess to being impatient with people who pepper conversations with a slavishly recited “They say.” You know, like “They say that for everybody in the world, there’s a double.”

I guess their proclamation means every time you see an obituary, a fertile person somewhere is griping, “I’m not in the mood, but we owe it to the world to crank out a replacement!”

Don’t get me started on the classic “They say that deaths always come in threes.”

I’d love to retort, “Not any more they don’t! THEY died. All three of ‘they’! Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

I’m leery of people who declare authoritatively that there is no such thing as coincidences. They get all excited when a church building burns down but a painting of Jesus survives unscathed. They declare it a miracle and attach a deep (if cryptic) spiritual meaning to it. But the blind guy, the lame guy and the leper in the crowd feel a little miffed. (“Too bad Lot’s wife isn’t here. Somebody could rub salt in our wounds.”)

Speaking of salt, will the Supreme Court ever hear a First Amendment case about someone yelling, “Buttered popcorn!” in a crowded firehouse?

One of the medical offices to which I took my mother had a prominent sign announcing, “Due to federal privacy law, we cannot allow photo or video taking in this office.” But that’s the only office in which I’ve seen such a notice. I guess the other providers don’t care if some budding cinematographer shouts, “We’re on a tight budget for the prison scene, guys. Use those tongue depressors for shivs. What’s your motivation??? Your motivation is to finish this scene before you spend too much time around that loser with ringworm!”

I’ve known naïve people. I’ve known gullible people. I’ve known countrified people. Not one of them ever admitted to falling off the turnip truck. I’m starting to think the whole stereotype was started by the rival rutabaga cartel. (“I didn’t fall off the turnip truck, but this IS my first rodeo. Do I get a prize if I can stay on the zucchini for eight seconds?”)

I’m self-conscious about my chest, so I’m not too keen on “shirts and skins” matches to start with. But seriously, if you can’t remember who is on your team and who is on the opposing team without the assistance of hairy nipples, maybe it’s time to become the equipment manager.

On a related note, I’m not really seeing the appeal of “going commando” vis-à-vis undergarments. Is it really empowering to think, “Ha ha…you don’t know that there’s nothing between me and my grimy jeans”? (Granted, it’s a better secret than “Ha ha…you don’t know I stopped to read an old magazine and got too close to the loser with the ringworm.”)

Seriously, is it truly that sexy to be able to get “nekkid” a split-second sooner? Wait until a Paris designer comes up with polyester pants with attached flame thrower!

Speaking of going up in flames, don’t feel bad if a few of these jokes died. THEY SAY someone somewhere is about to crank out sufficient replacements…

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Have you seen everything you want to see?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Me too. Let’s go back home.”

That’s a paraphrased version of my parents’ conversation midway through their honeymoon in 1958. Unimpressed by the hype of an out-of-state adventure, they chose to hightail it back to the real world.

(The real worlds of 1958 and 2023 are strikingly different. Today’s “reality” is that your new father-in-law offers to chest-feed any future babies. And pull a bitcoin from their ear.)

How many of the people who giddily tied the knot in June have already settled for the humdrum?

Folks who were all lovey-dovey during the courtship phase are suddenly growling, “You could write wedding vows in the form of an Elizabethan sonnet, but you can’t write ‘milk’ on the shopping list?”

The partner who was with them on Cloud 9 is suddenly, sadistically emitting thunderous noises.

People who were on their best behavior are now letting it all hang out. (“You did a good job of faking things. Well, I’ve been faking having a work ethic!”)

A few ultra-realistic couples may have scrubbed “Just Married” off their car and replaced it with “Just Waiting for the Sweet Embrace of Death.”

Like Johnny and June Carter Cash, many of these people got married in a fever. It’s only once the hoopla dies down that they realize, “Your lousy health insurance policy treats fever as a preexisting condition!”

Most couples grudgingly admit that the honeymoon is over once they’ve returned to work and the million-and-one responsibilities of daily living rear their ugly heads. (“There’s one rearing its ugly head now. No, wait – that’s just your great-aunt Agatha.”)

Communication is a big problem for many newlywed couples, although some do remarkably well reading smoke signals. (“Hey! You’ve got the credit cards smoking!”)

Some people experience a smooth transition from romantic love to mature love, but others are blindsided because they were so busy Being in Love with Being in Love. They never got around to discussing whether to have children, which family to spend the holidays with, which relatives to co-sign a loan for, the division of chores, etcetera. (“Hey, I never noticed you have a conjoined twin with a swastika birthmark on their forehead…”)

I encountered an online article listing ways to keep the romance alive in a marriage. One pearl of wisdom was “Spend at least 10 minutes a day facing one another with concentrated eye contact.” There’s quite a bit of incentive there, because the first one to blink has to fill out all the “thank you” cards for wedding gifts!

Even newlyweds who cohabitated for years before finally making it official know that the status quo will change, however subtly. They know that their delightful eccentricities and quirks will become fodder for Dear Abby. You can recognize these men and women at social events because they’re the one who always introduces themselves with greetings such as “Hi! I’m Frank (not his real name).”

But you’ll occasionally meet seniors who have been wed to their soulmate for 50 or 75 years and swear they’re still in their honeymoon phase. I never know how seriously to take these sweethearts.

“We HAVE to stick together, because we’ve been holding Elvis, Bigfoot, Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa hostage in the basement. Did you say you’re a Tyree? Ah, the Tyrees – the ones who got away…”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“We are the Cubs from Den 3/And no one could be prouder/If you cannot hear our shout/We’ll yell a little LOUDER.”

That chant from my Cub Scout pack-meeting days comes to mind as I explore the issue of moderation-challenged speakers, or, as the prestigious American Psychiatric Association clinically labels them, “bozos who wouldn’t know an indoor voice if it bit them on the rear.”

Surely you could name some loud talkers. Maybe you are a loud talker. When you overhear people whispering about boorish behavior, perhaps you should consider asking, “Lord, is it I? I said, LORD, IS IT I????”

Booming voices disseminating too-much-information revelations are everywhere: across the hedge, in the classroom (my second-grade teacher Mrs. Shubert dubbed me “Old Cannon Mouth”), on the beach, in the grocery store, in the homes of people who use recorded jackhammer sounds in their “white noise” machine…

Retailers certainly need all the business they can get, but frontline employees dread the arrival of certain clueless extroverts. Everyone in the building hears them as soon as they enter the front door. Heck, the store’s vendors in Southeast Asia hear them as soon as they enter the front door!

You should consider yourself lucky if you meet an acquaintance who is merely loud. Sometimes you also get a dislocated shoulder from vigorous handshaking, a stinging slap on the back and a public recitation of how you obtained the embarrassing nickname you’ve been trying to live down since high school. (“I know you’re trying to get to the ER, stranger, but the ambulance driver can wait until you hear about Mr. Who Put the Dissected Frog in my Jockstrap?”)

Count your blessings (not out loud!) when you encounter a solo loudmouth. Too often, there are entire families who have been competing for attention for generations. (“Yes! Let’s play Twister! Then I can get even closer to your ear! What? No, I love YOU more. What? You actually said, ‘let’s make some s’mores’? I love you even more.”)

It’s obvious that some people unleash the decibels because they grew up poor in the middle of the 20th century. (“I can’t change my volume because I can’t find the pliers.”)

I wish all loud talkers could take some subtle hints when they’re getting carried away, but apparently many of them are colorblind as well. They mistake the blood oozing from your ears for sweat.

Don’t fall into the trap of pigeonholing people purely on the basis of volume. Some people are loud only intermittently, when they’re excited to share some news; others are always “on.” Some are apologetic; some are oblivious. Some are amiable and earnest with their gushing. Others are downright obnoxious. Some you make excuses for. Others, you make burial-in-a-shallow-grave plans for.

Not all loud talkers are egotistical. Some are preemptively bluffing to cover their insecurities. (Judging by the intensity of their utterances, they must think that alien invaders are about to drain their bank account and induce male pattern baldness.)

I would shout, “Yahoo!” now that I have met my deadline, but my wife is sensitive to loud noises, and I don’t want to trigger any migraines.

She might throw out my Cub Scout merit badge for Untying Sheepshank Knots by Yodeling at Them.

Almost as coveted as the one for Scaring Little Old Ladies into Crossing the Street to Avoid You.
–

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 a young adult living under my parents’ roof, my late father always made sure I had Beanee Weenees, Vienna sausage, potted meat and other such snacks to take to my graveyard-shift factory job.

Of course, I appreciated the display of paternal love; but Chris van Tulleken, author of “Ultra-Processed People,” would probably be aghast.

Granted, van Tulleken is not alone in sounding alarm bells about today’s ultra-processed foods — groceries characterized by arm-long lists of additives, kaleidoscopic clashes of dyes (“Mambo Number 5 is a color, right?”) and whole grains replaced with the assurance that “We allowed the shadow of a stalk of barley to fall across the vat.”

I suppose one turning point was when bags of crushed ice started containing more ingredients than all the letters in the extended version of LGBTQ+.

Remember when Mom would insist that her secret culinary ingredient was love? Today’s assembly lines double down on emotions and throw in envy, gluttony, avarice, lust, pride, sloth and wrath for good measure.

According to van Tulleken, the chemical modifications necessary to pacify our addiction to salt, sugar and fat can amplify risk of cancer, cardiovascular disease, Type 2 diabetes, hypertension, depression and dementia.

No, we’re not far from the touchscreens in convenience markets asking us, “Are you paying with credit, debit or funeral insurance?”

With the normalization of artificiality, Costco will have to be more vigilant about passing out free samples. (“No, wait – that’s not the onion dip! That’s the scan gun! What? Oh, I’m glad you like the crunchiness.”)

I’ll wager there’s a food-industry chemist somewhere in America telling a buddy, “Hypertension? That’s kid stuff. Here, hold my beer. I’m three processes away from this microwaveable entrée causing spontaneous combustion in left-handed Midwesterners! As for the San Andreas Fault…”

I know – I’m being too hard on the R&D people. I salute the amount of trial and error required to guarantee our packaged foods target all the taste sensations: salty, sour, sweet, bitter, umami (savory), Chernobyl-icious, etcetera.

I realize consumers can be infuriatingly demanding about getting the preferred texture, flavor and appearance; but it took Goldilocks only three tries to get everything “just right.” Read a storybook, guys!

Sure, preservatives are needed to ensure reasonable shelf life, but some products have an existence longer than that of the continental shelf! Look for boxes to be stamped with messages such as “Best if used by…someone who is on Death Row, anyway.”

To his credit, van Tulleken isn’t all about guilt-tripping or crusading for massive governmental intervention in the food industry. He is more interested in tweaks and nudges to produce a healthier culture, rather than one where “Hi, friend” is heard less often than “high fructose.”

Maybe new product names will make us think twice about our unchecked caloric intake. I Can’t Believe It’s Not Marginally Better Than a Poke in the Eye with A Sharp Stick has a vibe you can sink your teeth into.

Perhaps a soccer mom will brainstorm a way to balance the convenience of Cheetos and Beanee Weenees with the sort of edibles Grandma used to slave over.

(“Relax. We can still make it to soccer practice, the dance recital and the karate lessons; but first, we need to swing by the South 40 to harvest a wholesome snack. Oops. I’m sorry the scythe punctured your soccer ball, Amber.”)

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Because I could not stop for cataracts, they kindly stopped for me.”

Someday I hope to find time to luxuriate in the collected works of poets such as Emily Dickinson – on paper, not as an audiobook — so my ears perked up when my recent eye exam revealed the early stages of cataracts in both eyes.

(There’s a tiny hemorrhage in each of my peepers as well, but cataracts have center stage for this week’s column.)

Don’t worry. The optometrist estimated I have five to 10 years until the cataracts will require surgery. Hmmm. That will be about the same time I am due for my next colonoscopy. Throw in hypothetical grandchildren enamored with a purple dinosaur and you have “perfect storm” out the ying-yang .

Having long ago gotten over feeling 10 feet tall and bulletproof (“Hey, you guys can’t give me a wedgie; I’m 10 feet tall and bulletproof!”), I was more melancholy than shocked. Still, it seems like only five minutes between being warned that you’ll put your eye out with a Red Ryder BB rifle and being warned that you’ll put your eyes out with birthday candles.

To add insult to injury, I never even found time to enjoy a mid-life crisis a few years back. If I attempt to play catch-up now, I would be forced to buy a sports car that is driven only at early-bird supper time on a non-rainy day.

I have stacks of books I crave to read, a library of classic TV shows to experience and wonders of nature to observe (“There’s such a lot of world to see,” as Mr. Henry Mancini wrote), so I am resolved to be vigilant about my eye health.

My mother has served as a cautionary tale with my health decisions. Mom drove a pickup truck until she was 90, but when she was in her mid-80s, my wife took her for an eye exam. The optometrist point-blank warned her that she was rapidly developing cataracts. Mom thanked him and went on with her life, not darkening the door of an eye doctor for at least five years.

Mom made excuses for her impaired vision. Newspapers, magazines and phonebooks were suddenly using disappearing ink. Every business in town colluded to use 20-watt bulbs.

Things came to a turning point one Sunday when the preacher announced that he didn’t see any visitors in the audience. After services, Mom squinted across the auditorium and asked my son Gideon, “Didn’t he claim there weren’t any visitors today? Who’s that stranger over there?”

Without missing a beat, Gideon answered, “That’s your son!”

By this time, Mom’s cataracts could probably have served as cloaking devices for the starship Enterprise, but Dr. Jordan was somehow able to remove them and give her excellent vision.

I’m glad she was able to dodge a bullet (“They’re not making bullets like they did in the good old days – I think they’re using sawdust and library paste”) and I hope all of you will join me in scheduling regular eyecare visits.

Please don’t resign yourself to the words of those folk-rock poets Simon and Garfunkel: “Hello, darkness, my old friend.”

Speaking of poetry, here’s an update of an old favorite from Robert Frost.

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – I took the one that led to a clinic that still accepted my vision insurance.”

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Maybe it’s a good thing that my teenage dream of becoming a TV programmer never materialized.

Analysts have regarded the over-the-air free TV networks as dinosaurs for years, but now even the cable channels and streaming services are watching over their shoulders for asteroids.

Oh, the new Golden Age was nice while it lasted – with companies trumpeting ambitious 5-year plans for special-effects-heavy prestige projects, offering new life to niche programs dumped by the traditional networks and luring big-name movie stars over to the small screen. (“I don’t care what his asking price is – I want Charlie *&^%$ Chaplin!”)

Even deep-pocketed executives now acknowledge that show biz is still a biz. The reality of rising labor costs, a glutted market for channels and services, password sharing and binge-and-unsubscribe viewing patterns are leading to drastic changes.

Things are tough all over. Disney+ unceremoniously stopped production of several high-profile series and buried the reruns. “Blue Bloods” won renewal only after the actors accepted pay cuts. “Superman and Lois” will receive only 10 episodes in its fourth season. NBC is seriously considering surrendering the third hour of prime time to its affiliates. (“Great! What else are you giving away – your used Odor Eaters and your ex-mother-in-law?”)

Speaking of Odor Eaters, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, revealing new austerity policies.
Will the mentors on “The Voice” be replaced by a warm handshake and a See ‘n Say toy? Will “Dumpster Diving with the Stars” and “The Hiding-His-Face-Behind-His-Hands Singer” grace our screens?

Could the high cost of costume designers and animal trainers make “Bridgerton” unrecognizable? Will Lady Whistledown confine her gossip to the fact that everyone is suddenly going all Lady Godiva – without the horse?

Will the hit show “Wednesday” force the titular character to leave Nevermore Academy and take only online classes? Will the special-effects crew decide to streamline Thing as Middle Finger?

Product placement in programs will doubtless become even more jarring, with the emergence of soap operas such as “The Young and the Restless Leg Syndrome.”

I can well imagine NBC advertising “Law and Order – and would you like to leave an 18 percent tip with your order?”

“Netflix and Chill” will probably morph into “Netflix and turn up the thermostat. We’re not cooling off the entire neighborhood!”

Remakes and reboots remain a popular life preserver for broadcasters, so don’t be surprised if we get a new version of “The 1950s test pattern – with most of the original cast!” (I hear the same penny-pincher has a pitch for converting all the conflagrations on “Fire Country” into the 24-hour yule log.)

Gameshows are cheaper to produce than dramas, but even they face reconfiguration. Get ready for “Let’s Make A Deal: You Get to Meet Wayne Brady and We Get to Sell Your Blood.”

PBS is not immune to economic realities. “Masterpiece” may be renamed “Some Unrecognizable Scrawls I Hung on the Refrigerator Door to Keep My Six-Year-Old Happy.”

Brrr. Yes, I really dodged a bullet thanks to my career obstacles. In an alternate timeline, I could be pulling my remaining hair out over network belt-tightening.

As it is, I’m enjoying a less stressful job and preparing for Social Security and Medicare and… and…

Yikes! Maybe belt-tightening is inevitable. Maybe my younger self should have persevered with his dreams!
I’ll bet his/my “Who gave J.R. a group hug?” mystery would have captivated millions!

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

It’s difficult to wrap my mind around it, but this will be my 20th Father’s Day as a father.

All of those third Sundays in June have blurred together, but I certainly have warm memories of son Gideon’s everyday march toward adulthood. (He marched. I hopped – because of %$#@ plastic toys on the carpet.)

Ah, the embarrassing anecdotes I can someday share with my theoretical grandchildren!

Once upon a time, Gideon made a journal entry about a visit to the farmers cooperative where I work. The entry casually mentioned “watching the chicks dancing.” Several months later, he did an annotated version. (“Earlier, when I said I was watching chicks dancing, I meant baby chickens, not girls.”) I guess he didn’t want posterity assuming the cooperative hosted Rat Pack parties.

His first-ever sighting of twins elicited an outburst of “There’s two of that girl!”

On another occasion, Gideon started gushing about his beloved CD of children’s songs. He said one of the songs was sung by a fish. I playfully asked him if it was a real fish. He innocently replied, “I don’t know. It sounded like one!” Good thing I didn’t actually bust a gut laughing, or he might have tried giving me a “burial at sea” with the toilet.

I remember a meltdown Gideon experienced when he was seven. He was inconsolable because my wife wouldn’t let him play on the bird-splattered outdoors playground at a McDonald’s. Putting my college child psychology course to good use, I took him aside and suggested that we send his mother packing and advertise for an open-minded new mommy who would let him play on a bird-splattered outdoors playground.

He stopped blubbering long enough to splutter, “But that’s not what the Bible says!” I’m glad he’s a kind-hearted boy; I could imagine some of his less-spiritual peers responding to a similar offer with, “Yeah! Let’s find one named Jezebel!”

That’s far from the only McDonald’s playground anecdote. When Gideon was older, my wife offered to take him to the playground as part (!) of a shopping excursion. All he heard was “McDonald’s playground.” (This was par for the course. When he first studied American history, we had to drum it into his noggin that the teacher did not say George Washington was “first in war, first in peace, first in line for the tunnel at the McDonald’s playground.”)

Gideon wallowed in self-pity as he was dragged from store to store to store. I told him he shouldn’t have expected just a playground visit, since “You know how Momma is.”

“Yes, but I thought she would change!” he wailed. Ready for marriage at such a tender age.

At age eight, he announced he wanted to explore a bachelor’s degree program for video game design. I told him that it’s a highly competitive world out there and that he would have to be the best at whatever career he settled on. He would need to offer something extra — whether he wound up designing video games, building bridges or constructing the time machine that he always dreamed of.

After mulling it over, he very solemnly suggested, “I could put a cup holder in the time machine.”

I hope Father’s Day 2023 really rocks for your family. May you have money for nothing and chicks for free.
Last paragraph, when I mentioned chicks for free…

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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.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I shudder to imagine how Aunt Marie (God rest her soul) would react to today’s explosion of expectations for tipping.

Even back in pre-inflationary times, Aunt Marie (who always worked hard for her money) was prone to greet hints for gratuities with a cranky, “I’ll give ‘em a dadgum tip, alright!” (With the understanding that she meant a teeth-jarring tip upside the head.)

Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you know that more and more venues and occupations are pushing for tips and that bare-minimum percentages are trending inexorably upwards.

(Heck, even if you have been living in a cave, you’ve probably encountered some stranger with his palm extended muttering, “*Ahem* I’m the essential person who told you which are stalactites and which are stalagmites. Debit, credit or cash?”)

A tip of 15 percent maintained harmony between diners and waitstaff for decades. Now the server infers, “After I leave this measly 15 percent, I’m going to drive to the cemetery in my diamond-encrusted Rolls Royce and spit on your father’s grave.”

For no discernible reason other than pandemic pressures, a range of 18-20 percent is now the starting point. One member of the etiquette god pantheon did try to explain it with “Well, the fluctuations of the euro…I mean, the emergence of systemic…aw, go ask your mother!”

We’re supposed to get with the program and accept that tipping has evolved. Fine, if it has evolved, let Bill Nye the Science Guy fork over an extra two bucks for my hoagie.

It’s supposedly a violation of the social compact if we hold a grudge against a restauranteur who just wants to live his dream. (“My dream has always been to share my grandmother’s delicious recipes with the whole world – and, oh yeah, to underpay my staff.”)

Some businesses are tacking on an automatic tip even before a delivery is made. (“Sorry I flattened your carport and your terrier on the way in. The extra five bucks should help calm my nerves.”)

Restaurants feel justified in assessing an automatic 18-percent tip for large parties because the diners might (!) be unreasonable, might (!) tie up the table too long and might (!) forget whose turn it was to tip. Next, they will add a surcharge for bribing Animal Control because monkeys might (!) fly out of the butts of the diners.

Consumers are especially riled up over self-checkout (!) touchscreens that suggest a range of tips. (“Think of it as a convenience, not a guilt trip – although the touchscreen does sometimes complain that you never visit your cousin in Topeka.”)

The business owner swears he’s going to divvy up the money with all the (unseen) employees; but if I can’t trust him to keep the bathroom clean, fix the potholes in the parking lot and keep tea urns full, I’m not getting my hopes up about redistribution of wealth.

Tipping has taken on theological implications. In Bible days, some people had the notion that Saint Peter’s shadow falling on them would cure their illness. Now gas station clerks insist, “Hey, I was in the same time zone as your bagel, so that should be good for a buck or two.”

Hang in there, inflation-battered consumers. If Aunt Marie was here, she would feel your pain.

Or … you could feel your own dadgum pain and tip 30 percent for the privilege.

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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.”