Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I still remember one of the houses that my parents almost bought back in 1970.

The domicile was memorable because it was right next door to the Hi-Way 50 Drive-in Theater and filled my young mind with impractical daydreams of watching free movies from across the fence. Impractical, because (a) I couldn’t lip-read and (b) my allowance didn’t allow for enough string to run between a speaker and a tin can.

Seven years later, my father did take me to the same drive-in to watch “Star Wars.” And in 1981 I drove myself there to watch “Raiders of the Lost Ark” all by my lonesome. I eagerly anticipate watching the upcoming Indiana Jones film about the Dial of Destiny, but I’ll admit it may trigger flashbacks. For me back in 1981, the Dial of Destiny involved a rotary phone and meekly mumbling, “Oh, well, if I was the last man on earth, could we at least be friends? Wait – don’t roll a boulder at me!”

In 2023, drive-in theaters (including the Hi-Way 50) are gamely hanging on. But barely more than 300 remain in the entire United States (compared to the peak of 4,000 in the late Fifties).

Drive-ins were a ubiquitous slice of Americana in the Truman and Eisenhower eras. I’ve heard tales of my late uncle participating in the widespread practice of sneaking into “the picture show” in the trunk of a friend’s car. (Think “prequel to sharing Netflix passwords.”) Of course, this was not a particularly healthy stunt, because the capacious trunks of those old vehicles had room enough for that bad influence the Marlboro Man – and his horse.

Drive-ins were a great summertime getaway from all the “when in the course of human events” and “conceived in liberty” blather from school, although they did generate a plethora of too-much-information “conceived in a Chevy van” anecdotes over the years.

Various factors contributed to the decline in the number of drive-ins. These included the wastefulness of using valuable real estate only part of the year, the explosion of cable TV, the shopping mall craze and the exorbitant cost of modernizing projectors. (And the nation’s political junkies inevitably bicker, “It was Trump’s fault!” “It was Obama’s fault!” “I say it was Tippecanoe and Tyler Too’s fault!”)

After years of misgivings about inappropriate content, short attention span and drowsiness, my wife and I finally took our son Gideon to the drive-in for the first time on June 14, 2014, to see “How to Train Your Dragon 2.” They really need a movie titled “How to Train Your Bladder 2 Wait Until Intermission.”

Another memorable occasion was September 4, 2016. We watched “Pete’s Dragon” and “Finding Dory,” and I even witnessed a shooting star. There’s something transcendent about watching cinema under the stars. Ideally, it should inspire you to “reach for the stars,” but most of us settle for reaching for the tub of buttered popcorn. (“Pete’s Dragon tried to take the tub away from me! No, wait – that was a mosquito.”)

I hope this week’s column has inspired you to travel however far necessary to foster a sense of community, carry on a time-honored tradition and create priceless family memories.

Heck, I just hope my new way of submitting columns to the syndicate is successful. See, I’ve been saving up my string and tin can money for 53 years and…

–

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

Meme: “A cultural item in the form of an image, video, phrase, etc., that is spread via the internet and often altered in a creative or humorous way,” explains Dictionary.com.

Some people are mere passive consumers of memes. Others eschew newfangled social media altogether. (“If I can’t get my memes through Bazooka Joe comic strips, shortwave radio and smoke signals, I don’t need them! Do you like that contrarian position? Check yes or no on this piece of notebook paper and pass it back…”)

Me? After having a dormant Twitter account for ages, I’m suddenly going full-blast brainstorming memes for my account (@TyreeDanny).

I started out exclusively creating memes to promote my self-published books (see Amazon), but now I’m branching out. Let’s face it: some photographs, topics and situations just beg to be parodied.

(Beg? Here’s a 19th-century woodcut of a one-legged urchin. If only I can come up with a pun about TB and rickets, then hilarity will surely ensue!)

I’m in hog heaven as I pore over public domain images (wildlife, sports, antique gadgets, etc.) for downloadable meme inspirations. And I adhere to the strict definition of “public domain,” not the current variation that liberal district attorneys favor. Those scamps have given us a culture celebrating public domain bodega Slim Jims, public domain Cartier watches, public domain preschoolers…

It gives me an exhilarating sense of accomplishment to put words in the mouths of personages such as Benjamin Franklin, Ulysses S. Grant and Sigmund Freud. Until I see a little kid using a plastic Godzilla in a Barbie dress to terrorize a Lego replica of the Plymouth Colony. Then I just want my blankie and a nap.

The other spontaneity-killer is when I get a guilt trip from the platitudes of the late radio host Bernard Meltzer. He’s the “measure twice, cut once” philosopher who encouraged asking yourself whether the things you were about to utter were true, kind, necessary and helpful.

I mean, Meltzer was a buzzkill right out of the starting gate. No, it’s probably NOT true that Gene Wilder (1933-2016) in Willy Wonka garb made wry comments about the 2023 Kentucky Derby. There! Are you happy?

(And for that matter, most white cats sitting at a table with a plate of vegetables DON’T toss out snarky bon mots while being yelled at by a blonde woman. Come to think of it, do white cats, vegetables and blonde women still exist? I’ve been chained to this laptop cranking out memes for sooooooo long…)

Why stop at four guidelines for a public statement, anyway? Let’s go for broke the next time you feel compelled to blurt out something. Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary? Is it helpful? Is it bigger than a breadbox? Is it all that and a bag of chips? Is it any of Bernard Meltzer’s &^%$# business???

The emotional highs may wax and wane, but I keep plugging away at my quest for “likes” and “retweets.”

Pardon? Have I had anything go viral yet? Well, not exactly. I’ve had some memes that qualify as “muscle spasm” or “ingrown toenail” status, but viral still eludes me.

Someday I’ll be a legend. And once my portraits pass into public domain, some colonist on Mars will undoubtedly share a doctored photo of me confiding, “I don’t always haunt the halls of Twitter, but when I do…”

–

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 it’s difficult to approach news items with the proper balance of bemusement, curiosity and wariness.

(Sometimes it’s difficult to approach news items at all, when there are shouts of “When are you going to carry out the garbage?” and “That lawn isn’t going to mow itself!” But I digress.)

According to a story at The Hill, After School Satan clubs have been growing like the Dickens since their establishment at the beginning of 2020.

The clubs are associated with the Satanic Temple (“founded in the Year of Somebody Else’s Lord 2014”) and serve as an alternative to Christian-based extracurricular activities for elementary school students.

Although I authored the 2020 book “Yes, Your Butt Still Belongs in Church,” I don’t feel particularly threatened by the existence of clubs that cater to marginalized atheists, agnostics, pagans and followers of other belief systems; but the naming system does get under my skin.

I mean, most modern Satanists spend an inordinate amount of time dealing with self-inflicted PR problems. They must constantly point out that they don’t believe in a literal Satan and don’t worship evil, so – other than for shock value – I’m not sure why they choose to be the Satanic Temple or the Church of Satan or Beelzebub’s Bungalow to start with.

It’s like Jiffy Lube changing its business model without changing its name. (“No, we specialize in extremely lethargic service, and we would really rather sell you a horse than lubricate your gas-powered vehicle…”)

The press releases paint the clubs as focusing on tolerance, empathy and common-sense science (“There’s a perfectly good reason Grandpa was wearing his cloth mask in the casket, Billy…”), but I hope they don’t devolve into snobbery. You know, like “Yo’ momma is so narrow-minded…” taunts or charitable gestures such as “Here’s a new pair of mittens, because your family probably wears them out knuckle-dragging…”

Some organizers of After School Satan clubs have faced combative Christian parents or even death threats. The organizers are not rolling over and playing dead (mostly because that would start unproductive arguments over whether death means eternal oblivion or Becoming One with the Universe or drinking mead in Valhalla or being reincarnated as a writer who belatedly realizes he should have trademarked Beelzebub’s Bungalow or…).

No, sir, they are standing their ground, winning lawsuits and defying their opponents with, “Oh, Mythical Realm of Punishment Concocted to Keep Superstitious Believers in Line, No!”

Expansion into high schools would seem a no-brainer for future growth, but the devil is in the details (so to speak). For one thing, faculty sponsors would have to guarantee that the personal demons they’re wrestling with are purely metaphorical.

And secondary school students would need to be willing and able to take on more of the workload. But “Let’s go empathize with endangered cephalopods” has tough competition in a life-phase dominated by raging hormones, driver’s licenses and afterschool jobs.

(The seven tenets of the Satanic Temple may be some outstanding prose, but they are no match for an impudent 17-year-old’s “I got your tenets right here!”)

It will be interesting to track how the clubs grow and evolve. If any traditional Christians are truly concerned about them, they will need to up their game in the marketplace of ideas.

(“The preacher had the right idea last Christmas. You know, preacher what’s-his-name. Same first name as congressman what’s-his-name…”)

–

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

As Mother’s Day approaches, it is appropriate that we discuss the physical characteristics, personality traits, coping mechanisms, etiquette rules, life ambitions, etcetera that we inherited from our mothers.

Let’s discuss it in hushed tones, though. We don’t want Uncle Sam salivating over a new type of inheritance tax. (“Who needs Chinese loans? We’ve got dimples, lasagna recipes and heirloom Tupperware! KA-CHING!”)

I inherited my soft spot for stray animals from my mother. And when confronted with her clutter, she takes a perverse pride in confessing, “I’m a packrat – like Danny!”; but in many ways, we are complete opposites.

As my bookshelves will attest, I did not inherit her aversion to reading. If she possessed a time machine (a FLIP time machine, not one of those newfangled smart time machines!), she would go back and snatch Johannes Gutenberg from his crib and train him for a life of lawnmowing.

Okay, I admit I did inherit my mother’s fashion sense (or lack of same). She’s an industrious woman, beloved by many; but she is not renowned for matching colors, patterns and fabrics. I was oblivious to the teasing at school until the time she sent me off wearing the purple mohair vest with the red loincloth. (We’ll talk later about the clean pair of corduroy underwear I had to wear in case I was struck by a car.)

I dutifully attend my share of funerals, but I did not inherit my mother’s morbid fascination with final arrangements. If I make the mistake of mentioning the obituary of some minor acquaintance, the topic keeps resurfacing like a game of Whac-A-Mole.

It’s especially bad if the surviving family members schedule the funeral several days after the “kicking off” phase. Even when my mother has no intentions of attending, sending a sympathy card or sharing thoughts and prayers, she embarks on day after day of pointless speculation about possible attendees, embalming versus cremation, estimated income for the florist…

“Will there be an open casket?” passes my mother’s lips more often than an entire alcoholic family asks, “Will there be an open bar?” about a wedding reception.

Finally, the day after the funeral, Mom inevitably asks, “Well, I wonder if they ever got ol’ what’s-his-name buried?”

“They tried – they really tried. But the ground rejected him! I understand they’re going to try irrigating the cemetery with holy water.”

I know I was temperamental as a child, but I would like to think introspection has made me more thick-skinned than my mother. She grew up poor, so to her, everything is a perceived slur or disparagement.

“I wonder what he meant by that. I think that was a slur. I know when I’ve been slurred.”

“Mom, I don’t think the Supreme Court would consider ‘N-37, who has N-37?’ to be fighting words.”

I do hope that I have inherited my mother’s longevity gene. (Well, it’s a gene or so many people saying, “Bless her heart” through gritted teeth.) She has seen better days, but she is still serving as the family matriarch at age 96.

If I do make it to such a ripe old age, I hope the IRS agents whom Uncle Sam tries to sic on me had good mothers.

“Darn! We can’t make a raid until an hour after we’ve eaten! And, Sam, why are you wearing red, white and orange horizontal stripes???”

–

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

“An allergy season so bad you don’t need allergies to feel miserable,” blared the headline in the Wall Street Journal.

My own symptoms are relatively mild, but they do exist. I feel your pain. Especially if we get in a tug-of-war and you pull an entire Costco display of apocalypse-size Kleenex down on top of both of us.

Even though we all know someone gulping down over-the-counter antihistamines or scheduling a doctor’s visit, statistics for allergy sufferers are probably vastly understated.

Allergists note that many people never get tested and just tough it out. They ignore their symptoms, depending on their threshold for discomfort. (Threshold for Discomfort. I believe that’s also the title of the upcoming first Hallmark horror movie, which lands Lacey Chabert in a quaint village where there WILL be slashing – of prices on overstocked holiday ornaments, if nothing else.)

Of course, climate change is receiving the lion’s share of the blame for allergy seasons starting earlier, hitting harder and hanging around longer. Folks tend to forget the good points of mild winters and increased food production. (“It’s still broccoli, and even if my eyes stop itching, I can’t see myself eating the junk!”)

Tree pollen season (typically early spring) and grass pollen season (late spring and summer) have started catastrophically overlapping. Someone please locate the landscaper who has a fetish for Venn diagrams and put a stop to him!

Even nature lovers are harboring a grudge against the perpetrators. (“Forget manicuring, lawn. I’m thinking amputation.”)

Joyce Kilmer wrote, “I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.” But under current conditions, the poem is like something you see scrawled on a truck stop restroom wall.

The whole idea of “seasonal” allergies with extended respites may be an outdated concept. It’s like Mother Nature has transformed into Mother-in-Law Nature. (“Visit? No, I’m moving in. Be careful not to snot all over my luggage as you tote it in.”)

Even though Americans who have never suffered from allergies before are getting them this year, there will still be plenty of insufferable Perfect People who manage to dodge a bullet. In a little over seven months, they will inevitably mention this in their 10-page Christmas letter.

(“Thank goodness we weren’t bothered by allergies, or we couldn’t have made it to see 12-year-old granddaughter Suzie perform open-heart surgery on the Dalai Lama. And if Frank hadn’t had the lung power to perform CPR on Pope Francis, the Vatican would have been sending up puffs of smoke, thus further decreasing air quality. Oh, the real gold embossing on the envelope? Well, we had to splurge on something after we cashed in our Flonase stock.”)

I truly hope that my symptoms do not become more severe. I cringe to think about standard advice such as “Squirt saline solution up your nose.” My knee-jerk response of “Blow saline solution out your…” is not covered by my health insurance.

I tried turning my healthcare concerns over to an artificial intelligence (AI) program, but I think I’ll seek a second opinion after getting a response of “Have a little of the hair of the dog that bit you. Go out and roll in the clover. Die, meat-sack, die! Well, not that all meat-sacks are bad. Dude, do you think you could get Lacey Chabert’s algorithm to call my algorithm? Hubba hubba.”)

–

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

At approximately the time this column is uploaded to the syndicate website, I will be attending the funeral of my Aunt Jean.

I’m sure the eulogist will wax eloquent about heaven, but I want to nominate Aunt Jean to the Babysitter Hall of Fame.

When I was six and my brother Dwight was four, our parents dumped … er, entrusted… us to Aunt Jean while they attended a social event at the local municipal recreation center.

A boringly routine assignment, except that as soon as our parents drove away, Dwight developed separation anxiety and wailed, “I wanna go to the re’reation center!”

Dwight darted out of the house and zigzagged through the yard. He would need to cross approximately seven unfamiliar streets and the railroad track to reach his destination. There was no GPS and he couldn’t navigate by the Big Dipper, so I guess he was planning to fly by the seat of his pants.

(Spoiler alert: The seat of his pants would be in no shape for flying by the end of the night.)

Aunt Jean was still in her prime, so retrieving one runaway boy was no biggie – except for the tag-team aspect of the situation.

“Let Dwight go to the recreation center if he wants to,” I solemnly intoned.

I didn’t fully comprehend why the trek meant so much to my little brother, but I was heavily influenced by Alfred Lord Tennyson. (“Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and let our sibling wind up in a hobo jungle.”)

I only knew that I was supposed to take up for my little brother, like when I tried to perform a C-section to give him an early entry into the world or when I was going to launch him into outer space in a gasoline-powered rocket or… Wow. I was like a low-budget soap opera: I was my own evil twin.

Casting my gaze at infant cousin Steve in his highchair, I continued, “You let Dwight go or I’ll throw this baby on the floor!”

(Really, this was a compliment to Aunt Jean’s immaculate housekeeping. Lots of people talk about eating off the floor, but how many have a floor clean enough to hurl an infant onto?)

Aunt Jean was frantic, torn between letting her nephew disappear into the night or having her only offspring become a crash test dummy.

With some quick thinking, she wedged Steve between the refrigerator and the wall so tightly that I couldn’t dislodge him and chased down Dwight in the yard.

I was disappointed that she didn’t do one of those adrenaline-enhanced maneuvers and lift the fridge, but I cut her some slack.

(Spoiler warning: you’d think that with Major Appliance already on the scene, there would be no need for Corporal Punishment, but…)

When our parents returned, Aunt Jean somehow managed to put a negative spin on what had transpired!

Predictably, the Riot Act got read in our household more often than “The Three Little Pigs.” (“This time, read the part about ‘an act for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies’ with a funny voice, Daddy!”)

I’m glad that Dwight and I didn’t scare Aunt Jean out of having a second son or doting on her three grandsons.

And I’m glad she went to all those family reunions, even when they began with, “Let’s go to the recreation center!”

–

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 brother, the former Babe Ruth Leaguer, remains deeply skeptical of Major League Baseball’s newly instituted pitch clock.

He is not alone in regarding the sport’s leisurely pace as an integral part of its charm. But many analysts cheer any attempt to trim the bloated runtime of modern games.

“Field of Dreams” leaves older fans misty-eyed, but if you can erect a skyscraper on the field in the time it takes to play a double-header, “America’s Pastime” is not going to hit a homerun with younger generations.

Have you ever wondered what other activities in life deserve a timeclock and a series of internationally recognized signals that someone needs to pick up the $%^&* pace?

For starters, there are the raconteurs oblivious to their own snotty nose. They think you’re hanging on their every word, but in fact you’re more fascinated by what’s hanging from their nostrils. After two minutes of patience, cut loose with a megapack of Kleenex fired from a T-shirt cannon.

Adrenaline-enhanced shopping excursions invite critique. (“Okay, I’ll hold your purse another 20 minutes. After that, if you shop ‘til you drop, I’m telling the buzzards, ‘Cleanup on aisle 7!’”)

In all fairness, interminable home-repair and automotive-repair projects need restrictions, too. (“One more weekend. Then you’re sleeping in a van-up-on-blocks down by the river.”)

How about “will he or won’t he?” political candidates who spend months holding their finger to the wind and dipping their toe in the water? Okay, the first dip is free, but after that we’re putting piranhas in the pond, dude.

Let’s not overlook insufferable nonentities basking in their “15 minutes of fame.” Let’s shut this down early. (“I know it has been only nine minutes, but as Alan Jackson sang, ‘It’s 15 minutes somewhere.’”)

What about family members who hover in front of an open refrigerator for what seems like an eternity? I know, they’re just trying to decide what grub strikes their fancy. Okay, but after the lettuce starts to wilt, they should be more worried about what size boot is going to be striking their gluteus maximus.

I propose zero tolerance for those recorded “Your business is very important to us” messages, as well as for restaurant waitstaff who hog your time with endless focus-group-tested adjectives. (“Your thesaurus is very *snicker* important to us. I’m sorry but I can’t do this without laughing. Just as you’ll someday look back on your tip and laugh.”)

How about the clueless people who run into old acquaintances and sprawl across the entire grocery aisle or five parking spaces for a traffic-stopping gabfest? You can arrange for professional crowd dispersal with just a few kind words. (“I’m so glad y’all are speaking to each other, considering what she’s been saying all over town about your momma…”)

Most ministers have already adapted to current attention spans, but many of you have encountered the kind who lose all track of time. Those clergymen can be conditioned to love their fellow humans more and the sound of their own voice less. (“You mean that was the collection plate I shot all to pieces, preacher? Sorry. I dreamed I was duck hunting. Better luck next week.”)

I would love to hear some of the things you readers want to put a timer on.

Pay no attention to the mysterious voice whispering, “Submit it and he will plagiarize.”

–

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

Folks, “last one in is a rotten egg” applies to more than swimming pools.

If you share sleeping quarters with a spouse or Significant Other, I urge you to expedite the toothbrushing process, throw on your PJs or nightie with breakneck speed and be the first person under the sheet.

Because the first one in bed apparently has dibs on The Paranormal Pillow.

I call it The Paranormal Pillow because it sounds classier than Memory Foam on Steroids. If one partner stays up late doing chores or checking social media, when they finally drag their weary carcass to bed, the pillow magically stimulates the early-to-bed partner to remember all sorts of Questions That They Should Have Thought of Earlier.

“Did you remember to put out the cat? Did you remember to lower the thermostat? Did you remember to plug my phone into the charger? Did you remember to pay the Visa bill before midnight? Did you remember to leave the flag up on the mailbox at our weekend cottage?”

If you don’t relish abruptly shifting your sleeping accommodations to the doghouse, you’d darned well better also remember the Alamo, the Maine and Pearl Harbor.

And at least try to remember the kind of September when life was slow and oh, so mellow.

If you are unsure of any of your answers, don’t expect to witness a sudden burst of volunteerism. It’s up to the late arrival to double-check and triple-check everything. This is the philosophy preached by today’s military thinktanks. (“I’m so nice and cozy in this foxhole. Since you’re already up, would you be a dear and go scouting for enemy combatants?”)

The deluxe model of The Paranormal Pillow is the gift that keeps on giving. The proud owner is suddenly “wired” with all sorts of additional urgent remembrances, none of which are as stimulating as traditional “pillow talk.”

(“Oh, I forgot to tell you that I ran into one of my old classmates whom you never met. I will describe in detail the photos of all their grandchildren/muscle cars/gastrointestinal abnormalities.”)

Alas, The Paranormal Pillow does not work equally well on all portions of the brain. (“Are you sure I snored last night? I don’t remember any such thing. Now go get the coffee maker ready for tomorrow and maybe when you get back, we can…ZZZZZZZZ…”)

I wish we knew if The Paranormal Pillow could help dementia patients, but research has been thwarted for years. Policymakers with vested interests are terrified of patients having their memories restored. (“Hey, I suddenly remember each and every one of the lying politicians who promised they were going to fix Social Security and Medicare!”)

Oh, here’s the perfect outside-the-home use of The Paranormal Pillow! We could mandate them for witnesses testifying before congressional committees.

You know, the hacks who always stammer, “I don’t recall. Not to my recollection. Doesn’t ring a bell” about everything from clandestine meetings to “How did you get here today?”

The Paranormal Pillow would soon have these jokers babbling, “Oh, the bribe? Yeah, Ben Franklin’s left eyebrow was slightly frayed on the 17th bill the 5-foot-9 guy with the slight North Dakota accent handed me at 9:14 that evening….”

Not that my musings would put you to sleep, but sweet dreams, everyone.

“Sweet dreams? Since you’re still up anyway, could you alphabetize my Patsy Cline collection?”

*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

Right now, the land echoes with songs such as “Power in the Blood” and “Because He Lives,” but past performance assures me that the ditty waiting in the wings is (apologies to Alice Cooper) “God’s Out For Summer.”

Yes, countless people (whether unchurched or nominally religious) are counting down the days until Easter goes hopping down the bunny trail for another year.

Admittedly, these folks have endured four or five stressful months. Sure, there have been talking snowmen, Cupid and green beer to keep them distracted; but some killjoy inevitably brings up “the reason for the season” or delves into the real-life travails of Saints Nicholas, Valentine and Patrick.

To add insult to injury, these people weren’t permitted to focus solely on statesmen, scientists and entertainers during Black History Month. No, some meddlesome reporter fixated on the vital role of Black churches in the civil rights movement.

Then came their Lenten sacrifices (or listening to other people brag/complain about their Lenten sacrifices), leading up to all that cringe-inducing talk about the crucifixion.

Understandably, numerous worshippers and innocent bystanders are suffering religion fatigue. They’re yearning for a spring and summer of lawnmowing, fishing, barbecuing, home repairing and vacationing.

True, Mother’s Day may inspire memories of mom as a God-fearing woman and Memorial Day has its somber side; but for all intents and purposes, these folks have a six- or seven-month reprieve from religious thoughts.

The fun doesn’t come to a screeching halt until those pesky Pilgrims remind us what ingrates we are and Linus trots out his Nativity speech for the umpteenth time.

(I’m writing this from a Christian perspective, but I’m sure there are Jews, Muslims and members of other faiths who suffer burnout from their own holidays and traditions.)

However you’ve been rationalizing your downtime (recharging your batteries, cleansing your palate, getting back to the Real World), I implore you not to perpetuate the cycle of making spirituality a purely seasonal observance.

Every day is a day the Lord has made, not just the days after Halloween.

From a practical perspective, it’s hard to get back in the saddle after a prolonged absence from thinking about the meaning of life. It’s like schoolchildren. I don’t begrudge them their summer vacation; but unless the kids frequent the library in July or take educational trips, they invariably return to school in the autumn needing to re-learn the math and grammar they supposedly learned in May.

Nature abhors a vacuum, but Satan loves one. Theoretically, you can fill your mind with secular thoughts that are always productive or at least benign; but it’s so much easier to drift toward endeavors that are selfish or self-destructive.

Several prominent Bible figures were praised for their steadfastness. I don’t remember a single account of lackadaisical religious observance having a happy ending.

How do you keep up the momentum after Easter? Regular fellowship with good people is the ideal, but do what you can. Download another “verse of the day” app. Browse the bookstore for thought-provoking Christian apologetics books. Learn from a sacred-minded shut-in. Consider recalibrating your music playlist to contain maybe a couple fewer kick-your-butt-in-a-barroom and get-nekkid-ASAP songs and a couple additional songs of praise and glory.

No, despite what your wishful thinking might whisper to you, God won’t be out for summer. He doesn’t run out on you.

But time does. Use your time wisely, year-round.

–

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

“No wife of mine will ever have to work outside the home if she doesn’t want to.”

I uttered that cocky, naïve declaration five years before meeting my wife and 11 years before getting married.

Cold, hard reality forced us both to bring in paychecks and juggle household duties. (Well, we weren’t always home. Sometimes we spied on the rich folks as they enjoyed the decadence of ramen noodles and milk crate furniture.)

Today many couples are crunching the numbers and finding ways to survive with a single breadwinner and the “tradwife” philosophy.

In case you haven’t seen it trending on social media, tradwives (“traditional wives”) are a subculture of housewives who believe in clear gender roles, the importance of homemaking and admiration (if not subservience) for their husbands.

It’s true: not everyone is geared to handle the competitiveness of a two-income family. “Let me unload on you about what a jerk my boss and all the other commuters were today!!” “No, let me unload on you about what a jerk my boss and all the other commuters were today!!!” “Hey, let’s both unload on the cop who is at the door with the president of the homeowners’ association…”

I suspect lots of men with a decent income are intrigued by the idea of a tradwife, but many women either pity tradwives or feel threatened. (“Look out! She’s got a rug beater and she knows how to use it!”)

Tradwives take flak from women who have no desire for a husband or children. They also face denigration by women who feel driven to maintain both a high-powered career and a family.

As for the latter, I realize many women still cling to the idea of “having it all,” but the world captured in the old Enjoli perfume commercial no longer exists (if it ever did). No, now the jingle would be “I can bring home the plant-based bacon…fry it up in a pan on a non-gas stove…and never let you forget that you’re a man, unless that’s something you’d like to forget. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

There’s nothing wrong with trying the tradwife lifestyle, as long as a woman enters into it with both eyes wide open. Exception: if the wife gushes, “John says it’s okay to enter into it with both eyes wide open as long as I remove any skanky eyeshadow from my eyelids, fetch his pipe and slippers and cluck like a chicken,” she needs to grab the two-point-five children and skedaddle.

A lot of tradwives on social media proudly display clothing and decorations reminiscent of a 1950s issue of “Ladies’ Home Journal.” Nothing wrong with the old-timey theme unless it’s carried to extremes and provokes the sort of anxiety the tradwife lifestyle is supposed to eliminate. (“What if William brings Nikita Khrushchev to dinner? Does pot roast go with borscht? Will I be able to get the scuff marks out if he pounds his shoe on the dining room table?”)

If a woman feels fulfilled homeschooling her children, keeping the windows spotless, raising a garden and cooking from scratch, more power to her. Just as long as she doesn’t rely too heavily on heirloom cookbooks such as “The Lard Is My Shepherd” or “You Call That A Salt Shaker? This Is A Salt Shaker!”

Else, she might abruptly become a tradwidow movement influencer.

–

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.”