Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They brunch with little green men.” – apologies to F. Scott Fitzgerald.

According to the New York Post, a Silicon Valley startup company called GRU Space is accepting reservations for a hotel that it hopes to have operational on the moon by 2032.

The cost of $250,000 to $1 million per guest (not including transportation) is enough to give Joe Sixpack pause. But don’t be surprised if the Disney corporation pauses just long enough to say, “Here, hold my beer.” (“That’s one giant leap for the bottom line!”)

Not just every megabucks lunar-explorer wannabe will make it onto GRU Space’s exclusive list. Roadblocks include a $1,000 non-refundable application fee and a background check involving medical and financial documentation. (“Oh, and to save on fuel at liftoff, exactly how many senators do you plan to carry in your pocket?”)

Maybe you’re one of the Little People who feel wistful at the thought of visiting our satellite, but this is truly an endeavor for deep-pocketed visionaries. Preferably, visionaries with eyesight keen enough to detect the fine line between “pioneer” and “guinea pig.” (“Sorry we double-booked your room. You and the billionaire podcaster can take turns enjoying the complimentary cosmic radiation.”)

Prospective guests are promised that once they get settled in, they can … walk (!), drive(!), play golf (!), play Uno (!), watch paint dry (!) and all the other things that you just can’t do while encumbered by the surly bonds of earth. (Golf? Didn’t director Ridley Scott teach us that “In space, no one can hear you yell, ‘Fore!’?”)

I’m sure the first guests will be quite proud of themselves, but I hope their egos are not easily bruised. The Chinese and Russians will doubtless be racing to establish their own lunar settlements. And it could be devastating for some out-of-shape nepo baby to take tentative steps outdoors and encounter a shirtless Vladimir Putin doing low-gravity jumping jacks.

Oh, to be a drone-on-the-wall to eavesdrop on lunar conversations! (“I’ve got a spare oxygen tank. Let’s go over to the dark side.” “Dark side? Oh, honey, how did you think I acquired the Cayman Islands in the first place? Kudos to my damage control team.”)

The souvenir side of the business has numerous obstacles to overcome. When the lunar tourists return to earth and hobnob with colleagues who took more terrestrial excursions, it could devolve into Charlie Brown territory. (“I got a gold-plated sombrero.” “I got a priceless Ming vase.” “I got a rock.”)

And can you imagine any battle more uphill than showing off your photo album from a lunar vacation? (“Hmph. That looks a lot like my aunt Myrtle’s acreage. Are you sure you didn’t film all this out in the desert somewhere?”)

But seriously, folks…I’m simply giving GRU Space’s target market a good-natured ribbing. It’s no skin off my nose if they want to spend their money this way.

Alas, I have no power to quell the envy of the “redistribution of wealth” crowd.

“Okay, Mr. Moneybags can fly to the moon, but only if he performs equitable tipping for the indigenous peoples up there. And maybe he should spring for a side trip to Pluto. Everybody shames poor Pluto. It’s a small former world after all. It’s a small former world after all…”

–

Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I’m starting to realize that the faces I recognize in obituaries are outnumbering the new friends I make.

And all my favorite TV commercials are locked in the distant past.

Sure, I recognize Flo from the Progressive Insurance campaign and I understand sponsors gamble millions of dollars on star-studded Super Bowl spots; but commercial viewing has been hit or miss for my family since June 2009.

That’s when the U.S. switched from analog to digital TV broadcasting and the Tyrees (even though residing near a golf course and the industrial park) found out we live in the boonies.

Although most Americans using an antenna reaped a cornucopia of bonus “point-one and point-two” channels (“Scraping the bottom of the barrel never looked so high-definition!”), we suddenly lost most of the main network affiliates.

(I would quote Mr. Spock’s “The good of the many outweighs the good of the few,” but I might get weepy over memories of wondering if the warp drive on “Star Trek” was powered by Geritol.)

Goodbye, Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Goodbye, Olympics. (And if NBC ever gets exclusive rights to celestial bodies, Good Night, Moon.)

Satellite TV was not in our budget, so we finally gave up and have somehow survived more than a decade and a half with DVDs, YouTube videos with the ads stripped out, online weather forecasts and other workarounds. Sure, there’s some “second-hand hucksterism” in a waiting room or nursing home room, but that’s about the extent of it.

(Yeah, yeah. There’ an unspoken social contract where we’re obligated to commit every advertisement to memory for the sake of Madison Avenue and the Hollywood elite, but that ship already sailed when viewers first shouted, “Bathroom break, ahoy!”)

On the spur of the moment, I did purchase my wife another of those indoor signal boosters for the TV last Christmas, but its wiring was incompatible with our television and would probably have been a disappointment, anyway. It was one of those fly-by-night “As seen on TV!” gizmos. (Not as seen on our TV, you package-embellishing bozos!)

At least this gives me incentive to promote the longevity of my peers, so we can continue to reminisce about the good old days of Mr. Whipple, Josephine the Plumber, “ring around the collar” and their ilk. Don’t shame me with “Did’ja see…?” queries about contemporary sales pitches.

Yes, I loved watching the Purina Chuck Wagon dog food spots (with a dog bewildered by a “real” miniature chuck wagon) and squabbles between cereal mascots Quisp and Quake, but nothing tugs at my heart strings quite like the claymation antics of the California Raisins.

In the autumn of 1986 when my father was recovering from seven coronary bypasses, the nurses at St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville teased him because his barrel chest and skinny legs reminded them of the Raisins.

After a month’s hospital stay, it’s a wonder Dad didn’t cast a glance at his bank account and belt out, “Don’t you know that I heard it through the grapevine? Not much longer would you be mine…”

Go ahead and enjoy your up-to-the-minute Travis Kelce endorsements and breath-taking CGI mini-movies. I’ll stick with my analog reveries.

Ah, but enough about advertising now.

Join me for next week’s column. It’ll be revolutionary, extra-absorbent, doctor-recommended, as seen on bathroom walls…

Side effects may include nausea, vomiting, skipping straight to the crossword puzzle…

–

Copyright 2026 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

This is the year I start asking, “Why?”

When some tidbit of casually dispensed “wisdom” grates on my nerves, I’m going to channel a persistently inquisitive youngster and bombard my “benefactor” with “Why?” until he explodes with “Because I said so!” exasperation.

I’m starting with the rule “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”

My knee-jerk reaction to this “rule” is to seek clarification. (“Okay, I won’t pick on those who have shuffled off this mortal coil. But is it okay to speak ill of living, breathing pedantic busybodies who enjoy scolding me into their rainbows-and-unicorns worldview??? Asking for a six-feet-under friend.”)

Many of society’s nauseatingly nicey-nice maxims are handed down from generation to generation. (“Don’t wear white after Labor Day. The salad fork goes on the outermost left side of the dinner plate. Find something complimentary to say when your husband crawls into bed reeking of another woman’s perfume…”)

I come by my skepticism honestly. My late mother wasn’t bashful about intermixing the good, the bad and the ugly when reminiscing about the grandfather I never knew. Or about various long-departed misers, blowhards and bullies who marred her happiness. Or about obvious cult leader Fred Rogers or…

Apparently, we’re supposed to feel guilty about the accused not living long enough to defend himself. But with rare exceptions, I’m not the person who advised him to clog his arteries, neglect servicing his brakes or carouse with the wife of a jealous hitman.

Okay, I do feel responsible for the failure of that one guy to have a chance to challenge me for making fun of his pronunciation of “hors d’oeuvres.” I wish I could tell him, “Yes, I invented a time machine just so I could go back to 1915 and convince your parents to conceive you at just the right moment for you to keel over from natural causes before you could counterattack my impertinence! Excuuuuuse me!”

Perhaps some deceased individuals would have been able to put their laziness, thievery or boorishness into perspective if given the chance. But would there really be any point in Hitler getting to lawyer up? (“My subordinates were only following orders, and I was only giving orders. Through a fast-food speaker. And my lunch order got misunderstood as ‘Fire up the gas chambers.’ Ja, zat iz ze ticket!”)

Maybe the squeamishness about speaking ill of the dead has a superstitious element in addition to the etiquette angle. Fine. I’ll use superstition to my advantage. (“Hey, dead guy who didn’t like me making fun of his mullet…you’ve got bigger things to worry about. I just stepped on a crack and broke your mother’s back! Yeah, it caused her almost much pain as when you started wearing that mullet.”)

Questions abound. Is there a statute of limitations on immunity from criticism? If you wear a black veil for a full year, is it then okay to badmouth the late neighbor who cranked up his lawnmower at 6:00 a.m. every Saturday?

Can you ridicule people who fall outside the paradigm of “really most sincerely dead,” like hikers missing less than 24 hours, comatose patients and zombies? (“Sorry about the eating brains thing. But it does distract from your reputation as a conniving backstabber.”)

Yikes. I can tell you’re dying for me to wrap this up. Eat your hors d’oeuvres and memorize my advice. Because I said so!

–

Copyright 2026 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

Friends, I was like a kid in a candy store.

When I first visited Washington, D.C. (youth tour, 1977), politicians and historic monuments took second place. This small-town nerd was obsessed with scooping up copies of “exotic” periodicals such as the “Washington Post” and “New York Daily News.”

So, understandably, I’m heavy-hearted to start 2026 knowing the storied “Atlanta Journal-Constitution” will no longer produce a print edition.

It’s a predictable but somber turning point in an industry once known for kids earning good money delivering newspapers via bicycle, dads burying their nose in the business section at the breakfast table and proud moms filling scrapbooks with clippings (about spelling bees and Little League championships and dads having to fix their own @#%&* breakfast).

The Journal-Constitution explains it’s merely “evolving” and “embracing reader habits.” Embracing reader habits. Now, that’s a slippery slope. (“Welcome to our newsroom. I’m the assistant editor of ‘humming unrecognizable tunes in the shower.’ This is our bureau chief for asking, ‘workin’ hard or hardly workin’?’ Down the hall is our Department of Snatching Extra Condiments at the Fast Food Restaurant.”)

The Journal-Constitution assures us that the print edition was still profitable; they just wanted to stop the presses while they were still ahead. I hope a business with the luxury of leaving money on the table will remain considerate of the less fortunate. (“Our editorial board has decided that all you unprofitable mom-and-pop businesses need to pay higher wages, obey 73 new regulations and oh, yeah, flap your arms and cluck like a chicken.”)

The philosophy of the Journal-Constitution (reshuffle your limited resources for maximum efficiency) is present in many industries. (“Okay, the parking lot is crumbling, but we needed the money for a spotlight to shine on the ‘Please tip for employees nodding in the general direction of the bagels’ sign.”)

Traditionalists will miss the feel of paper in their hands, but it’s hard to dismiss the timeliness of electronic news. (“Yesterday’s print edition predicted today’s high temperature would be 74 degrees. Ha! We can verify that it is actually 75 degrees. Someone alert the Pulitzer Prize committee!”)

Competition between digital-only newspapers will necessitate going beyond being simply “up-to-the-minute.” Horoscope writers will have to stop “phoning it in” with vague predictions. No, today’s savvy consumer needs “During your afternoon commute, some goofball will flip a truckload of Rhode Island Red chickens at the intersection of Fourth Avenue and Grammercy Street…”

Newsprint aficionados will miss total strangers asking them, “Are you finished with the sports section?” Perhaps newspaper IT gurus can concoct an app that beeps when mooching jerks are in the vicinity.

Thankfully, part of the weaning process for “old school” readers (“Scroll, swipe left, double-click, surrender your car keys…”) involves offering a PDF version of an actual newspaper, as an alternative to all the hyperlink distractions. (“Forget about the school board meeting! You won’t believe what the temporary assistant lighting director on ‘Ernest Goes To Camp” looks like now!”)

I hope we can all handle the little ironies that will accompany all-digital newspapers, like “I’ll read you the obituaries after we get out of this DEAD ZONE, dear…maybe just another 20 miles…”

Whatever your preferred type of news delivery, I hope it’s there for you in 2026 and that you learn something new every day.
Hey…did you know there’s a monument to George Washington in D.C.????

–

Copyright 2025 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 remember the year that Clayton Delaney died…no, wait, I was remembering the year Molly Farkle was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis. My bad.” – with apologies to country music legend Tom T. Hall.

I gave up on maintaining a detailed daily journal a quarter-century ago (around the time my father passed away and around the time I tired of screaming, “Okay, it’s a detailed daily diary! Are you happy now???”), but I have disciplined myself to cobble together the highlights of each year in the final days of December, either as a Word document or an email to myself.

(The less said about COVID-era 2020 and the Post-it note of fabricated highlights, the better.)

So far, my 2025 milestones preserved for the ages include: finally buying an air conditioner for the kitchen; signing up for Medicare; adopting two kittens; inheriting my mother’s house; serving as pallbearer for my next-to-last uncle; making incremental increases in “nunya bizness” time with my wife; learning to sleep in the doghouse for sharing too much personal information…

Time gallops by at such a breakneck pace, it gives you a much-needed feeling of control to be able to fine-tune events and narrow a date range to a matter of weeks or months. Of course, some cases are more extreme than others. (“Which year was it that I visited Fiji, Beijing and the Vatican all in the same summer? Hold on…that was my father, when he was a Cub Scout. Seriously, I need to be on six fewer committees!”)

A one-stop-shopping distillation of your year is so handy. It’s invaluable for settling arguments. (“Which litter of puppies did Max come from?” “Did the Johnsons really never miss a single one of our Labor Day barbecues?” “Which year did you dress as Alec Baldwin for Halloween, and exactly how many jack-o’-lanterns did we have to pay to replace when the gun kept firing by itself?”)

On the other hand, it can also start some arguments. (“What do you mean you think you unsubscribed to the cloud account that held the only description of our vow renewal ceremony???”)

A year-end capsule/database provides enormous practical value. (“What was the name of the handyman who did such an outstanding job on the deck 10 years ago? Is it time to get a tetanus booster shot? Shouldn’t our great-nephew be nearing graduation time? Is your mother due for a second compliment? Is the arsonist we testified against up for parole, and why have we wasted our time writing down which movies we watched instead of filling out the Witness Protection Program paperwork???”)

Practicality is just gravy on top. Year-end reviews are priceless for reminiscing. You can spend a rainy Saturday afternoon simply savoring memories. Granted, the warm, fuzzy feelings can be threatened as you encounter the progression of certain relationships over the years. (“Fun new neighbors moved into the house next door.” “Fun new neighbors ‘borrowed’ our CPAP machine.” “Fun new neighbors called the cops on us because they didn’t like our snoring…”)

No pressure, but I think it behooves you to make a habit of jotting down those births, baptisms, promotions, renovations and the like.
Besides the long-term benefits, it could help you strengthen recollection and avoid expensive errors.

“Wait — Clayton Delaney died when?! Then I’ve wasted enough birthday cards on him to buy that pontoon! Hey, stop recording this for posterity…”

–

Copyright 2025 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

Most of us take it for granted that December should be a month for festive cheer, not wailing and gnashing of teeth.

So I went for my semiannual dental cleaning with expectations that it would be the customary quick “See ya again in six months” affair.

Unfortunately, at some point, my hygienist uttered the ominous words, “That doesn’t look right.”

It wasn’t the words or the additional scans that convinced me of the gravity of the situation. It was the echo effect in the elusive abscess that had been squatting in my mouth. (“…look right…look right…look right…”)

I’ve kept my WaterPik handy and religiously “Take Aim against cavities,” but sometimes bone level decreases just happen. And this particular happening blindsided me, as in “Writer got run over by an x-ray/Walking home from our house Christmas Eve…”

Seriously, why shouldn’t I have been discombobulated by the diagnosis in this joyful season? Scrooge’s line wasn’t “Are there no prisons? Are there no forceps?” And the old miser was never visited by the Ghost of Root Canals Yet To Come.

I trusted my dentist, so I didn’t stare overly long at the X-rays. I’m squeamish looking at cavities, dry sockets and other imperfections – a fact that my wife and son exploit with sadistic glee. (They could have saved medieval monarchs a fortune on iron maidens, racks and other torture devices. “Wanna see me wiggle a bicuspid, heretic?”)

I was referred to the same oral surgeon who has performed various procedures for my wife and mother. To my relief, he recommended extracting only one tooth, not the impacted wisdom tooth behind it. (Yes, I still have four impacted wisdom teeth, as well as my tonsils, adenoids, appendix and bittersweet memories of my umbilical cord.)

I’m not sure why wisdom teeth enjoy such notoriety. Give an occasional thought to the neighboring “Let’s Google it” teeth or the “What could possibly go wrong?” teeth. But I digress.

I made do with a local anesthetic because (a) my wife assured me the numbing would be sufficient and (b) I was afraid general anesthesia would get Secretary of War Pete Hegseth riled up. (“General Anesthesia? Isn’t he the slacker with the woke double amputation? I’m transferring him to Lower Slobbovia!”)

The stubborn tooth required a tremendous amount of pressure, a drill and removal in two sections; but I came through the ordeal with flying colors. And by flying colors, I mean, “There goes another blood-red gauze pad! He shoots! He scores! He remembers not to drink through a straw for a couple of days! The crowd goes wild!”

I don’t miss the tooth, so I’m not thinking “implant.” That’s like saying, “I lost my brother-in-law. Better get an artificial replacement!”

I even learned why teeth are referred to as “choppers.” You need a medevac helicopter after you see how little your dental insurance pays!

I have managed to roll with the punches and regain my yuletide momentum, but I’m nervous about what other holidays may be disrupted by medical issues.

Will Valentine’s Day be marred by Cupid’s arrow testing the limits of my tetanus vaccination?

Will Arbor Day wind up remembered as Splinter-palooza?

But Easter is the one that really worries me.

“Peter Cottontail, I don’t care if you go hopping down the Bunny Trail – but you’d better hop my spleen right back over here, mister!”

–

Copyright 2025 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

Forty-something years ago, my parents and I created an indelible Christmas memory (although for years I misremembered which ABC Sunday Night Movie I missed because of the event).

Operating in the basement of a former retail store on the public square, we (and other volunteers) helped a local philanthropist divvy up gifts for distribution to needy families.

Although my charitable acts have taken different forms since then, I am heartened to see that there are still folks enthusiastic about toy drives, “angel trees,” food pantries and holiday visits to shut-ins.

On the other hand…

…even though Jesus told his disciples, “The poor you will always have with you,” I wonder if we must settle for having so many poor people.

Certainly, much poverty originates from the truism that John Lennon noted: “Life’s what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”

Families face fires, floods and tornadoes. Families face mass layoffs, bankrupt pension funds and scam artists. Families face birth defects, mental illness, workplace accidents and environmental toxins.

These problems are so prevalent that they are baked into our terminology: “the less fortunate,” “the underprivileged,” “the disadvantaged”…

Alas, we are so hung up on dumb luck and “acts of God” that we underemphasize self-inflicted problems.

When someone cheats on their spouse, a broken home is not an unforeseeable circumstance.

When alcohol, compulsive gambling and “we’ll use it once and put it in next spring’s garage sale” impulse buys have “dibs” on your paycheck, science says an eviction notice may be in your future.

If you insist on driving aggressively and/or texting while driving, no one will be surprised if you leave your aging parents childless.

I trust you gentle readers to practice self-control and make calculated decisions, but I hope you will go the extra mile in modifying the behavior of those in your sphere of influence.

Yes, some knuckleheads have to learn everything the hard way. Others can be steered in the right direction if you keep communication lines open and serve as a mentor or a non-preachy sounding board.

Encourage students in your family or neighborhood not to goof off in school or make hasty college/career choices.

Make a few casual observations about the negatives of shoplifting, ignoring traffic tickets or resisting arrest.

Model the good behavior of reading product reviews, comparing prices and maintaining at least a modest emergency fund.

Show the importance of a faith community in providing transportation, babysitting and emotional support.

Nudge someone with anger control issues toward a constructive pursuit instead of the dead end street of revenge.

Always be the voice of reason, not an enabler. Don’t be the cheering section when someone moons his third boss, brags about his one-night stands or attempts jackass stunts that could leave him paralyzed.

It’s relatively easy to display compassion and generosity toward someone when you can assure yourself, “There but by the grace of God go I.” It takes a different magnitude of dedication to sympathize with someone who makes poor life choice after poor life choice after…

Do your best to save yourself or someone else from such compassion burnout.

Sadly, there will be no shortage of the ill-clad, ill-fed and ill-housed next Christmas.

But maybe because of your influence, someone seemingly doomed to such a fate may instead be helping others when the season rolls around again.

May God bless your efforts.

–

Copyright 2025 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

The World Book Encyclopedia was the first challenge to my faith in Santa Claus.

Its matter-of-fact description of Saint Nick as “mythical” had my father performing mental gymnastics.

Luckily, given the encyclopedia’s notoriety for being outdated as soon as it came off the printing press, Dad had options.

The years have dulled the details of my memories, but his response may or may not have been, “Kris Kringle was mythical at the time of editing, but due to recent elections/revolutions/archaeological excavations/scientific discoveries, he is now back happily riding Norelco electric shavers over the snowy hills.”

Alas, shoring up belief in Father Christmas is not so easy in the internet age.

A recent “New York Post” article revealed that many Christmas traditionalists are alarmed that artificial intelligence, chatbots and Google are overwhelming impressionable youngsters with too much information too early.

Tykes curious about “Is Santa Claus real?” or “Can reindeer fly?” or “Is eggnog really supposed to make Aunt Judy’s bra come off?” can obtain tons of blunt responses from their laptop or smartphone in a split second.

(Don’t get me started on non-holiday questions that can further disillusion children, such as “Does the moon REALLY give a rat’s rump if I say goodnight or not?”)

Satisfying youthful curiosity used to mean poring through dusty tomes or interrogating wise grown-ups, but now kids have all the world’s unfiltered information (mis-, dis- or otherwise) at their fingertips – assuming their fingertips haven’t already been blown off because of a YouTube video on “How to construct a TNT snowman.”

It’s not just adults who are dismayed by the turn of events. There is talk of unionization. The proposed Brotherhood of Older Siblings and Worldly Wise Classmates claims “dibs” on making kids cry.

And it’s not just individual citizens who are troubled. The Department of Health and Human Services is concerned about the impact on physical exercise. Back in the old days, a youngster would have to jog to a saloon, a brothel and a smoky politicians’ backroom to get all the information that Siri and Alexa dole out.

The initial trauma of shattered fantasies is nothing compared to the ongoing anxiety of children. It’s hard to have visions of sugar plums dancing in your head when you’re lying awake thinking, “If Mom and Dad are dumb enough to give a four-year-old unsupervised access to the Dark Web, how can I trust them to pay the mortgage or give me asbestos-free cookies? Hey, Tinsel for Brains — are you sure you can navigate a two-ton SUV to Grandma’s house without getting us splattered on the road?”

AI has been known to make up pronouncements out of thin air; but apparently most of the anti-Santa screeds come from actual sources — which begs the question, why are there SO MANY articles out there disputing the reality of elves and North Pole workshops? Are adults “whistling past the graveyard” and desperately trying to build up bravado? (“The Elf on the Shelf CAN’T be real, because I’ve been a baaaaad boy!”)

I know it’s not easy, but please do your part to help kids stay innocent a little longer.

Because chatbots are only going to become nosier and more brutal.

“Is Santa Claus really just your daddy? Well, not TECHNICALLY your daddy. Say, have you noticed how much your hair color resembles that of the pool boy…?”

–

Copyright 2025 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

“May you live in interesting times.” – a saying often misattributed as an ancient Chinese curse.

Years ago, when I was in middle management, my subordinates and I were entitled to two 10-minute breaks daily. Because of a chronic manpower shortage, I could not – in good conscience – avail myself of all those breaks.

In fact, in one particular span of several months, I could count my actual “breathers” on the fingers of one hand.

I brought the matter to the attention of my boss, who was truly a prince of a fellow. (And by “prince,” I mean if he were still around, he would try to “pay like it’s 1999.” See how many raspberry berets THAT will buy.)

Most supervisors would have greeted my concerns with either “I think you’re exaggerating” or “Let’s find a solution.”

Instead, my boss merely found it “interesting” that I would keep score with those “less than one break every two weeks” statistics (rather than continuing to throw myself on the metaphorical grenade for The Team).

So, yes, “interesting” remains one of my trigger words.

I encounter the term quite frequently while watching videos of debates or interviews. Whatever the topic at hand, someone always gets caught flat-footed.

Typically, one participant is told some basic information (“Water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit,” “Inflation is caused by too many dollars chasing too few goods,” “‘Die Hard’ was a Christmas movie,” etc.) and murmurs, “Interesting…,” while displaying a brow furrowed by skepticism.

(Sometimes they go above and beyond the call of duty and switch to my other pet peeve: “Well, you might be right about that.” If they really wanted to vary their vocabulary, they should channel Mr. Spock and say, “Fascinating” instead. This would mesh well with their inner thoughts of “Ooo, I wish I could give you a Vulcan nerve pinch when you spout that malarkey about the United States having more than 48 states!”)

Invariably, they use either that stereotypical NPR host cadence or a grating Valley Girl inflection. Folks, it wouldn’t kill you to use an operatic baritone just once. (“Not fatal. Hmm. Interesting…”)

Sometimes the guilty parties know they’re busted and are trying to save face. Other times, they remain blissfully ignorant, safely swaddled in their information bubble. (“Who’s the cutest widdle preconceived notion in the whole wide world? You are! You are!”).

Sure, after their adversary lays some wisdom on them, they may SAY they “probably should research this some more”; but – good intentions or not – they usually find a six-pack or true-crime podcasts to be MORE interesting. (“Shh! There’s an epiphany outside the front door! Turn off the lights and keep quiet.”)

On the other hand, some people keep injecting “interesting” into a conversation because they don’t want you to know how bored they are with the topic and/or you. These losers get hoist on their own petard when you decide not to give them cash for their birthday but to enroll them in the Victorian Nose Hair Trimmer of the Month Club. (“I had no idea I had found a kindred spirit until we had our rousing chat!”)

Monitor your overreliance on certain words. Be open to learning something that rocks your world. Don’t let defensiveness make you MORE vulnerable.

“So you have this theory that throwing yourself on a grenade is problematic. I find that inter…AIIEEE!”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Oh, baby, I’m gonna love you forever/ Forever and ever, amen” – as sung by Randy Travis.

When I was a second-grader, I was fascinated by the short-lived ABC sitcom “The Second Hundred Years.”

In the far-fetched program, Monte Markham played a 33-year-old Alaskan “gold rush” prospector who was buried in a glacial avalanche and preserved in suspended animation for 67 years.

After the character was thawed out, high jinks ensued as the vigorous prospector (now seemingly half the age of his own son) navigated the cultural/technological changes he had slept through.

Flash-forward (mumble mumble) decades, and that American institution, the Grand Ole Opry, is on the brink of the milestone the prospector hoped to explore.

Yes, after the big 100th birthday bash on Saturday, November 29, the venerable radio show will sashay into its second century.

“The future of country music starts here,” declares an Opry billboard in my hometown, 50 miles south of Nashville.

I fully expect the Opry to thrive for another century, but success will require walking a metaphorical tightrope.

Certainly, the Opry needs to respect its longtime fans and continue providing a showcase for legacy acts who have poured their heart and soul into the show. It’s the time-honored principle of “dance with the one that brung ya — even if the dance might generate a broken hip or two.”

Admittedly, management needs to watch out for songs like “Varicose Veins of Many Colors,” “I Saw the Light (After I Found My Drugstore Reading Glasses)” and “I’ve Got Friends in Places Six Feet Under,” though.

On the other hand, the show can’t rest on its hay bales. Younger artists need the freedom to borrow musical elements from other musical genres or other cultures. I just hope they never stray too far away from songwriter Harlan Howard’s description of country music as “three chords and the truth.” “A bajillion chords and whatever the Spotify algorithm spits out” comes up short in the authenticity department, don’t you know?

Seriously, the core values of the Opry don’t need to be watered down. (“Thank a vague, inoffensive concept of a Higher Power I’m a country boy!”)

The Opry has long been proactive in expanding its “brand,” as with the late, lamented Opryland theme park, Opry Mills Mall and the Hallmark movie “A Grand Ole Opry Christmas,” which also airs November 29. What marketing innovations lie in the future?

The Opry might develop its own political party (“It’s Saturday evening in America”), cannabis edibles (“Afterwards, go get a TRAILER-LOAD of Goo Goos – it’s good!”) or credit card. Okay, the neighborliness of the Opry family might make it hard for announcers to push the plastic. (“Do y’all really want to run up a big bill buying a new couch? Shoot, my momma’s got one that’s just going to waste.”)

Some folks will always be either indifferent or downright antagonistic to what the Opry represents, but I feel the Opry’s stars will keep on entertaining crowds even as mankind REACHES for the stars.

Can’t you see the colonists on Mars boot-scooting to “Save A Horse, Use Your Jetpack” or “Try That In A Small Town (With 38% of the Gravity of Earth)”?

TV’s “The Second Hundred Years” is just a faint memory for trivia buffs like me, but the Opry promises to provide the warmth that could melt any glacier.

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Copyright 2025 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.”