Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

After the Academy Awards incident between Will Smith and Chris Rock, I started wondering how many of my gentle readers have resorted to physical violence in their adult life.

In 1983 a co-worker sucker-punched me at the end of second shift and in 1999 (at a different workplace) a co-worker shoved me to the ground; but so far, I haven’t been in any two-way fights since childhood. (Some folks play tennis. Some folks play cornhole. Some folks play “the long game.” Bwahahahaha…)

But what about you? Have you ever slapped, punched, head-butted, butt-kicked, snatched bald-headed anyone who has run afoul of you? Do you regard it with pride or shame?

If you have a story, I hope you acted in self-defense, or to protect someone from a bully or to defend your country or at least to keep that &^%$# hussy from interfering with your sacred right to the last Samsung 85-inch TV on Black Friday. (“With liberty and justice and Crystal Processor 4K for all who lay hands on it first!”)

PLEASE don’t tell me that you have instigated a family squabble at a funeral, scuffled with a conscientious police officer or manhandled an editor who didn’t use my columns often enough. (Regarding the latter, “don’t tell me” is the operative phrase. Plausible deniability and all that.)

AT LEAST tell me you were thorough with your use of force. No knocking someone into the opening of Happy Hour when you were AIMING for the middle of next week. No giving someone an UNSOUND thrashing and getting the Building Codes people involved.

For statistical purposes, I hope any hypothetical disciplinary slaps can be broken down in terms of being provoked by sass or backtalk or attitude or “that look” or at least copyright infringement. (“How DARE you plagiarize and use the excuses I used on MY parents!”)

I pray that you spring into action only when totally justified, Grasshopper. The world certainly has enough lowbrows who tend toward the hair-trigger mode. (As Yoda once observed, “The Jerry Springer Show is strong with this one.”)

Yes, “taking umbrage” seems to be the default value in our culture. “Them’s fightin’ words, mister” lurks in our psyche decades after its introduction in Westerns. Hey, how come no one ever announces, “Them’s huggin’ and dancin’ and singin’ Kumbaya words, mister”?

Okay, self-restraint is harder than the Decorum Police imply. More than once when I’ve encountered an infuriating jerk, I’ve dutifully retreated to my Happy Place — only to discover that the scumbag was already there, using the American flag for a picnic blanket and groping my grandmother!

Today’s brawlers can always conjure up an excuse for their behavior, but it’s sad just how wimpy we’ve gotten since the halcyon days of chivalry, the Hatfields and McCoys or dueling. (“Defending my sister’s honor is worth a night in jail, but I ain’t getting shot at over her! I mean, she always got the most toys and let’s face it, she IS sort of a flirt…”)

Taunts, challenges, unintentional slights and the ensuing donnybrooks may always be with us; but there is a glimmer of hope that social media trends may take a lot of oomph out of the animosity.

(“You say my momma is so fat her blood type is Ragu??? Let me fact-check that before we do anything hasty. Your aspersion is probably missing context.”)

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Copyright 2022 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

If you have a habit of forgetting names as soon as you’re introduced, join the club.

In all fairness, I have a mind like a steel trap when it comes to appointments, debts and trivia; it’s just that names tend to chew their leg off in order to escape.

Bless his heart, my son Gideon is even worse. We’ll be out shopping, and some peer will shout a hearty, “Hi, Gideon!” It may be someone who bullied him through six years of school or the person who saved his life three times with the Heimlich maneuver, but 95 percent of the time he gets a “deer in the headlights” look when asked their name.

It’s just that his mind is always running in a thousand different directions. It’s not that he considers his classmates to be lesser beings. (Gideon, stop shining that magnifying glass on what’s-his-name!)

Humans are not hardwired to remember names, but etiquette mavens insist that my mental freezes are borderline rude. Apparently, I have sole responsibility for the recognition, validation and self-esteem of every sentient being I meet in passing.

That is fundamentally unfair. Different people have different talents. Why pick on someone because of their lack of memory skills? How come the self-worth of minor acquaintances isn’t based on your ability to bench-press 800 pounds for them? How come you never hear anyone whine, “You couldn’t duplicate Jimi Hendrix’s rendition of the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ for me, so I’m going on suicide watch”?

Experts will offer you all sorts of mnemonic tricks for committing names to long-term memory, but they don’t always work in a bustling networking situation or a crowded party. Strangers won’t pause long enough to let me process information. They invariably distract me with some inane chitchat such as “Eyes up here,” “You have a grip like my four-year-old” or “John has told me so much about you, but I thought I would go ahead and take my medicine.”

Too few names fall into that “sweet spot” of being neither too mundane nor too obscure. Visualization doesn’t help make lasting connections with these extreme cases. With the former, I invariably picture myself watching paint dry. With the latter, I typically conjure an image of whatever their parents were smoking when they concocted that name.

Well-timed flatulence is an excellent defense mechanism. If you are introduced to someone whose name you will probably forget, cut loose with appropriate volume. Hold your hand to your ear and give that plaintive “didn’t quite hear you” grimace. Repeat until they give up. Believe you me, this will save you from an embarrassing situation in the future.

I also recommend bluffing your way through an awkward situation. If you recognize a face that you can’t match with a name, go on the offensive. Rush up and start singing a song snippet such as “I got chills, they’re multiplyin’…”

When they give you a blank stare, provide them a chance to save face by muttering, “Oh…I really shouldn’t have expected you to remember OUR song all this time. And I hate to bring it up, but it looks like you forgot to bring that pony you promised my paraplegic son, Wee Angus.”

Either they will apologize profusely to YOU, or they will call 9-1-1. (“There’s this potentially dangerous visitor in the office. No, I can’t remember his name, but…”)

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Copyright 2022 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

A tiny portion of my “day job” at a farm-and-home cooperative involves writing radio commercials and on-hold phone messages.

More often than I like to admit, I get stuck for a closing zinger and settle for trite sentiments, such as “Let our friendly staff help make this your best hunting season/New Year/spring ever!!” (Note to self: next spring, remember to try something dignified like “Please, please make your money quit hibernating!”)

But I really do hope my readers enjoy the best spring ever. The opportunities certainly exist.

The glorious days following the vernal equinox are a time for shaking off winter sluggishness and displaying boundless creativity. Still haven’t taken down those Christmas decorations? With a little Daylight Saving Time ingenuity, you can transform Saint Nick into Moses in time for the annual rerun of “The Ten Commandments.” (“Let my people ho-ho-ho!”) Add fireworks, and you’ve got a head start on summer and Uncle Sam!

Whether you’re rekindling your relationship with your Significant Other or seeking “footloose and fancy free” new adventures, spring can be a promising time for romance. As Alfred, Lord Tennyson pointed out, “In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love – although he assuredly keeps his porn stash handy for next winter.”

Yes, warmer weather means hunks and babes showing more skin. But don’t think that sparks will always fly in the time of seasonal allergies. (“Sorry, I’m more interested in the hanky than the panky. Ah-choo! Did anyone ever tell you your eyes look like limpid pools of pollen?”)

Birdwatchers certainly get a chance to grab their binoculars and spread their wings in spring. Maybe when the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbing along, they can get in on his class-action suit. (“What if I want to saunter or skip or amble? This bob-bob-bobbing gait is systemic speciesism!”)

Yes, Mother Nature works overtime in springtime. Puppies, kittens, lambs and other young animals frolic everywhere. (“I am Fluffy, king of kings. Look upon my cuteness and despair!”)

Of course, spring is a time for the “weekend squires” (as The Monkees termed them) to hop aboard their steeds (riding mowers) and resume manicuring, pedicuring or liposuctioning their lawns – to stay one step ahead of Neighbor Jones. (“Wait’ll Jones gets a look at…what? He passed away over the winter? But Welcoming Pines Cemetery has a nationally ranked groundskeeper! My six acres…his plot…noooooo!”)

I’m sure many of you are excited about Major League Baseball’s spring training. Maybe one of the players will accidentally discover an equation that keeps the games under two hours. Granted, such a rookie will doubtless keep Jimmy Hoffa company under the pitcher’s mound…

Astrophysicists are fascinated by the simultaneous presence of spring-cleaning campaigns and yard-sale shopping in spring. (“That recently cleared corner in the breakfast nook – it has become a black hole capturing knickknacks and thingamajigs in its gravitational field…”)

Walk a trail, plant a garden. Have that spring fling.

Sure, your excitement may be muted because a loved one who really enjoyed spring is no longer around to share it with you; but you could always hire a TV psychic and reconnect. (“I’m getting an image of you laughing… or singing…or cleaning the lint trap…on either weekends or weekdays…with your beloved aunt from your father’s side of the family or your mother’s side or maybe from a bottle of pancake syrup…”)

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Copyright 2022 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

A handful of longtime readers may remember when I announced that “baby boy Tyree” was on his way.

Time flies. My only child Gideon recently celebrated his 18th birthday.

Ah, 18: an unrefrigerated casserole of freedoms, responsibilities, hopes, fears and life-or-death decisions.

My wife and I have been dribbling out bits of school-of-hard-knocks advice for Gideon all along, so I don’t have any showstopping pronouncements to share with him this week. But I will seize upon Gideon’s milestone as a springboard for one of those corny “What advice would I give my younger self?” essays.

I haven’t accumulated as many regrets as some people (no arrest record, no significant sun damage, no hangovers, no burning bridges without first purchasing a carbon offset, etc.), but I suppose I could list a few thoughts for theoretical sharing with 18-year-old Danny Tyree.

Granted, I would be leery of actually carrying out such a mentorship, given all the paradoxes and potential harm to the space-time continuum.

But if I did do it, my first advice would be, “Don’t use all the paradoxes and potential harm to the space-time continuum as an ice-breaker, unless you enjoy Saturday nights with Lawrence Welk marathons and cold showers.”

Other sadder-but-wiser nuggets:

“Don’t initiate a lifelong habit of carrying a quarter in case you need a pay phone. Do carry a quarter in case you need a thimbleful of gasoline.”

“Don’t sweat your scholastic Permanent Record. You can someday obtain a marital Permanent Record, as in ‘You snored just as loudly as you did that Friday in August of 2017.’”

“Abandon your dream of opening the first brick-and-mortar eight-track-tape store on Mars in 2007 and entertaining all the guys and gals. Wrong on so many levels, dude.”

“Don’t make fun of goofy-looking bald people. Never mind why.”

“Roller skating in a buffalo herd? Maybe. Roller skating in the summer of 1990? No way! We’re also running a special on ‘amusing little speed traps in your vicinity.’”

“Don’t remember all the fun in third-period French class. For pity’s sake, don’t remember all the fun in third-period French class!!”

“Embrace change – but not in the creepy way that would get Human Resources involved.”

“Forget sentence diagramming, Chaucer and footnotes. Major in pronouns.”

“Decide when mid-life is, or you’ll miss your mid-life crisis!”

“Venture outside your comfort zone occasionally. Oh, I forgot the Preparation H, dandruff shampoo and taped-up eyeglasses. FIND your comfort zone first and then venture outside of it.”

“Listen more to your sage elders. Then you’ll have a higher caliber of stories for younger generations to ignore.” (“Okay, Boomer-bearing-Greatest-Generation-stories.”)

“Dance with the one that brung you, unless they brung you to a disability interview. No dancing!”

“Pray without ceasing, that you fall off your platform shoes and meet a merciful death before having to encounter something called ‘skinny jeans.’”

“Dorothy, always make sure you…er, I mean, Danny, always make sure your proofread really well when you’re plagiarizing someone else’s essay.”

Would my self from 40something years ago really pay attention to any of these pearls of wisdom?

Maybe not. Mr. “All the Answers” would probably reason, “He COULD be giving advice to baby Hitler’s nurse, but instead he chooses to advise a geeky writer wannabe? Can you spell ‘loser’? No, seriously, another time traveler told me about Common Core, and I’m wondering, can you spell ‘loser’?”

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Copyright 2022 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 despise airing my dirty laundry in public, but I’ll make an exception for kvetching about my clean laundry.

I have primary responsibility for my family’s laundry. Fair enough. I realize I should be grateful that I am spared the drudgery of the old wringer washer or beating garments against river rocks; but because of various aggravations, my thoughts tend to be less “ring around the collar” than “hands around somebody’s throat.”

It’s not just the cliché of vanishing sock mates or the unergonomic design of washers and dryers or the notion that in 2022 we still have dyes that run fast enough to win Olympic gold.

It’s not just the confusing settings (I stick with two favorites: “like it” or “lump it”) or even “never needs ironing” malarkey. (That’s like the maternity ward sending a baby home emblazoned with a “Never Needs Changing” stamp.)

Surely, I’m not the only person who suspects that clothes washers are sentient beings who know exactly when to make mischief. If you’re shaving, relaxing on the throne or battling a grease fire, odds are that the house will suddenly reverberate with the “WOMP WOMP WOMP” of the dreaded Unbalanced Load. (“Thanks for moving the mitten a silly little millimeter to the left, buddy. Fourth time’s the charm. We cool?”)

If you manage to get most of the water spun out of the load, then the eccentricities of the clothes dryer come into play.

You’ll convince yourself that you have time to empty the dryer and put in a new load of wet wash before scooting out the door for work, but you’ll come up against the harsh reality that a playful sheet has made the Ultimate Sacrifice in the dryer.

Like a parent shielding his child from a crazed gunman, the soggy queen-size sheet has wrapped five pairs of socks, two towels and a Hard Rock Café T-shirt in its loving embrace. (Hey, queen – we are not amused!)

C’mon, dryer, you’ve got basically two jobs: tumble the laundry and dry it. But I’ll bet the show-off could work a Rubik’s Cube without breaking a sweat. I really don’t need the sleeves of multiple shirts eternally melded like family members at Pompeii. And I’m not awarding a Cub Scout knot-tying merit badge just because ol’ Kenmore can convert frayed towel threads into a sheepshank around blouse buttons.

No matter how expertly you position the clothes basket, you’ll have E.D. problems. And by E.D. I mean “escaping drawers.” (Grow up!) Open the dryer door and nice, clean underwear will turn somersaults in a death-dive for the floor.

It’s weird that we used to call underwear “unmentionables.” I mention them quite often. (“Dirty razzin frazzin…”)

My mother does not own a clothes dryer, preferring to go “old school” with an outdoor clothesline. (Ironic that the people who hated school are the ones who wind up clinging to “old school” behavior. But I digress.) Yeah, she saves some electricity, but having seen tomcats marking their territory on perky percales, I would be willing to fly a kite in a thunderstorm to keep the clothes dryer going.

Don’t get me started on opportunistic birds scouting your neighborhood. (“Whoa! Victoria’s Secret is the Mercedes Benz of lingerie! Anybody need a pit stop?”)

Forgive the rant. But nothing gets your panties in a wad like getting your panties in a wad.

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Copyright 2022 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.”

Valentine’s Day and other time-sensitive topics delayed my writing about this, but a few weeks ago marked the 50th anniversary of the death of my grandfather, Carl Spencer Tyree.

I’m juggling a lot of plates, but very few days go by that I don’t think of “Paw.”

“Ornery,” “opinionated,” “contrary” and “irascible” are some of the words people have used to describe him over the years; but I choose to take a more nuanced look at the forces that shaped him.

Both of his grandfathers fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. His first wife died soon after delivering their first child. He and my grandmother brought up five children during the Great Depression. In his later years, he struggled with arthritis, emphysema, Granny Tyree’s ovarian cancer and the social upheaval of the Sixties.

Despite all this, he did display softer moments. He was the only adult with enough patience to teach me to tie my shoestrings. Recently, my older cousin Hal reminisced about Paw entrusting him to take his beloved 1946 Chevy 4-door out on the highway.

But back to the cantankerous side…

Paw eked out a living as both a farmer and a carpenter, and the latter trade is tied to one of my favorite anecdotes about him.

Paw and his carpentry partner were doing an inside project on a house that – by pure coincidence, many years later – would be purchased by my mother’s sister and be where my wife and I spent the first 21 months of our married life.

Paw and the other fellow reached an impasse on how to fix one specific problem. Paw, true to form, dug in his heels and grew hotter and hotter under the collar.

His partner tried to cool things off, imploring, “Calm down, Carl. This isn’t worth fighting over. Before you say something we’ll both regret, I’m going to go outside for a few minutes and ask the Lord how to resolve this.”

A few minutes later, a refreshed partner reentered the room, ready for some reconciliation, compromise and camaraderie.

Paw had already fixed the problem according to his original plan and moved on to the next phase.

Pausing a moment, he nonchalantly explained to his apoplectic partner, “Oh, while you were out there talking to the Lord, the devil came by and told me I had it right all along.”

As a Bible class teacher, I try not to take such a flippant “the devil made me do it” stance; but the perseverance and obstinacy that runs in my DNA has served me well in general.

Without Grandpa Carl’s stubborn streak, I could not have endured the first few months of my day job (I’ve been there 23 years now!), could not have snagged a side gig writing a nationally syndicated column, could not have gotten a second date with my wife and could not have overcome infertility problems so Carl Spencer Tyree’s great-grandson could enter the world 32 years after his death.

What good and bad traits did you inherit from your grandparents? What do you think you will leave with your grandchildren? Let me know.

In the meantime, I’ll plug along with taking notes for my long-promised autobiography, “The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from The Tyree.”

Maybe I’ll even think of a better subtitle than “Pick Up All the Apples Before The &^%$# Yankees Get Them.”

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Copyright 2022 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

Yes, receipts do seem to breed like rabbits in my poor overstuffed-with-credit-cards-and-gift-cards-and-loyalty-cards-and-hastily-scribbled-notes wallet.

But that’s my personal problem to sort through at home in my quieter moments.

That’s why I’m deeply disturbed by the recent phenomenon of retail clerks putting me on the spot with some variation of “Do you want your receipt?” or “Would you like your receipt?” Snap judgment time!

I can understand “Would you prefer the receipt in the bag?” or “Would you rather have the receipt emailed?”; but the stark all-or-nothing question is extremely triggering.

Call me old school, but I like taking transactions for granted. Stop with the existential interrogations! What’s next in the realm of impertinent retail inquiries? “Do you want the milk left in the jug?” “Would you prefer a fitting room with or without a latch?”

In my more mischievous moments, I’m tempted to eye the “Do you want your receipt?” clerk warily, whip out my phone and fake a conversation along the lines of “Snipers in place? We’ve got a hostage situation here.”

What’s driving this sudden change? Does it have something to do with our carbon footprints? If my accepting four square inches of waxy paper and storing it in a desk drawer is going to strangle a sea turtle somewhere, I apologize (and wonder how the wimpy little reptiles would handle an asteroid crash).

Besides, isn’t it “too little, too late” (ecologically speaking) to talk a customer out of a receipt right before he gulps down his Slim Jim, hops in the cab of his monster truck and roars off to work clearcutting virgin forests?

Or maybe the reluctance to print a receipt is a cost-cutting measure. Hey, if you’re teetering on the brink of insolvency like that, you’d better be extra-good to me, or I’ll push you over the precipice. (“Yes, I want my receipt. Duplicates of my receipt! And a wad of napkins for my glove compartment. And some ketchup packets. I don’t care if this is a furniture store – I want my ketchup packets!”)

Or maybe the Stepford Clerks are dutifully following corporate directives to be extra helpful. Hey, if sparing me from the horrors of an overstuffed shirt pocket gives them the jollies, I can think of even more ways for them to find bliss. My shed needs decluttering this weekend, and how’s about watering my plants while I’m on vacation?

Are customers expected to reciprocate when clerks make these grand gestures? (“Okay, I’ll dance at your wedding, and I’ll co-sign your loan, but I’ll have to think about this kidney donation thing, Cindi with An I.”)

Most receipts never see the light of day again, but it’s short-sighted to relinquish your receipt when you could very well be haggling with Customer Service over returns of an ill-fitting garment or a non-functioning electronic gadget. (“I swear I bought this here. Please give me credit. Pretty please, with a cherry on top. No, I can’t prove I paid for the cherry, either…”)

Retailers aren’t doing shoppers any favors when they cajole them into facing an income tax audit without a shoebox of receipts. (“I know I could’ve deducted my new printer if I had the receipts, but Zachary with a W made such a persuasive case.”)

Back off, clerks! I grew up when “proof-of-purchase seals” meant something. You’ll pry my receipts from my cold, Sugar Smacks-infused fingers.

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Copyright 2022 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

From time to time, I attempt to make this column more interactive – soliciting reader comments on burning questions such as “Which songs make you cry?,” “What was your favorite summer vacation?,” “Does this font make me look fat?,” etc.

This time around the block (pun intended), I’d like to ask how you converse while walking your dog.

I’m curious because of my own experiences.

I remember many New Year’s Eve stayovers at my in-laws’ home. Late at night, I would walk Turpy (our late Golden Retriever/Chow Chow mix) along the country lane. “We” would summarize the events of the old year and speculate whether either of us would be around to repeat the bonding experience on the next December 31. (Turpy had more immediate bonding experiences on his mind, but we’re not here to discuss furniture.)

More recently, I’ve had countless heart-to-hearts with Shasta, the last of a litter of puppies some conscientious citizen dumped on my mother several years ago. Every evening after work, I honor a commitment to grab the retractable leash and walk Shasta (with my brother taking the morning shift).

I’m never quite sure whether to talk down to Shasta or treat her as an equal or put her on a pedestal and beg, “Wag your tail twice if you think humans should all wear a doggie sweater over their faces.”

When my brain is fried, I follow along in relative silence. Other times, I recite the highlights of my workday or apologize that Shasta doesn’t get midday excursions outside her kennel or toss out rhetorical questions about what Shasta’s long-lost mother was like.

Sometimes I tell jokes or wax philosophical (“I think, therefore I am not going to freak out over tree limbs brushing against the house”) or bellow a few songs. I’m not sure why I pick so many thought-provoking songs, since most dogs have “Shah-la la-la-la-la live for today” on heavy rotation in their canine craniums.

Man’s Best Friend can help you get things off your chest – unless Fido is the one pinning you down. They’re great therapists. If you unload your anxieties and petty annoyances on dogs, you will come to realize that you can lick anything – although, hopefully, you will be more selective than Rover.

Pets come and go so quickly, it’s important to maximize the quality time you spend with them. With quality in mind, I feel self-conscious if I lean too heavily on hackneyed phrases such as “Who wants a tummy rub?,” “Where did the ball disappear to?” and “Who has been a good girl?”

Admit it, asking “Who has been a good girl?” 365 days a year is downright Orwellian. (“I don’t care if you burn books, but please don’t burn my favorite blanket! Noooooo!”)

I sometimes get paranoid about the things I say around Shasta. I know animal experts assure us that even the brightest pooches can process only a limited number of commands, but what if the experts are being bribed? What if dogs have been conning us about how little they comprehend, while we’ve been spilling our guts?

“You won’t believe what my master/owner/facilitator admitted about cheating on his diet. I’m glad he can carry a bag of Kibbles ’N Bits better than he can carry a tune. And I couldn’t dig a hole deep enough for that font he’s so crazy about…”

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Copyright 2022 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 dare you to google news about Valentine’s Day.

Faster than you can say “Romeo and Juliet,” you’ll be inundated with results for “romantic getaways.”

Whether the story is touting a single night on the town or an extended trip, you’ll find an abundance of adjectives such as “adventurous,” “quaint,” “unconventional,” “sun-soaked” and “luxurious.”

With such verbiage, you don’t know whether to expect a king-size bed or a “bed of locally sourced Romaine lettuce cradling a generous serving of succulent, pre-chewed-by-ferrets turnip hearts.”

The headlines presuppose that the entire world has a year’s worth of pent-up demand for a Valentine extravaganza, but not all of us signed off on that memo.

Can couples really spring into Valentine mode just because influencers promise “Love is in the air,” when the other 364 days of the year have been characterized by utterances such as “There had better be three cans of Glade in the air before I enter the bathroom”?

We’ve been programmed to believe that Valentine’s Day should be marked with grand romantic gestures such as hot air balloons, mariachi bands, champagne tsunamis and exotic animals bearing engagement rings; but not everyone is into socializing. For many couples, the most romantic gesture is the hand signal to “close the curtains, turn out the lights and pretend we’re not home because I want to finish this ‘Wheel of Time’ novel.”

I know the media tell us that February 14 is the time to dance until the cows come home. But many couples are just as likely to wave a pitchfork at anyone who suggests going out after dark. (“Yeah, I’ll kick up my heels – as long as they land on the ottoman.”)

Multigenerational families have special problems. Seems like only yesterday you were learning to unhook a bra and suddenly you’re overpaying a babysitter so you can go teach your parents to program their Jitterbug phone.

The commercialization of Valentine’s Day gets worse and worse. What used to be an occasion for stimulating neglected affection (or at least stimulating primal urges) is now more about stimulating the local economy. (“Cheer for the martyrdom of Saint Valentine and repair the school roof! Patronize the upcoming Donner Party festival and pay for a whole new municipal parking lot!”)

The patriotic pressure doesn’t ease up just because you’re between partners. No, that’s when the Chamber of Commerce initiates the Presley Protocol. (“If you can’t find a partner, use a wooden chair – now on sale for a limited time at Forbush’s Furniture Emporium.”)

It’s unreasonable for society to assume that everyone will have the time, money, health and inclination to celebrate extravagantly, and especially on that exact date. As with compromising about birthdays and Christmas get-togethers, many folks must settle for commemorations that are merely in the ballpark of February 14.

Someday someone of my ilk will tell an interviewer, “Not only are we the first couple to renew our vows in the Mars colony, but we’re also celebrating Valentine’s Day 2022!”

My wife and I will probably mark a quiet Valentine’s Day at home; but don’t let my curmudgeonly commentary stop you if you are interested in a cabin, spa or resort. Everyone needs a place where they can ignore inflation, the border crisis and international turmoil.

And I’m sure the fact that most of these venues have a “presidential suite” is pure coincidence.

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Copyright 2022 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

Many of us in the workforce find ourselves performing the condensed “sprint” version of the marathon endured by hapless soccer moms.

Yes, now that my wife is working full-time and meeting her at home for lunch is not an option, I am spending a lot of noon-ish hours juggling a quick meal and rapidly multiplying errands.

The old-timey dinner bell once soothed the soul by announcing the arrival of a significant respite; but now the clanging would merely make modern Americans realize, “I forgot, I’ve got to grab a taco and vote on the noise abatement ordinance.”

If breakfast is the most important meal of the day, then lunch is the redheaded stepchild of meals.

Even in the era of online transactions and same-day delivery, most of us can quite easily assemble a checklist of chores such as renewing a driver’s license, paying property taxes, depositing a check, signing legal documents, returning a defective product, picking up prescriptions, brightening the day of nursing home patients, lifting that barge, toting that bail…

(“Sorry I got a little drunk and landed in jail, officer. Just get me back to the office by 1:00, and we’re good. I’m tired of livin’ but scared of gettin’ docked by Ol’ Man Rivers in HR.”)

The trips would be less nerve-wracking if it were easier to plan for contingencies such as traffic jams, malfunctioning credit card machines and long lines of mouth-breathers who could conduct business at any time of day but choose to do it during our narrow window of opportunity.

A simple trip to the Post Office can be particularly problematic. You might zip in and out, or you could wind up in line behind the joker who tells the clerk, “No, I don’t need to mail anything today. But I’ve been saving up my money for 70 years and want to do my patriotic duty by paying off the national debt. Are pennies okay? One…two…three…”

Undaunted, I even manage to incorporate funeral home visits into my lunch schedule. I always try to maintain proper decorum while paying my condolences, but some clock-watchers might get into a pinch and cut corners.

This typically manifests itself in statements such as “Just let me snap a photo and I’ll text you later to critique how natural Bertram looked” or “She’s in a better place, which reminds me I need to get some Royal Caribbean brochures on the way back to the factory” or “At least he’s not suffering anymore, and neither will I be if someone will move the hearse so I can get to the chiropractor.”

I know there’s a temptation to call all this the “rat race,” but the rats don’t need to race. They just waddle over and scarf up all the pizza, doughnut crumbs, etc. that humans drop as we navigate repair shops, charity drop-off sites and library book returns.

Our lifestyle can’t be healthy, unless you think it’s healthy to hear someone exclaim, “Hey, I think all my good gut bacteria wound up in my big toe when I entered the parking lot on two wheels!”

At least if you complete your appointed rounds without experiencing a stroke, you can exult, “I’m tired, but it’s a good tired.”

Unless…

“Wait, I forgot to drop off that school permission slip for my redheaded stepchild! Atomic batteries to power, turbines to speed!”

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Copyright 2022 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.”