Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Where do you reside on the “holier than thou” versus “holeyer than thou” spectrum?

I make only passing reference to squabbles over “proper” church attire in my 2020 motivational book “Yes, Your Butt Still Belongs in Church” (still available in paperback and Kindle formats on Amazon), but the subject is indeed divisive.

Between the judgmental churchgoers who second-guess the wardrobe choices of fellow worshippers and the slightly paranoid parishioners who assume they’re under a microscope, unease often permeates the fabric of church life.

Some church leaders do a lot of hemming and hawing about their expectations. (“Harumph, no, we don’t have an official list of specific prohibitions for you. Just like we don’t have an official, specific special corner of hell reserved for you, but…”)

Good taste and self-respect should reign supreme, but some traditionalists do take it to an extreme. Some of these people should spend more time clinging to the Old Rugged Cross instead of clinging to the 1958 Montgomery Ward catalog clothing section.

Yes, it’s easy to get caught up in memories when you constantly practice reciting lists such as the 7 Deadly Sins: “Pride, envy, gluttony, denim, flip-flops, spaghetti straps…”

On the other hand, some daredevils dress in a way that just invites panic attacks. When they’re within proximity of the baptistry, you can’t help but imagine them shouting, “Cannonball!”

Some offenders go the ragamuffin route, but others are more into ostentatious displays of wealth. (“Preacher says you can’t take it with you…so MY bling is getting a workout every Christmas and Easter! More money than God! More money than God! But less patience. Please look!”)

Perhaps church life would be more harmonious if Bible class teachers clarified principles better. (“No, it’s ‘an eye for an eye,’ not ‘a stink eye for a stink eye’!”)

Better enunciation might eliminate some unfortunate mix-ups. (“It’s Song of Solomon, not Thong of Solomon!”)

Most true Christians will not object to someone being a tad relaxed or laid-back, but laid-back soon degrades into downright gelatinous!

(“Never mind the communion tray. I think I’ve still got some crumbs from last time in my PJ bottoms. Yum.”)

I was a generation too late for the “ubiquitous hat era” and I gradually got away from neckties a decade or so ago; but I do try to shave, pick out a decent shirt and don some non-distressed slacks. I acknowledge that more free-spirited people are focused on “sticking it to the Man.” Of course, if the Man is a kindly old double-amputee veteran, the chip on the shoulder loses some of its appeal. (“Thanks for your service…and the birthday card…and the job referral…but the Cheech & Chong shirt stays, Greatest Generationer!”)

I’m not making excuses for the easily tempted, but some attention-seekers routinely distract from important lessons with their provocative attire. The minister is making a point about Noah and the Flood, while half the menfolk are wondering how to make it Rain Dollar Bills for 40 days and 40 nights.

Ideally, congregations should welcome even the most inappropriately dressed visitors. And visitors should err on the side of caution.

Let’s put our rancor and insecurities in the garbage heap.

Hey, there’s also a 1958 Montgomery Ward catalog in the garbage heap!

“Yeah, that pelvis looked like it was about to get too much action from a Hula Hoop! Can’t be too careful!”

*Sigh*

–

Copyright 2021 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 not complaining, but after 23 years of column writing, it becomes increasingly challenging to find new angles for recurring events such as Mother’s Day or Memorial Day.

So, when it came time to write about Veterans Day (again), I sought inspiration by calling a dear friend who served as a track mechanic during the Vietnam War.

Larry said he has good memories of military service and genuinely appreciates what the Veterans Administration hospital system does for him now, but he didn’t feel he had anything particularly profound to share with his peers or with non-veterans.

A dud of an angle for a Veterans Day essay? Not necessarily.

A few days after my conversation with Larry, I abruptly switched gears and shifted my thoughts to all the things Larry has done (involving family, church and work) in the more than four decades SINCE he was a staff sergeant.

Don’t get me wrong. Veterans Day should still be an occasion when a grateful nation organizes parades, delivers speeches and offers business discounts for those who defended our republic. We should always commemorate that brief-but-intense time in veterans’ lives when they were dodging bullets, patching up wounds or solving logistical nightmares.

And, of course, we should continue to care about the mental health of those whose lives were shattered by their wartime experiences.

But we should also take time to acknowledge the post-military accomplishments of those who make a successful transition back into civilian life. These are the men and women who take the self-respect, discipline, widened horizons, teamwork and technical skills honed by the military and use them to benefit their communities.

We don’t always draw a connection with their military background, but these people go on to become good parents, good neighbors, good bosses, good co-workers, good citizens.

Think how much poorer society would be without these veterans coaching youth sports teams, coordinating fundraisers, serving on boards (industrial, school, library), organizing neighborhood watches and just generally making life better for the rest of us.

Some veterans may become paradigm-changing entrepreneurs or deep-pocketed philanthropists. But even the most humble still have something to offer long after they can no longer fit into their old uniform.

True, veterans who serve only a single tour of duty will likely have many more years for a productive civilian life than do career military personnel. But the careerists can earn double honors. Their well-deserved retirement years don’t have to be limited to sitting in a rocking chair, reminiscing. Retirement can be a rich time of mentoring, volunteerism and leadership.

It can be monotonous to spend 365 days a year constantly reminding veterans of what they did in Germany, the South Pacific, Korea, Vietnam, the Persian Gulf or Afghanistan; but avail yourself of every opportunity to recognize veterans for what they’re doing now.

If a veteran goes the extra mile for you on a loan approval, helps your child secure a scholarship, spearheads a “downtown beautification” campaign, saves your company a bundle with some ingenious workaround or changes your flat tire, be sure to show your appreciation.

Veterans should not be frozen in amber. Yes, they have a past, but they also have a present and a future.

Thanks, Larry, for serving your country by traveling half a world away from home. But thanks even more for all the lives you’ve touched since then.

–

Copyright 2021 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

When my high school classmates obtained a driver’s license, it was not uncommon to hear a teacher opine, “Oh, they must be having a sale at Sears.”

Judging by the deplorable examples of road etiquette I’ve witnessed, maybe the teachers weren’t so far off about the low bar set by testers.

I have pontificated about slow drivers, speed demons and motorists who think turn signals are the Mark of the Beast. But today I’d like to vent about intersections.

Instructions about right-of-way are readily available, but most drivers treat them as if they’re as obscure as silverware protocol for hosting the Duke of Wellington. I suspect that regardless of whether motorists are listening to Adele, Garth Brooks, Dave Brubeck, Led Zeppelin or Jay-Z, they have a dash of Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way” careening between their neurons.

When approaching an intersection with no traffic light, I tend to slow down, so there is no question who arrived first. But circumstances are not always so clear-cut.

One website suggested that when multiple vehicles arrive at an intersection simultaneously – and you can’t depend on everyone obeying the rules – eye contact can be a useful indicator of driver intent. Sadly, what I usually see is befuddled drivers reciting, “Lefty loosey, righty tighty…er, leaves of three leave it be…spring forward…um, ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c’…”

The same website indicated that it is also okay for one driver to motion another to proceed through the intersection, but I am leery of deference contests. I am reminded of the vintage comic strip “Alphonse and Gaston” (1901-1937). The two Frenchmen were sickeningly polite, and hijinks ensued as the pair invariably got into an infuriating “No, after you” exchange. I fear that if the other driver changes his mind or an unexpected motorist gets involved, the phrase “See ya in the funny papers” would be replaced with “See ya in the obituaries.”

Road rage can overflow when there’s an impasse, but tried-and-true gestures don’t work with some of these mental giants. (“That fellow needs…a splint. Mildred, I’ll leave the car parked in front of this firetruck and take him one…”)

It’s almost enough to make you ban perpendicular streets and resign yourself to a lifetime of wistfully wondering what’s going on with all those unreachable parallel roadways. (“Maybe…maybe those neighborhoods have possums that actually know how to cross the road.”)

Intersections with traffic lights are equally nerve-wracking. I keep getting stuck behind people who are mesmerized with their cellphone long after the light turns green. Cellphone lost its charge? No problem! Get out the Ouija Board and have a long chat with Alexander Graham Bell!

If I have rolled to a complete stop at a red light, with aspirations of making a left turn, the oncoming driver waits me out like I’m going to snap and go demolition derby on him. I’ve tried my best to appear less intimidating. I’ve spent a fortune on moisturizer and Fred Rogers sweaters. Maybe I should switch my “I brake for flying insects” bumper sticker to the front of the car.

Yes, I can think of worse things than more frequent re-certification of drivers.

“I got my license renewed and they threw in a Kenmore washer! Dang! I forgot to strap it into the back of the pickup truck! See ya in the State Farm “Hall of Shame.”

–

Copyright 2021 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

Someday we will all laugh about Halloween 2021.

We may be laughing maniacally in padded cells, but we will laugh.

I’m sure there’s no need to tell you this (unless you’re living under newspapers instead of reading them), but celebrants this year face a quadruple whammy of runaway inflation, product shortages, labor shortages and vaccine mandates.

You know it’s a challenging Halloween when fun-size candy bars become “mildly amused”-size candy bars, homemade costumes are saddled with a second mortgage and the neighborhood fiend is forced to inject Twix bars with rain checks for razor blades.

You know the rules have all changed when Hollywood considers naming a movie “Friday the 13th-ish…If You’re Lucky,” understaffed “haunted house” attractions advertise BYOB (“Bring your own boos”) and your trusted Sexy Librarian or Sexy Nurse costume can’t even raise an eyebrow. (“Hurry! It’s a Sexy Propane Truck Driver outfit!”)

Pale imitations of timeless pranks are another sign of a trying autumn. Yes, it’s hard for young hooligans to procure enough toilet paper to do a decent job of vandalizing neighborhood homes; but it’s a downright shame when a rowdy gang “phones it in” and showers the elm trees with the garden hose while shouting, “Here’s your bidet, grumpy old man!”

We tend to get spoiled by the homeowners who have always had elaborate decorations and bountiful bowls of treats. Don’t hate them if they must make hard decisions and cut corners this year. (“Hey, try walking a mile in my shoes – if they ever arrive. They’ve been on a ship in the Pacific since before newts developed eyes.”)

Some of us even miss the things we used to find annoying about Halloween. Instead of slogging through Christmas and Valentine merchandise to buy our pumpkins, we now must schedule Zoom meetings with those items. (“Are your present, inflatable Santa? Please adjust your camera.”)

The disorienting inconveniences don’t end with October 31. Current conditions can wreak havoc on cherished November 1 traditions as well. If you’re one of those families that makes a habit of scooping up marked-down leftover candy, you may have to wait. And wait. (“I see you’re planting seeds for Arbor Day!” “No, those are my teeth that rotted out from gorging on delayed Halloween candy.”)

Don’t even get me started on how this is affecting the denizens of the supernatural world.

Imagine a world where exorcists are stymied by eviction moratoriums and where you can’t even entice an angry mob of villagers to chase Frankenstein’s Monster without a generous signing bonus.

Imagine a world where supply-chain issues make witches substitute paper cauldrons, where Dracula turns off the TV because of the constant drumbeat of stories about emerging garlic variants, where Igor never knows if the Dungeon-DoorDash driver will hump it and arrive on time, where the Headless Horseman is constantly berating himself. (“Dummy! Carve the jack-o’-lantern before putting the mask on it next time.”)

Ah, but this too shall pass.

I just hope that after it passes it goes on to its final reward instead of hovering around and haunting us.

I want to be able to splurge and buy my Sexy Newspaper Columnist costume next year.

What? There won’t be any in 2022? Or this year? Or last year? Or the year before…?

That’s a dead giveaway I need a hearse for my self-esteem.

I can push it if it’s out of gas.

–

Copyright 2021 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 a longtime fan of Monty Python’s “Ministry of Silly Walks” sketch, I feel compelled to say a few words on behalf of much-maligned bureaucrats everywhere.

Consider the adjectives that get recycled ad nauseum when bureaucrats are mentioned: “faceless,” “unelected,” “anonymous”…

Bureaucrats deserve more positive adjectives. Maybe “effervescent,” “trend-setting,” “ready-to-use,” “hypoallergenic.” Unfortunately, new adjectives must be ordered in triplicate and there’s a supply-chain problem with the forms.

(Sadly, the upbeat experimental slogan “Administrate like no one is watching” ran into obvious accountability problems.)

I don’t know which department, bureau, board, agency, council or watchdog to ask, but there must be statistics on the average age at which people decided it’s their life’s destiny to become a red tape wrangler. You certainly don’t see lots of bureaucrat wannabes among the preschoolers who intend to be cowboys, astronauts, ballerinas or rock stars.

Still, some bright prospects stick out. Like the tykes who say, “This subparagraph followed me home. Can I keep him, Mom?” or “My dad’s zoning ordinance can whip your dad’s zoning ordinance.”

It takes a lot of grit to approach a career in a bureaucracy. Consider the word most associated with the administrative state as a whole: “bloated.” You don’t hear many jobseekers saying, “I want to work in a pharmacy – as long as it’s a gaseous pharmacy” or “I want to be a bounty-hunter, as long as having hot flashes is one of the benefits!”

Society tries to dehumanize bureaucrats, but every one of them is someone’s child, parent, spouse, sibling or neighbor. One good data breach and you would know all that.

Bureaucrats are individuals. No matter how much the system tries to grind them down, many are passionate about making the world a better place. They persevere, even though breaking a sweat might get their forehead declared an endangered wetland.

True, some bureaucrats become tyrants with their own little fiefdom. (“I may be a dictator, but at least I keep the trains running on time. No, wait – I keep the trains running on tracks. Running on time is a different agency. I wish they would answer my memos.”)

Bureaucrats have hopes and dreams, just like retailers, factory workers and retirees. They have nightmares, too! Like the one about Freddy Krueger slashing their budget to only 105 percent of what it was last year.

It doesn’t usually boil over into physical violence, but there is a palpable tension between bureaucrats and the rest of the public. Understaffed cubicle occupants are quick to tell you, “I could be making more in private industry. Well, not in any of the private industries I regulated out of business, but one of the other ones.”

Non-bureaucrats, possessing less job security, have learned to roll with the punches and proclaim, “When one door closes, another one opens.” Not to be confused with the bureaucratic motto “When one window closes, quick – close all the rest of them!”

When I told one of my bureaucrat friends about this week’s topic and the need to remind the public of bureaucrats’ positive impact on product safety, the environment and international trade, he exulted, “You’ve hit the nail right on the head!”

Fearing his supervisor, he quickly added, “Unfortunately, you used a hammer that passed only the outdated 39-page list of specifications. This year’s 43-page list, however, is downright effervescent…Hey, lay that hammer down! Don’t make me faceless!”

–

Copyright 2021 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 don’t like my opinions this week, you can take a flying leap…into a pile of festive autumn leaves.

(Skip the wet sucker – per Linus van Pelt.)

In this great melting pot of a nation, people have many ways of handling leaves. They rake them into a compost heap, bag them and use them as insulation along the foundation of the house, bag them and consign them to the landfill, where they work their methane-generating magic. (“Here – pull my drawstring.”)

Some of the more cantankerous homeowners take the winged-monkey approach, gazing at the immaculate lawn across the fence and commanding, “Fly, my pretties – fly!”

Me? It has never really occurred to me to be all obsessive-compulsive about leaves. My special account of rats’ rumps is still intact. I might chew leaves up with the final mowing of the season, but mostly I just take a “live and let decompose” philosophy.

No regrets. I’ve done the math and it’s astounding how much time I have saved over the past 30 years by not submitting to the drudgery of raking– enough time to practice and become a world-renowned pianist! Okay, I didn’t technically use that time to sit at a piano and learn to play, but I am a world-renowned napper.

I know. Landscapers are aghast at my heresy. “But you’re harboring mold! You’re suffocating next year’s grass!”

Maybe I’ve been lucky or maybe my grass learned self defense, but the closest I’ve ever come to suffocating the grass was that time I was saying stuff like “Fescue, be sure not to get wet for half an hour after you’ve ingested nutrients” and “Clover, say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ and don’t slouch.” (We got my meds adjusted after that.)

I am willing to respect everyone else’s choices, but I must note that the National Wildlife Federation recommends not raking at all. They say the leaves provide shelter and food for animals like chipmunks, box turtles and earthworms; butterfly pupae use the layers for protection.

I would consider making a big donation to the National Wildlife Federation if they would just extend their pronouncements to declare that abstaining from folding the laundry makes eggshells of endangered birds thicker or that not cleaning out the attic spares a polar bear from being stranded on an iceberg with Al Gore.

One online commentator said that lawn raking gives you a good excuse to get outdoors and hobnob with the neighbors. If you feel the need to make excuses for chitchatting with the people down the street, maybe it’s time to move. Or at least use more clever excuses for being outdoors. “My dog ate my homework!” “I swear I’ve never been out by the curbside before!” “There was shrinkage! Shrinkage!”

Unless you really have a lot in common with your neighbors, you are inviting awkward situations. (“I see you have trees of the deciduous nature as well! Yes, deciduous, by golly. And they’re next to a campaign sign for…the wrong candidate! Darn! I seem to have broken off a few rake tines while making contact with your skull!”)

I know most people are running on autopilot and feel they must perpetuate age-old autumn customs, but then again, the virgins who objected to being offered as human sacrifices were sort of outliers once, too. (“No, scream louder! Louder! Please drown out that cursed leaf-blower!”)

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Copyright 2021 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

One of my many duties at my “day job” is serving as point man for our workplace safety program.

Since I have a hair-trigger for gabbing about bloodborne pathogens, bodily fluids, corrosives, and other appetizing subjects, we no longer have a Christmas party or even a holiday party. No, it’s a “Watch out – there may be a pop quiz on lock-out/tag-out procedures for mistletoe!” party.

Given my history, I am lucky to be around to fill this position, instead of a pine box. During college I worked in a factory for three summers. I carelessly let my sneakered foot slide into a warm mineral spirits bath. Even with repeated rinsing, I wound up with skin that was as pruney as the menu at a MACC (Mothers Against Constant Constipation) convention.

On another occasion, at the same factory, I was daydreaming and nearly lost my hand to a roller mill that I had previously seen convert a nickel to a pancake-sized blob. (Perhaps it’s a false memory, but I could swear I heard Aunt Jemima shout, “Mrs. Butterworth can have that one!”)

Years later, at another job, I got the bright idea of climbing atop the cage of a forklift to change an outdoor sign. I accidentally kicked the gear shift on my way up and initiated a slow-speed roll that would have made O.J. proud.

To my credit, years earlier, I had averted a forklift disaster. A co-worker was operating a forklift indoors when a mouse dropped from a ledge onto the steering wheel. The driver surrendered the vehicle (also waving a white flag and throwing in the Eiffel Tower, as I recall), leaving it about to plummet off the loading dock, until I could stomp on the brake at the last second.

I have known other people for whom “Safety First” was not a guiding principle.

One fellow was discovered sitting on a tree limb, preparing to trim the limb. A kindly soul convinced him that perhaps sawing between the trunk and himself was not the best strategy.

Then there was the time my father and another guy were delivering a refrigerator. My father slipped on a wet spot on the steps and the major appliance landed on him. His “assistant” panicked and climbed on top of the fridge, adding his own 250 pounds. (“GE: we bring good things to life…assuming, that is, we don’t, you know, kill you first.”)

Every household and workplace needs a well-planned safety strategy. It’s just human nature that shortcuts, laziness, and an attitude of “it can’t happen to me” lead to accidents-waiting-to-happen.

Sometimes sentimentality plays a part. (“I know we probably ought to replace the wiring in the break room, but it’s still attached to Ben Franklin’s kite. Are you a commie or something, man?”)

I have a knack for sensing when a co-worker truly needs extra attention. You know to watch out when someone has a nickname like “Lefty” or “Stubby.” Try building up the nerve to straighten out someone nicknamed “Sort of push it around with your forehead.”

Occasionally, I have visitors to my safety lectures. For instance, my lesson about preventing slips, trips, falls, and lack of traction was attended by… The American Economy.

I will neither confirm nor deny that a comment at the meeting was “I WISH we could get a mouse ahold of the steering wheel!”

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Copyright 2021 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

According to recent media reports, investors are leaving skid marks as they steer away from the century-old model of selling automobiles.

Mom-and-pop dealerships, cagey price negotiations and eye-popping inventories will be left in the rearview mirror as the industry shifts toward consolidation and customers ordering customized vehicles online.

Something seems downright un-American about abandoning the time-tested system of distribution and marketing. Two of my classmates had families who owned dealerships. My father worked for two years at a used-car lot and later worked across the street from Burgett Motor Company.

Sure, elaborate showrooms and acres of asphalt are easy targets for those constantly bellyaching about the wretched excess of American capitalism. But every society has its own flavor of wretched excess, such as a wretched excess of people bragging, “I made it onto the waiting list! Just six more weeks until my tongue depressor arrives!”

And I realize some of us are reprehensible troglodytes for not wanting to change our traditional expectations. Sure, the current system is glaringly inefficient in today’s technological age, but there’s more to life than offering Havoline 10W-40 to the god of Efficiency.

Honestly, the whole idea of personal transportation (be it car, truck, motorcycle, bicycle or horse) is inefficient. All those flexibility-worshipping shoppers, laborers and dialysis patients need to Take One for the Team. Maybe we’ll soon have an Efficiency Czar rousing everyone in the neighborhood for the Great “Carpool.” (“The giant catapult is about to launch! Be sure to have your glider wings adjusted so you can land within two counties of your destination. Be on time for the return giant hamster ball.”)

I know that computer nerds relish the thought of sitting down in a sparse dealership office with a salesman/facilitator (“We decided the free coffee was inefficient, but if you want to chew on some coffee beans and swig hot water…”) to configure a vehicle feature by feature. But surely life loses its richness when there is no sound of “Why don’t you take ’er for a spin?” or “Just get your husband to explain this to you, little lady. Hey, you just parked on my foot, little lady. Little lady!!”

Normal people like being appreciated. We want salivating salesman elbowing each other aside. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you” stinks as a substitute for “new car smell.”

There’s just something abstract and soulless about ordering a conveyance you won’t be able to touch for six to eight weeks. You must convince yourself that you enjoy the experience. While you’re at it, why not just specify that the sedan be made of tofu???

This is a classic “be careful what you wish for” scenario. When you commit to the sleekest vehicle on the lot, you can always badmouth “those bozos in Detroit” if you are frustrated by the bells and whistles. If you micromanage your SUV’s every molecule, you’ll end up pleading, “Honest, officer – that full-size disco ball air freshener looked so cool on the salesman’s screen!”

Grit your teeth and make the most of this online future. Get ready to find yourself whining, “Yes, I was supposed to drag race you with my new wheels Saturday, but a Nigerian widow cleaned out my bank account and left me without gas money! But the joke’s on her! I still have her late husband’s million shares in Acme Left-Handed Tongue Depressors LLC.”

*Sigh*

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©2021 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.” Danny’s weekly column is distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons Inc. newspaper syndicate.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

When I worked at my late uncle’s junkyard during junior high school, one of the regular customers (a crusty coot who resembled a cantankerous Roy Rogers sidekick wannabe) assured us that he luxuriated in a steaming bathtub each and every night.

We were skeptical, but it still burned in my brain an image of grimy tumbling tumbleweeds popping through the suds. Brrrrr.

Anyhow, for the past several decades I’ve taken the uprightness of a daily shower for granted.

But a recent social media kerfuffle over celebrity couples with lax personal hygiene standards for themselves and their children started me researching the topic of showering and bathing frequency.

Times change. When I was working up a sweat at the junkyard, “Dueling Banjos” was on the AM radio. Now the internet is full of dueling dermatologists.

Some dermatologists tell us that the polite-society-approved daily cleanup is the safest bet. Others warn that it can be wasteful or even harmful to bathe more than three or four times a week (with exceptions for sponge baths for armpits, feet and private parts).

Emboldened by the second group of skin doctors, myriad rebels are only too happy to rain on the parade of people who actually enjoy the physical and emotional aspects of the bathing ritual. (“I demand a retraction! We don’t rain on anyone. They might feel compelled to rub themselves dry with a towel! Oh, the humanity!”)

The passion of these zealots catches me off-guard. With all the geese and swans to worry about, who would have imagined that Rubber Duckie would be atop 2021’s endangered waterfowl list? Who imagined that singing in the shower would be reduced to “Well, I’m a-runnin’ down the road/Tryin’ to loosen my…To be continued”?

Proponents of infrequent bathing have mastered both positive and negative reinforcement to achieve their goals. My Google research for this column uncovered websites that promised my skin would be “vibrant and radiant” if I just cut back on washing. I think that ship has already sailed – and brushed its starboard hull against both cheeks, if my mirror is any indication.

Some websites warned me that too-frequent bathing could disrupt my skin’s microbiome. Seriously, if a little soap and water causes my good bacteria that much anguish, I’m not too confident about how they would handle a cage match with my BAD bacteria. Maybe the good bacteria should just quit while they’re ahead and accept a “participation” ribbon.

Several experts touted cutting back on the amount of water used as a means of saving the planet I can just picture Jack Bauer of “24” racing against the clock to thwart such water-wasting villains. (“He showered for five minutes and one second! Nooooooooo!”)

Millions of people are on edge after being browbeaten for the unintended consequences of their daily baths/showers. They keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. (“No, don’t drop the other shoe yet. That little piggie isn’t due for a bath until the day after tomorrow!”)

Seriously, what other intricate systems are we messing up? If you trim your nose hair, will it blow out your Achilles tendon? Inquiring minds want to know.

Do what’s best for you. Consider your skin type, the season and your level of exertion. Get a professional opinion. Get a second opinion.

“I’ll even give you a third opinion. Your B.O. killed my canary. I hated that canary. You’re welcome.”

–

Copyright 2021 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

In mid-1971, I experienced a most distressing visit to the dentist.

A TV fan magazine in the waiting room divulged life-changing news. Irene Ryan (who portrayed Granny on “The Beverly Hillbillies”) told an interviewer she was madder than a wet hen – because CBS had canceled the beloved sitcom after nine seasons!

TV historians regard this as part of the “rural purge” of the early 70s. “Petticoat Junction” and “The Jackie Gleason” show had disappeared a year earlier, and “Bonanza” and “Gunsmoke” would hang on until 1973 and 1975, respectively. But fall 1971 was the epicenter of a major upheaval in programming.

“Green Acres,” “Hee Haw,” “Lassie” and “Mayberry R.F.D.,” as well as variety shows hosted by Red Skelton, Lawrence Welk, Ed Sullivan, Johnny Cash, Jim Nabors and Andy Williams all got the network heave-ho.

Part of the change arose because networks were ceding the first half-hour of prime time to local affiliates. Veteran stars pricing themselves out of a job also played a part. But mostly, after two decades of indiscriminately pursuing the largest possible audience, the TV networks decided to cater to the most affluent demographic groups.

Yes, the programmers and Madison Avenue would tickle the fancy of trendy, malleable audiences, not the world-weary, tradition-bound consumers who recognized a snake-oil salesman when they saw one.

This emphasis on being edgy, hip and relevant to urban young adults spelled bad news for programs that attracted too many children, seniors and country folks.

I will grudgingly admit that this network disdain for kids, codgers and Cletuses – while producing only a handful of “city slicker” hits in the autumn of 1971 – would eventually make room for crowd-pleasers such as “M*A*S*H,” “Maude,” “The Bob Newhart Show,” “Sanford and Son,” “Rhoda” and “Barney Miller.”

Still, as a former youngster, a current senior, a lifelong small-town resident and a father apologizing that all the DVDs chronicling the porcine misadventures of Arnold Ziffel have been exhausted, part of me resents the elitism of the bicoastal TV executives.

True, over the years they have occasionally tossed the hicks in “flyover country” a bone (“Dukes of Hazzard,” “Sheriff Lobo,” “Lonesome Dove,” etc.). But they’ve never really apologized for five decades of forgettable “sophisticated” shows that fizzled with critics and Nielsen ratings families alike.

Sure, I have enjoyed my share of risqué programs in recent years; but I still yearn for the corny values of TV seasons past, such as Red Skelton ending his show with “Good night and may God bless.” The snooty network execs who cringed at the Clampetts taking a dip in the “ce-ment pond” have no qualms about doing the backstroke in a cesspool.

Granted, the last half-century has produced an embarrassment of riches with upscale sitcoms and dramas; but I can’t help but think that a little dash of the bucolic life would make them even better.

All those police forensics shows could be trimmed to the length of TikTok videos if Opie Taylor would confess to having accidentally killed the victim with his slingshot.

Emmett’s Fix-It Shop could have had that “Lost” plane going in mere weeks.

Ever imagine Hooterville’s Mr. Haney peddling genuine imitation transplant organs on “Grey’s Anatomy”?

Oh, and what about Grandpa Jones turning the tables and asking, “Hey, Soup Nazi – what’s for supper?”

The possibilities are endless – if you don’t look down on half your audience.

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Copyright 2021 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.”