Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Early on the morning of September 11, 2001, I was a newly minted warehouse supervisor for a farmers cooperative.

I can remember almost exactly where a customer’s truck was parked when I overheard him telling one of my co-workers something or another about a plane crash up north.

A few minutes later, I received an urgent (landline) phone call from my wife. She had been watching NBC’s “Today” show and saw breaking coverage of the suicide attacks on the Twin Towers (and other targets).

In my first few weeks as a supervisor, I made a practice of submitting a daily report about warehouse activities. I remember my September 11 entry unashamedly stated that I chose not to crack the whip on my staff that horrible day, instead allowing everyone a chance to come to terms with their shock, grief, anger and anxiety.

We humans have a knack for preserving such milestone tragedies in amber. We remember exactly where we were and who we were with when we learned about JFK’s assassination, the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger or Kurt Cobain’s death.

The incremental steps that can lead to disasters? Not so much.

One day blends into another as the decisions, shortcuts and rationalizations of our unexamined lives affect us and those around us.

True, some people are introspective enough that they can retroactively acknowledge regrettable patterns (think “Cat’s in the Cradle”), but most of us feel blindsided and start finger-pointing when things go wrong.

It’s ridiculous to think that the bullying we unloaded on Billy last Friday (or was it last Thursday?) could ever snowball into his committing suicide. But such things happen.

Election time again? Okay, pull the lever for the candidate with the biggest smile, flashiest celebrity endorsements and wildest promises. Collect your “I Voted” sticker. Then act surprised when the city, state or country falls apart. Lather, rinse, repeat.

We get a little more desensitized every time we “dodge a bullet.” If we’ve made it so far without fixing the brakes or having the house wiring inspected, why not kick the can down the road a little farther? Oh, yeah – all that hassle with the fire engines and the Jaws of Life.

We know the shock of stepping on the doctor’s scales, even though the individual indulgences that contributed to our weight gain are long forgotten.

If we’re one of many people enabling a substance abuser, we can act innocent when they wind up in prison or the grave.

We pass up a local mom-and-pop store “just this once” so many times that mom and pop eventually hang up a “Going out of business” sign.

Unless we keep a detailed diary, we couldn’t really enumerate all the ways in which we’ve frittered away the last five or 10 years; but in times of crisis, the fruits of our non-labors become painfully obvious. We haven’t learned a new skill/language, gained any new friends or made a lasting contribution to the community.

Etcetera, etcetera.

As 9/11 anniversary follows 9/11 anniversary, I hope our citizens and institutions will always remember the victims of the sneak attack. I hope we will always be vigilant about terrorism, whether foreign or domestic.

But I also hope we can live deliberately every day – discerning good from evil, calculating unintended consequences.

That’s how we can really obtain a happier, fairer, safer world.

–

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 CNN, pandemic fears and enhanced unemployment benefits have left the nation facing a serious shortage of qualified school bus drivers.

The problem is acute, despite districts implementing recruitment campaigns, offering sign-up bonuses, and even fudging on the standards. (“Question one. Fill in the blank: The wheels on the bus go round and…” “Wait, wait. Don’t tell me. I got this. Round and … covered with sprinkles!”)

I hope the shortage will make society stop taking bus drivers for granted. (I know that I’m right behind the drivers. Especially when I’m in a hurry to get somewhere and it seems like every other house has the Trapp Family Singers crew traipsing out to the bus. “Climb every mountain…miss every appointment…” But I digress.)

Driving a school bus is still a largely thankless job, even in the districts where the school board publicly recognizes the drivers. (“Let’s hear it for our drivers. We can’t get along without them. Next order of business. We have a new low bid on urinal cakes. Urinal cakes: we can’t get along without them.”)

No matter how much newly hired drivers love kids, once they get behind the steering wheel, they flash back to the mantra of childhood: “I scream, you scream, we all scream for…no apparent reason. Hey, why is the driver always singing ’99 Bottles of Tylenol on the Wall’?”

The stressful duties of bus drivers remind me of the Ann Richards quote “Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did. She just did it backwards and in high heels.” Similarly, a bus driver does a lot of the things a principal does, only while navigating 10 tons of metal through heavy traffic.

Yes, bus drivers are trapped in a work environment where rubber bands and paper footballs fly freely, where No. 2 pencils are irresistibly drawn toward major arteries, where first-graders are exposed to birds-and-bees lectures by sophomores (“If the bee has dreamy hair and his own car for getting to a hypothetical minimum-wage job, just go for it”) and where more cheese is cut than in a five-star French restaurant.

Back in my day, someone might smuggle a pocketknife or live frog onto the bus. Today, you’re just as likely to hear someone explain, “I don’t mind sitting on the back seat. I have to make sure no one goes out the emergency exit anyway. I don’t know which is worse – gym class or running my human trafficking operation by myself while my brother has mono.”

Ideally, drivers are just a caring adult performing a valuable service. But sometimes they get “thrown under the bus” by passengers. Like when it’s THEIR FAULT they hit a few potholes and little Gavin can’t start and finish his detailed diorama of Shakespeare’s London on the way to school.

Many drivers go above and beyond the call of duty – consoling passengers who fell asleep and missed their stop, collecting Christmas gifts for underprivileged children and reuniting students with backpacks and other items they forgot. (“Thank you for dropping off my life-size model of Henry VIII’s skeleton. Now, tell my parents how it wasn’t my fault that I forgot it.”)

Hug a school bus driver today – unless they’re already playing air guitar to a classic rock station while driving with their feet.

The wheels on the ambulance go round and round…

–

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.”

Correction: The column has been updated with the correct name of the Trapp Family Singers.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

According to the Wall Street Journal, the fledgling online gambling industry is poised to explode in popularity.

This season, the NFL for the first time is permitting sports-gambling companies to advertise during games.

I don’t envy the precarious position the league has placed itself in. Their balancing act involves delicately rationing the number of wagering commercials per game so they can rake in big bucks — while stopping just short of alienating the fuddy-duddy NONGAMBLERS in their fanbase.

If this exercise in fence-straddling succeeds, there will undoubtedly be more compromises by the NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL and the rest. (“Yes, we stand behind our decision to ban the offensive mascot – BUT there will be a permanent surcharge on tickets so he can live out his life happy and free on a farm upstate.”)

I won’t lose any sleep over the reception of the ads, because I am such a tightwad and “get high on life” person that betting on sports is a nonissue for me.

I know, I know. I’m “missing out.” Brain scans show all the “pleasure centers” in the brain lighting up when a gambler takes a risk (win or lose). I’m more concerned about my brain’s YBD centers. (“You Big Dummy! You could have renewed a magazine subscription with what you blew on that fantasy sports league!”)

I suppose I’m just wired differently than most people. Yes, I have the standard “fight or flight” instinct common to mankind, but I don’t add the “or flush your Roth IRA down the toilet” instinct.

I realize I’m obligated to PROVE something to myself or my compatriots by making expert wagers, but all I’ve proved is that I can’t cram all those sports statistics into my head AND retain the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time.

Normal people have tried talking some sense into me. (“Hey, you gamble when you eat a sausage you could choke on. You gamble when you pull out of the driveway. You gamble when you show up at a workplace where someone could go postal.”) Surprisingly, this “pep talk” does not make me feel like a reborn toxic male who should lay $20 down on the Bengals. It makes me feel more like a blue-haired little old lady tugging the slot machine handle.

I try to empathize with people who are adrenaline junkies, but it’s not easy. Look at in-person gambling. You can have a bounty hunter, a decorated Vietnam veteran, a sex-reassignment surgeon and a fellow who claims to have died and spent 12 hours in heaven, all sitting around a poker table – but things don’t “get interesting” until someone adds a little more money to the pot! Forest for the trees, people!

One article I studied said the quiet part out loud: many sports “enthusiasts” aren’t particularly interested in the games UNLESS they have money on the line. Forget millionaires giving each other concussions and coaches improvising strategy. Forget supporting the home team. It’s the wager.

Oooo-KAY. But if I lose interest in watching paint dry, I daresay I’ll move on to more promising entertainment, instead of dreaming up some bells and whistles to add to the paint! But that’s just me.

Remember: watch gambling ads responsibly. And if you drink, don’t drive over blue-haired little old ladies.

Or I’m going upside your brain’s pleasure centers.

–

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

The Tyree family recently took advantage of our state’s eagerly anticipated annual sales tax holiday on school supplies, clothing and electronics.

Eagerly anticipated as in my wife taking the Charlton Heston role of promoting delayed gratification and leading us to the Promised Land. (“I know you feel like you’ve been wandering around in the same socks and underwear for 40 years, but just wait a few more months and it’ll be worth it!”)

We also celebrated a week-long repeat of 2020’s moratorium on taxing restaurant food. It’s one of life’s simple pleasures to order from the dollar menu and know you’ll be paying in even dollar amounts. (Well, paying in even dollar amounts and lifespan. Hold on – some cholesterol oozed onto my keyboard.)

Seriously, the holiday gave me a chance to recover from tone-deaf restaurant commercials for $4.99 deals. (“Tickle your tastebuds with an FDA-tentatively-approved meat-adjacent product and still have change left from a five!”) No, genius announcer, here in the Real World, we must scrounge up loose change to go with the five! If the state is looking for some shovel-ready projects, I think your skull should be Priority One.

In case you’re wondering (and if you’re NOT wondering, I’ve failed in my duty to pique your interest and deserve to continue wearing those holey Fruit of the Looms), 17 states have some sort of tax holiday this year. Five don’t have a sales tax to start with. And the other 28 justify their non-participation with some combination of running a tight fiscal ship, rewarding their citizens in other ways or muttering, “That ‘you deserve a break today’ jingle always got stuck in my head, anyway!”

I suspect that more states would initiate a tax holiday, but they’re squeamish about the religious connotations of the word “holiday.” Maybe some governor can devise more palatable terminology, such as “Pssst! Don’t Tell the State Comptroller, But I Can Get You Those Camping Supplies for Six Percent Less Weekend.”

How about a campaign declaring, “A wise man will take advantage of the Winter Solstice of Savings. No, not a wise man. Forget I said that. Good grief, they’re going to crucify me. No, not crucify…”?

Some states convince themselves that tax holidays stimulate the economy, but research by the Federal Reserve indicates that consumers simply shift the timing of purchases they were already going to make. This is known as “robbing Peter to pay Paul,” and I’m sure policymakers are working on a brand-new tax on robbing Peter to pay Paul.

The only bright spot in the days after a sales tax holiday ends is sales of Excedrin, for people smacking themselves on the forehead and moaning, “I could’ve saved $20 on that computer yesterday. Why didn’t somebody besides the newspaper, TV, radio, email and billboards TELL me about a sales tax holiday?”

Yes, I read an article denouncing tax holidays as an inefficient, ineffective gimmick. Still, it would be less messy than other state gimmicks, such as that cage fight between the Official State Cephalopod and the DMV’s finest.

Perhaps sales tax holidays ARE a distraction from serious year-round tax reform; but if your state doesn’t have one, you might explore the topic. If it does, make the most of it. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Gift horse…looking…mouth…tax…hello, new revenue stream! Legislature, let’s part the red (ink) sea!”

–

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

A 1986 Pantene commercial carried the tagline “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful.”

Similarly, I must ask my readers, “Don’t hate me because I’ve heard a rooster crow.”

I tend to get up at the crack of dawn, even though I eventually encounter a lot of grumpy people who wish they had the energy to show dawn their…well, never mind.

Despite working the graveyard shift from age 23 to age 37, and despite an ongoing ability to burn the candle at both ends, I am basically one of those dreaded “morning people.”

To my credit, I am never “in your face” with cheerfulness and positivity, but I confess to being one of those beings who can roll out of bed and become productive without the assistance of a snooze alarm.

I am part of a sizable group. According to research, 25 percent of people are early birds, 25 percent are night owls, 50 percent are somewhere in between and the other 37 percent took Common Core math.

My DNA helps me be a morning person, but my bladder in particular nudges me to go ahead and start my day without dillydallying. I am sometimes envious of the late-sleepers who can intimidate their bladders. (“You’ve seen how much damage I can do to an alarm clock. Now back off, bladder. I’ve got my eye on you, too, spleen.”)

It’s nice to have some stress-free time to converse with the cats, peruse my favorite online comic strips, and catch up on the laundry. I’m glad I can actually enjoy the taste and aroma of a cup of coffee without depending on caffeine as a crutch, lifesaver or defibrillator. It’s more genteel to muse, “The richest, most aromatic kind” instead of “Clear! Clear!”

I make a point of trying to read the Wall Street Journal every morning. Of course, that gives a new meaning to “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” By the time I get through reading about all the pandemics, bankruptcies and assassinations, I felt like a squirrel clobbered on the road.

If you regularly get up before the rest of your family, you carry the heavy burden of not slamming or clattering anything that will interrupt the others’ well-deserved slumber. I’m still skeptical of charges that my shoelaces replicate the sound of Thor’s enchanted hammer Mjolnir.

Being considerate can be a downer, especially when you speculate that the world’s night owls have been playing Naughty Librarian while you’re stuck with a game of “Tiptoe, tiptoe, quiet as a mouse.”

If you get up at least two hours before the rest of the household, that first hour seems like you have all the “me time” in the world. But when the next hour arrives, it’s like breaking a $100 bill. (Elon Musk: “What is this $100 bill of which he speaks? Must investigate this after building a new spaceship because the ashtrays in the old one are full.”)

Be true to your internal clock, however it’s set.

As for me, I like to feel the dew, welcome wide-open possibilities and declare, “This is the day the LORD has made. I will rejoice in it.”

Conversely, when night owls finally face the world, they tend to moan, “Holy cow! Is this what has already happened while I slept??? Hmph! Congress: we screw up more before 9 a.m. than Mother Nature does in an Ice Age.”

–

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

While in Santa Claus, Indiana to cool off at Holiday World, the Tyree family took a side trip to tour the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial in nearby Lincoln City.

“But I thought Abraham Lincoln was from Kentucky!” a co-worker objected.

True, Honest Abe was born near Hodgenville in the Bluegrass State on February 12, 1809, and he would make a name for himself as a storekeeper, lawyer and politician in Illinois, before settling in Washington, D.C. as chief executive. But from 1816 to 1830, the Thomas Lincoln family lived in a pioneer community in Indiana.

This is billed as the 16th president’s “formative years.” Alas, I am still in my formative years – forming ear hairs, forming superfluous chins… and emancipating my tummy every night when I arrive home from work. But I digress.

Coincidentally enough, the Tyrees wound up making this excursion via a traditional presidential thought process. (“What do YOU want to do next?” “I don’t know. What do YOU want to do next?” “I don’t know. Let’s flip a coin. Ooooo…Luxembourg, you’re back on the Least Favored Nation list. And your ambassador has to cluck like a chicken!”)

It was well worth walking the scenic trails to see the working farm, the site where the Lincoln cabin once stood and historical rocks imported to represent major milestones in Lincoln’s career. Sadly, some people are so sedentary, their only connection with the ol’ rail-splitter is to grumble, “I’m driving this Lincoln around and around the parking lot until I find a space five feet closer to the donut shop!”

It was a somber feeling seeing the grave of Lincoln’s birth mother, Nancy Hanks Lincoln. If you listened quietly, you could hear other tourists speaking to the long-deceased matriarch, whispering sentiments such as “Thank you for giving Abraham a solid foundation in life,” “Thank you for inspiring a revered leader who saved the Union,” “Thank you for voting absentee last year…”

Because of a scheduled lunchtime shutdown, we had to hurry through the majestic visitor center, with its two memorial halls. We were nonetheless inspired by the numerous artifacts and Lincoln quotes, including those from his politically naïve period. (“West wing? What part of a chicken is the west wing?”)

There is something soul-satisfying about going to a site such as this and “stepping back in time.” Luckily, the stepping back in time is metaphorical, not literal, or the “butterfly effect” might occur. You know, a time traveler uproots one of the Lincoln family’s tobacco plants for a souvenir and instead of becoming president, Abe becomes a failed social media influencer. (“You’re canceling my gig because you got another fourscore and seven unsold stovepipe hats returned by merchants? I wish Gen. Sherman would make a march to the factory of that joker selling newfangled SOLAR hats!”)

It’s not a “bucket list” project, but I should point out that I have also visited Mount Vernon, Monticello, the Hermitage (Andrew Jackson’s hang-out) and the James K. Polk home in Columbia, Tennessee.

I encourage you to show your patriotism by learning more about our former leaders’ roots as well.

Remember: presidential homes/memorials are best if the plaques and tours are balanced, showing warts and all. You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have…oh no! The Secret Service just tackled Blair, Natalie, Jo and Tootie!

–

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

My family took the easy way out – again.

We had our annual chance at a professional portrait and decided to let (insist) son Gideon pose solo for the umpteenth time.

Oh, we’ve had three-person portraits before and every once in a great while, I get an updated “mug shot” for this column (amazing how editors can crop out the spear and the wooly mammoth!), but this year we wound up pinning all our hopes on Gideon once more.

My wife and I always pledge to do better next time, but we have an unfortunate Ko(dak)-dependency thing going on.

Let’s face it: curing the common cold is only slightly more difficult than getting three or more people all available, all photogenic, all well-dressed, all tanned and rested, all cooperative at the same time.

There’s a reason “Synchronized Looking Halfway Decent” can’t field enough contestants to be an official Olympic event.

Aristotle claimed nature abhors a vacuum. Well, it’s not exactly fond of letting people create a treasured memory, either.

Mention an appointment for a sitting and Murphy’s Law goes into overdrive, producing a spontaneous eruption of mandatory overtime, hot flashes, nasal torrents, migraines, bloating, ineffective toothpicks, zits, nervous tics, suicidal ice cream cones, tattletale whining, strands of hair seemingly controlled by an Indian snake charmer, blinking eyes that are evidently trying to send a coded message revealing the plans for D-Day, grandparents whispering “DO YOU THINK WE’RE SUPPOSED TO TIP THIS FOREIGN-LOOKING PHOTOGRAPHER?,” etcetera.

Mankind is fortunate to have individuals who can counteract all this and produce stunning heirlooms. As someone should have said, “When God got bored with making order out of chaos, he turned the job over to professional photographers.”

Granted, the Almighty is a mite peeved with those photographers who use His Son’s name in vain the first time they meet appearance-challenged Little Johnny. (“Marlboro doesn’t have enough filters to make THIS kid look good! Maybe if I tie a porkchop around his neck, the shutter will open.”)

Even worse than the ordeal of getting a group picture made is the stressful experience of deciding whether to purchase prints a la carte or spring for the full package.

It’s heartrending to think about glossy photos of your loved ones being nonchalantly shredded. And I’ve heard the studios are upping the ante. (“No hard feelings. For each sheet you reject, we will also uproot one rain forest tree and tell an Afghan orphan his pet lamb is being moved to a farm upstate…”)

I realize that the charmed people whose life is One Big Christmas Letter (“While in Tahiti to get our colonoscopies – photos included – and decide whether to give Suzy that island or Harvard University as a wedding gift…”) will look down upon me for settling for shortcuts. They’ll doubtless pontificate something such as “Well, if it really meant anything to him, he would make time to get a good portrait.”

Honestly, I do regret that photos of me, my brother and our parents all together are rare or nonexistent; but I won’t apologize for being realistic about family portraits going forward.

I wouldn’t sleep any better thinking that someday my great-great grandchildren will fight over a framed image of ancestors struggling to look comfortable for two seconds.

“Hmph. You can have this one, sis. But dibs on the picture of the wooly mammoth!”

–
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

Life is returning to normal. But where dental health is concerned, normal may not be good enough.

According to a report from the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, even BEFORE the pandemic, one-third of American adults under 65 hadn’t had a dental exam or cleaning in more than a year.

That is a disturbing statistic. If Annie was correct in singing, “You’re never fully dressed without a smile,” an awful lot of us are going commando.

I’m not into floss-shaming, but I conscientiously kept my six-month checkup appointment earlier in July, and I hope I can convince a few of you to get back into the dentist’s chair.

For the sake of full disclosure, many of the newspapers in which this column appears derive part of their income from advertisements for dental practices. That does not influence my message. So, head out to the nearest dental clinic, allowing plenty of time to stop at a local diner, buy the dentist’s receptionist an arrangement from a local flower shop, and window-shop area homes represented by a local Realtor. And if some jerk runs into your car in the dentist’s parking lot, there’s always the personal injury attorney on page 7. *Ahem* But I digress.

According to the report, race, income and urban/rural divisions play a part in how likely one is to skip regular dental care. And I certainly think towns, charities and dental schools should brainstorm ways to make affordable dental care more widely available. Patients need to shake off defeatism and be more proactive in seeking solutions to logistical/financial obstacles.

But even some affluent white urbanites with five clinics within bicycling distance forego regular dental care, because of various exasperating attitudes.

Some cowards have adopted the “What you don’t know can’t hurt you” philosophy. Wallowing in blissful ignorance, they go whistling past the graveyard. These people are not popular with the cemetery groundskeepers, as they keep spraying out loose molars and bicuspids while whistling.

Some are just too rebellious for their own good. (“Rinse AND spit? Oh, yeah, The Man would really love for me to be another brick in the wall like that.”)

Others procrastinate because they have assigned dental care a low priority. (“After I’ve become the first person to win a Fortnite tournament on Mars, then I’ll see about this constant throbbing in my jaw that makes me want to blow my brains out. Unless they schedule a Fortnite tournament on Jupiter…”)

Come on, people! Gingivitis and malocclusions aren’t the whole story. Poor oral health can also aggravate conditions such as cardiovascular disease and diabetes!

We must get dental hygiene under control before job interviews become a disaster. It’s mortifying to be told, “I’m afraid you’re not a good fit for our company. Do let the door hit you on the way out; it might dislodge whatever crawled up in your mouth and died!”

Get on the routine dental care bandwagon before you get caught up in the inevitable future voter ID laws. Voters will be required to bring the glass containing their teeth so they can be identified at the polls. (“I protest! This is unfair! What? This is a casino, not the local precinct – and I’ve been pulling on a slot machine instead of a voting machine? Guess that’s what I get for avoiding the OPTOMETRIST for the past five years, too.”)

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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

“You load 16 tons and what do you get? Disability payments and not a Corvette.” – with apologies to Tennessee Ernie Ford.

I worked in an often-understaffed warehouse for 18 years (once becoming quite emotional when I heard Sam Cooke on the radio singing, “That’s the sound of the men working on the chain ga-a-ang…”), so my interest was piqued by a new development in the lives of blue-collar workers.

At least one grocery chain is expanding its use of exosuits – wearable robotic technology that workers strap on to reduce the strain of lifting heavy boxes all day.

No one is claiming that exosuits can single-handedly resolve unergonomic situations; but they are an additional tool to complement regular chiropractic care, better workplace design, and platitudes such as “Work smarter, not harder,” “Lift with your legs,” “If you don’t stop slouching, I’m going to throw out all your baseball cards,” etc.

No, exosuits do not turn workers into superhumans (although unions are reportedly clamoring for them to include that funky “Six-Million-Dollar-Man-jumping” sound effect), but they ARE designed to reduce strain and soft-tissue damage by 30-40 percent.

I’ve heard rumors that companies are even thinking about tweaking exosuits to help with mental and emotional stress. Code-name: The Green Mile. (“I’m tired, Boss – but only 60 percent as tired as I used to be.”)

The exosuits utilize sensors and algorithms that nudge workers to develop the muscle memory to perform their tasks more efficiently. (New recruiting slogan: “Put in a mind-numbing, soul-stealing shift and still have the pep to give your rugrats a piggyback ride! Who could ask for anything more? No, seriously, who could ask for anything more? We’re keeping an eye on you malcontents.”)

Okay, I know the words “sensors” and “algorithms” throw up red flags for many of you.

I‘ve had enough personal experience with defective sensors to know that fulfillment centers are asking for trouble. It’s hard to concentrate on your work when an oversensitive sensor nags you with “Why are you stacking those cases of salsa on a pallet when your car is out in the parking lot with a door slightly ajar, you moron???”

And I realize a large percentage of you who aren’t math nerds are sick of hearing about algorithms in every news story. It’s as if algorithms are slowly rewriting not only our history but the values we want to pass on to our children. (“The Louisiana Purchase was explored by the Algorithm and Clark Expedition.” “Fonzie jumped an algorithm.” “Babies are made when a momma algorithm and a daddy algorithm love each other very much.”)

Workers in exosuit experiments fall into three general categories: those who welcome the relief, those who are skeptical and those selfless individuals who think the suits should FIRST be shared with our politicians, who face constant danger from repetitive motions such as finger-pointing, back-stabbing, manure-shoveling, etc.

I am cautiously optimistic that exosuits can keep more of the nation’s workers out of hospitals and nursing homes. But many experts are worried that we know next to nothing about the long-term effects on family life.

Prepare yourself for a world where we might well hear, “If your reaching to get olives off the top shelf of the pantry lasts for more than four hours, consult a physician” or “Ha! Got your nose! But …uh…I can’t give it back until I reboot.”

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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

“Buffets Are Back – With New Policies and Gloves,” blared the headline recent on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.

That was welcome news for my pandemic-weary family. I was afraid such wide-open dining would go the way of the dinosaur. (“Look out! The asteroid is headed for the chocolate fountain!” “Mmm…chocolate-covered asteroid…”)

I’m exhausted by all the paranoid workarounds of the past year: mile-long drive-through lines, “grab the takeout bag and get out of our lobby, Typhoid Mary,” St. Bernards bearing kegs of sweet tea, sandwiches fired from t-shirt cannons, etc.

Some buffets are shunning walk-in customers and requiring reservations, in order to cope with labor shortages and the pent-up demand from food enthusiasts enjoying a return to normalcy. This, of course, assumes that overhearing people demand, “I want soft-serve ice cream AND gravy on my tuna salad, just like Grandma used to make” is normal.

I have my own fond memories of buffets. My wife and I met at a Bonanza Family Restaurant, which later became a Ponderosa, before reverting to a Bonanza and ultimately closing. (Methinks those Cartwright boys inhaled a little too much cattle methane.)

As newlyweds, we consumed countless crab legs with my parents at Richard’s Cafeteria in Shelbyville, TN. I experimented with swordfish and other delicacies at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, while musing that the real “one-armed bandits” were the diners who broke line and got caught grabbing for the last pork chop.

I realize that individuals either love or hate buffets. Some people adore the value (“more bang for the buck,” as my wife describes it). Some people revel in the commitment-free dalliances not permitted by “no substitution” combos or traditional “meat and threes.”

Others, however, think of buffets as an insensitive display of decadence in a time of Third World deprivation. (“Okay, I’ll take some celery stalks and spaghetti, but only so I can engage in self-flagellation.”)

Certainly, supermodels have horror stories about smorgasbords. (“It was terrifying. After five minutes, I could no longer pass between the molecules of the restroom door!”)

And, of course, some elitists have ALWAYS been grossed out by the thought of the Great Unwashed poking about in self-service victuals.

I can grudgingly understand their point. Statistics show that the only end-of-life activity outranking deathbed confessions and deathbed religious conversions is… deathbed excursions to the endless soup-and-salad bar! (“HACK! COUGH! Dang! I wonder what’s the world record for dentures flying?”)

So, yes, I can appreciate a few plexiglass shields and more frequent replacement of tongs, but I don’t think we should live in ABJECT TERROR of a few bacteria. As the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche famously opined, “Whatever doesn’t kill me only makes me strong enough to shove my way to the nanner puddin’.”

Whatever your view of buffets, carry out your convictions proudly.

But if you’re pro-buffet, just make all-you-can eat feasts a special treat instead of a constant quest for calories. It’s one thing to give up and resign yourself to elastic-waistband pants. It’s another thing when society is on the verge of needing elastic VEHICLES.

As one of Nietzsche’s contemporaries observed, “Don’t come knockin’ if the van is…slowly sinking into the pavement.”

Me? I will responsibly celebrate buffets rising phoenix-like from the ashes.

That reminds me…honey, line your purse with plastic so we can take home some of those chocolate-dipped phoenix eggs!

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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.”