Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

If some retro prankster had asked me a week ago, “Is your refrigerator running?,” my reply would have been, “It’s complicated.”

(Actually, I would have reported the scamp to the authorities. In these enlightened times, “Is your refrigerator running?” obviously dredges up traumatic memories of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. Or something. When you factor in all the Name-Brand-Products-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named that have systemically occupied shelf space in such kitchen appliances, it’s enough to make you grab a bottle of aspirin! But the cotton…Aaarrrggghhh!)

A recent power surge fried our coffee maker, shot several light bulbs, made our surge protectors suffer a noble death and conjured an ominous puff of smoke from the refrigerator compressor.

For weeks, the fridge made a valiant effort to carry on as usual, but it was not exactly The Little Engine That Could. (“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, I think…the vegetable crisper has produced something new for Dr. Fauci to look into.”)

We were in denial for a long time, but the ice cream finally forced us to accept reality. If you’re honest, you recognize that Rocky Roads should not have the consistency of hot asphalt.

Maybe it was my imagination, but the product labels seemed to say, not “Best if used by August 15,” but “Best if used by people with outstanding 911 service.”

This was an old refrigerator, but not old enough to be one of those foolproof pastel-colored models from the Seventies. You know, the kind that made bacteria exclaim, “Oh #@$% no! I ain’t goin’ around that thing!”

Having heard my parents’ stories of “hard times” (and having experienced more than my own fair share of power outages and frozen pipes), I frequently pause to give thanks for electricity and modern plumbing. But I know a lot of people would feel weird having to conserve the last vestiges of cool air in a terminally ill refrigerator.

Spoiled, wasteful humans are hardwired to stand there with the refrigerator door wide open, musing, “Okay, I’ve painstakingly selected a type of bread, and a luncheon meat and the perfect condiment…now I think I’ll stand here and find Waldo!”

After a delay because of Covid-related supply-chain woes, we now have a new refrigerator. It’s nothing fancy; we had no desire for high-tech Internet of Things features. On the other hand, it might be nice to have a sensor that detects feline saliva and bellows, “Be happy with your dry food, you little moochers!”

I was at work when the replacement fridge was delivered, so my wife (after sorting through refrigerator-door sticky notes, receipts and cute elementary-school drawings) had the unenviable task of cleaning up the Bermuda Triangle that existed beneath the old one.

Consumers could probably defray the cost of such big-ticket purchases by contracting with law enforcement. Instead of putting lawbreakers under the jail and throwing away the key, we could put them under the refrigerator and throw away the key – if you can overcome the refrigerator magnets.

I love the convenience of a refrigerator, but the temptation to overstock it to wretched excess does take us far away from our “Give us this day our daily bread” ethic.

Now it’s more like “Give us this day the home address of that Costco clerk who convinced us to buy kale-infused fruitcake in bulk! Are your feet running? They’d better be!”

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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

Prospects of a long, hot summer bring pet peeves to the surface.

Surely someone besides me encounters deceptive packages of frozen microwaveable meat. “Tear here,” they cajole. So, you tear on the dotted line, only to discover that it’s an inch BELOW the grooves required to reseal the package. Are the designers at the meatpacking plant cross-eyed, or just bad with math? Instead of calculating how many insect parts per MILLION are allowable, they’re probably singing a Mary Poppins-ish, “A spoonful of thoraxes makes the sausage patties go down…”

Yes, “resealable” is an asterisk-worthy marketing blurb. Packages ought to say, “Resealable – UNLESS you get a bunch of breading in the grooves and have less than 15 minutes to vacuum them out. Under those circumstances, we recommend resealing with the carpet staplers manufactured by one of our subsidiaries.”

Technology will lie to you, too. When I have completed a data transfer in the nick of time, I want to disconnect from my laptop, take my thumb drive or USB cable and hit the road. I don’t need to be scolded. (“Try again later. The device is currently in use.”) Unless there’s an ill-timed virus scan going on, what kind of “use” is the device invariably undergoing? Have HP and Windows 10 conspired to rent out rooms in my backup drive to tourists from Switzerland? (“We’re paid up. We have Army knives and we know how to use them!”)

Do you ever greet an opportunity with “At least it’s an excuse to get out of the house”? Who is it you’re forced to give excuses to? Is the mantel going to get all weepy? Will the laundry room cut you out of its will? Come on, grow a backbone – unless the hall closet has something against vertebrates.

Why do we reserve the term “anatomically correct” as a euphemism for dolls/mannequins that have some semblance of reproductive organs? Are naughty bits the only qualifiers for inanimate objects looking like real people? What is realistic about figures with no ear hairs, slumped shoulders or irregularly shaped moles? Show a woman a doll with two perfectly matching breasts and announce, “This is anatomically correct!” Then AFTER you awake from having a bra tightened around your throat…

Do you have friends or co-workers who take credit for “process of elimination” advice? For instance, neither one of you can figure out whether the green button or the blue button activates a machine, so you venture an attempt with the green button. Nothing. “Maybe you should try the blue button,” they chime in, expecting a marching band parade when they get it right. Never give these people the satisfaction. (“Well, you might be right about THAT being the emergency ‘off’ switch, but I was saying just the other day that I NEED something to remind me not to wear a long necktie around the garbage disposal…Ow! Ow!”)

What is the deal with people who use a single-occupant public restroom while leaving the door unlocked? Are they exhibitionists? Claustrophobes? Or are they just absent-minded professors formulating a new Theory of Relativity? (“In summary, the energy I use to release this mass at the speed of smell…”)

Summertime: food for picnics and food for thought.

Hey, how come they can’t match up packages of hot dogs and packages of buns, but they have just the right number of thoraxes…?

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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

My new supervisor anticipates being a first-time father in a few months.

I hope he doesn’t become one of THOSE fathers.

Most fathers take a laidback, minimalist approach. But a few are overly competitive about being cool, outshining mom or presenting a perfect-parent image to their peers. (“Yeah, I’m keeping up with the Joneses – using my Army surplus helicopter-parent HELICOPTER. Run, Joneses, run!”)

Whether they feel disrespected (Americans spend only half as much on Father’s Day as on Mother’s Day) or view a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug with the attitude “I’m not accepting anything unless I EARN it,” they tend to be alarmingly overachieving.

Surely, they’re not just wrangling for luxury Father’s Day gifts. For instance, the $700 vacuum that uses a green laser to “detect all the bits of dust you might otherwise leave behind.” How does such prissiness wind up in the same sentence with “Father’s Day”? The vacuum should have an attachment to detect all the microscopic shards of the dads’ MANHOOD that they’ve left behind! Real dads simply need a sensor that lets them know when a mass of dirty gym socks will no longer fit through the door.

Overly competitive dads even try to rig the game of “baby’s first word.” They cajole the infants with promises such as “Say ‘da-da’ instead of ‘ma-ma’ and good ol’ noncustodial Dad will say, ‘Trophy wife, learn to lactate.’”

These showoff fathers tell their offspring things like, “The good news is, I’ve secretly finished your new treehouse. The BETTER news is, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble making new friends at the school closest to Sequoia National Park.”
They fib, “I’ve ALWAYS wanted to measure the equator with my necktie collection…”

Aggressive patriarchs crave every ounce of credit they’re due. They confide in their kiddos, “Don’t tell your mother, but I’ve been funneling money to the North Pole so Saint Nick can afford your gifts, even with his gambling habit. True, the Tooth Fairy is self-funding; but remember it’s Daddy who stands guard to make sure the little perv doesn’t confiscate any still-attached teeth.”

You know a dad is trying extra hard when he beams, “Someday all of this will be yours,” and he’s NOT referring to something that will require buying out Sherwin-Williams, putting a mechanic’s triplets through college or forcing Goodwill to take the junk at gunpoint.

Attention-hogging fathers are only too glad to explain “the facts of life,” as long as they can mix in a few other lessons. (“Okay, the birds and the bees. First, stand your ground with the intruder at the door. Then, the bees will pollinate the flowers on his grave and the birds will decorate the monument…”)

Fathers need to acknowledge the passage of time. It’s okay to give piggyback rides to your children and their friends, but when you reach the point of your heir whining, “Daaad, we’d rather call an Uber to take us to the Drake concert,” it’s probably time to taper off.

Experts warn, it’s a social faux pas when you try to turn your daughter’s moment in the spotlight into the MIXED MARTIAL ARTS father-daughter dance.

Just love your kids, dads. Spend time with them. Although…throwing in that bonus kidney COULD make the boxes of marching band candy sell better than the Girl Scout cookies that Helen in Accounting is trying to unload…

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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

“I could search the whole world over/Until my life is through/But I know I’ll never find another you.” – as performed by The Seekers.

Five years ago, in conjunction with my 25th wedding anniversary, I was halfway finished writing a 40,000-word book of hard-won marriage wisdom.

A few months later, my wife Melissa proofread the completed manuscript but reserved the right – when time allowed – to read it from cover to cover a second time, removing passages she thought were too embarrassing for her – and by implication, using LARGE PRINT and GLITTER to highlight my own shortcomings. (“Forget ‘The DaVinci Code.’ Find out the sinister secrets of how snoring and bedcover-hogging were suppressed from the list of Seven Deadly Sins!”)

Well, a combination of work ordeals, motherly duties, daughterly duties and health issues (pardon, our family doesn’t merely have health “issues”; we have a shelf of BOUND VOLUMES) stalled those good intentions. And I followed my own authorly advice enough not to NAG her, so here we are celebrating our THIRTIETH anniversary without an approved-for-publication book!

And I’m not complaining. I have food, clothing and a shoulder to lean on. I know that Melissa would take a bullet for me. Granted, she would hand the gunman a notarized document specifying, “Yes, I’ll leap in front of the slug, but only if I can finish this game of Candy Crush first.,” but she would take a bullet.

Seriously, this unintended delay has given me an additional five years to appreciate this amazing woman and reconfigure the advice I want to share with the world, in a start-over-from-scratch “Top 100 Tips” book of pithier chapters.

I realize I had a head start in achieving a successful marriage. I married my best friend and the smartest person I know. But maybe that “best friend/smartest person” model isn’t for EVERYONE. I mean, I don’t want to give a blanket endorsement to the trending “Marry Your Grandpa” movement. (“I identify as someone who enjoys showing off my body piercings at the Matlock convention.”)

Besides the stereotypical differences between men and women, we have had to deal with our own individual quirks. After three decades, I still must shake my head at Melissa’s definition of the phrase “a couple.”

Whether it’s a couple of chores or a couple of favors, it invariably expands into what most reasonable people would quantify as “a few” or “several” or “a shipload.” Her definition of “a couple” is looser than the elastic in my favorite briefs. Luckily, we don’t socialize a lot, because if she ever told me, “I’ve invited another couple over for supper,” I would immediately start contemplating how to find parking space for the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

There’s a special corner of hell reserved for people who refuse to make allowances for their spouse’s preoccupations. And I feel confident that Melissa would tell those individuals, “Are you sure you’re warm enough? You look like you’re on the verge of frostbite. Maybe you should take an extra sweater just in case.”

I promise to keep you abreast of the status of my new book. I hope it will amplify the theme that “Love conquers all.”

In the meantime, I think I hear Melissa calling, “Well, if love conquers all, there should be a victory parade! Let’s go shoe shopping!”

*Sigh* Yes, Light of My Life.

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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

With the school year ending and the economy slowly reopening, let’s reminisce about the illustrious history of summer jobs.

I’m sure many of you worked your way through high school and college by flipping burgers, mowing lawns, performing lifeguard duties, working on an assembly line (I worked three summers in a cosmetics factory) or clerking in a retail store.

Or maybe you considered yourself part of show business while being paid to stand in front of an establishment twirling a sign. (I must confess I’ve never stopped at a business solely because of a sign-twirler. The words “Say, this place has one less person to keep the sales counter staffed or unclog the toilet – count me in” have never crossed my lips.)

Those of you who performed the sign-twirling deserved hazardous duty pay. Especially in the rougher neighborhoods, you never knew when a territorial “dancing balloon man” was going to wiggle your way and kick your heinie. (“YOU’RE the one with the INFLATED ego if you think you can compete here.”)

Let’s not forget the family farm. It was a good deal for everyone, until you started questioning “truths” your parents/bosses/taskmasters had indoctrinated you with. (“Wait a minute…where are all the crops and livestock going if everything drops off the edge of the world half a mile past Simpson’s Swamp?”)

Back in the halcyon days of summer employment, we could handle even the most back-breaking or mind-numbing job standing on our head because we knew we were short-timers destined for greater things. (We could also do the tasks standing on our head because our boss bribed OSHA to overlook head-standing, lawn-dart memo delivery and similar innovations.)

Back then we were young, healthy, bulletproof and had all the answers. Now we’re more likely to have all the QUESTIONS. (“Why did I select a divorce lawyer from a park bench? Exactly which country did my financial advisor abscond to? Why did I enter this time zone?”)

Summer jobs were an eye-opening introduction to the shady shortcuts necessary in the Real World. The first summer I was at the cosmetics factory, someone yelled that the fire marshal had arrived for an inspection. Boxes and boxes of excess makeup routinely blocked all the fire extinguishers and Mike Watson and I had to hide all the obstructions long enough for the marshal to give us a clean bill of health.

Then, of course, all the clutter went right back where it came from. Don’t get me started on the opportunistic personal-injury lawyer who fell into the moat guarding the company first-aid kit…

Summer jobs were a priceless way to intermingle with people from different social strata, age groups and commitment levels. I remember my second summer, full-timer John C. tried to get the young go-getters to stop showing him up. “When you get to be MY age” – which happened to be 35 – “you’ll know what I’m talking about.” But even at 35, 45 and 55, my work ethic and family obligations kept me from seeing the need to put a ROCKING CHAIR ON A FORKLIFT.

Granted, I’m catching my breath long enough to invite y’all to share your own summer-job stories.

Don’t let a dancing balloon man scare you away. (“Ha! You can’t run with the big dogs! Me? Uh, no, I run FROM the big dogs. One puncture and I’m zooming past Simpson’s Swamp.”)

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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

By the time most of you read this, my son Gideon will have marched across the gymnasium floor and received his high school diploma.

I have brainstormed some sage advice for Gideon’s next phase and hope that his fellow grads nationwide can benefit.

I’ll allow someone else to lecture 2021 graduates about following your dream, keeping a journal, subscribing to the local newspaper, formulating a career backup plan, paying it forward, starting retirement planning early, yada yada yada. I prefer to share tips you’re unlikely to hear anywhere else.

First, be patient with your elders when they emit trite expressions such as “Finishing high school already? Where does the time go?” Refrain from exclaiming, “When the baby takes its first step, you ask, ‘Where does the time go?’ When you unbox the Christmas decorations, you ask, ‘Where does the time go?’ Maybe if your generation wasn’t always asking where the time goes, we’d have a colony on Mars with a cure for the common cold by now! Buy a calendar!”

Before you move too far away, make a point of thanking favorite teachers who inspired you. Don’t procrastinate until you run across them in a retirement home. (“Mr. Johnson, you were an amazing Drivers Ed instructor. Of course, that was back when you could still see above the stick shift…”)

Don’t be one of those “School’s out…forever!” misanthropes who fall off the face of the earth. Stay in touch so you’ll know about class reunions. If you feel awkward about reunions, assemble the new IKEA Reunion Table Deluxe. It has built-in popular kids!

Be true to your school. Keep the STANDARDIZED TESTING momentum going. Don’t submit to a field sobriety test until you see some Number Two pencils!

Get a head start on embellishing your “uphill both ways” tales of Covid-19 for sharing with youngsters someday. (I’m serious. In a heartbeat, you’ll go from being a senior who steals a rival school’s eagle mascot to being a senior who swipes extra packs of condiments from the Early Bird Special.) Regale them with horror stories of doggedly administering wedgies with remote learning.

Hear me out on this: get massive injections of Botox. That way you can keep a straight face when you tell the NEXT generation how great Generation Z’s music was.

Disprove the myth that “you’ll never use most of the stuff you learn in school.” Make it fit. (“As a certified EMT, I can see that a tracheotomy is called for. But what say we apply a little Faulknerian trigonometry to the wound? And climb that rope, you loser!”)

Steel yourself for the fact that the Real World is shockingly different than school. Snow days? Few and far between. In-service days? Forget it. And there’s no such thing as pulling the wool over the eyes of “this week’s substitute CEO.” That’s right; there’s no one to con with “But…but…the regular CEO lets us take a three-hour lunch and matches our 401(k) contribution with an actual Cayman island!”

Finally, pick a random quote from your yearbook and fully incorporate it into your life. For instance, “Never forget French class!” So, in 15 years when you’re an airline pilot, you’ll suddenly have a flashback. (“Zut alors! Ou est la bibliotheque? Ou est la bibliotheque???? Passengers, fasten your seatbelts, s’il vous plait…I’m diving lower to find that bibliotheque! AIIEEEE!”)

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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

My late father once confided his belief in “universal knowledge.”

He felt that God gave humans finite, physical brains to prevent them from knowing EVERYTHING.

That theme is echoed in the book I’m currently reading: “Forever,” by Bruce Greyson, M.D.

Psychiatrist Greyson has spent 50 years studying Near-Death Experiences (NDEs). No, this isn’t about having a near-miss on the interstate or uttering the southern “I like to died!” expression of extreme embarrassment.

Rather, these are classic cases of people hovering invisibly above their own bodies in the emergency room (read the fine print in your hospital paperwork lest they rent out your body in some opportunistic Airbnb variant!) or traveling through a tunnel toward a bright light.

These are testimonials by people insisting that human consciousness (or “the soul,” if you prefer) can exist separately from our mortal shells.

Although a few NDE experiencers describe horrifying landscapes, most relate vivid images of a heavenly realm. (Sadly, the ones who get all revved up when they misinterpret the phrase “7 Minutes in Heaven” are abruptly rerouted to the aforementioned Bad Place.)

Those who report visiting paradise express consternation that they can’t find adequate words to describe the wonders they’ve seen and heard. Okay, even in everyday life, people are increasingly unable to express a thought without leaning on the words “intersectionality,” “synergy,” “paradigm” or “literally.” But I, like, digress and stuff, dude.

Call it a cliche, but many NDE folks claim they’ve seen their entire life pass before their eyes. This is where the “you can’t take it with you” rule really stinks. Imagine watching every second of “Your Terrible Twos” on Imax, without being able to spring for the tub of popcorn.

A large percentage of NDE experiencers take it for granted that they have encountered God and/or Jesus. Others straddle the fence about the all-powerful, all-loving entity they meet. (“He looked like the traditional Judeo-Christian God. He walked like the traditional Judeo-Christian God. He talked like the traditional Judeo-Christian God. He must be a duck! The Supreme Being is a duck!”)

Many accounts of NDEs end with deceased relatives shooing the participant away, declaring, “It’s not your time yet! It’s not your time yet!” Forget ducks! The afterlife has been taken over by the DMV!

An impressive majority of people who report NDEs experience new-found tranquility and purpose for the remainder of their lives. While in their NDE, they feel an interconnectedness with all mankind, a sensation of being “one with the universe.” Granted, the ones who express it as being “one drop of water in a vast ocean” often wake up on the operating table to learn a mischievous intern has placed their hand in a pan of warm water.

Skeptics scramble to find some scientific way to explain away the NDEs. Surely, they insist, there must be some evolutionary reason that crises trigger such “hallucinations” in the gray matter’s chemistry and wiring. I thought Charles Darwin wrote about “survival of the fittest,” not “survival of the guy who saw his great-grandmother riding a giant butterfly.”

Yes, some people are fakers. Some are misguided. But I’d like to think the evidence for our spiritual component remains strong.
However, if I am blessed to enter heaven, I’m settling for an Uno deck.

I’m not sabotaging everything with that “7 Minutes” misstep. No, sir! Cross my heart and hope to…never mind.

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Copyright 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

Misery loves company, but it’s cold comfort that many of you – like me – still haven’t filed your 2020 income tax returns.

(And I’m aware others of you had already pre-spent your refund SIX MONTHS AGO, but come on, dude. When you announce, “I’m anxious to revisit 2020!,” you probably need to spend part of that refund on an ensemble that matches a white straitjacket.)

Prompt filers, don’t judge your foot-dragging fellow citizens. People have the right to prioritize their time, and income tax doesn’t necessarily rate a top spot in the middle of January. Millions of good, decent Americans will tell you (a) “We’re shorthanded at work and the overtime is killing me,” (b) “Taking care of my aged parents is more urgent than a Schedule C” or (c) “Those three stockpiled seasons of ‘Real Housewives of Southeast Podunk’ aren’t going to watch THEMSELVES. Duh.”

Rushing to pay my taxes is just rushing to be reminded of my INSIGNIFICANCE. Nothing puts you in your place like realizing that your paltry contribution to the national budget would fund three nanoseconds of a congressional junket. (“I’ll bet a year-long town fundraiser would buy enough school desks to shield us from Putin’s nuclear arsenal!”)

Even though I settle for the standard deduction, I am nonetheless intimidated by our arcane tax system. You can talk to three different IRS agents about the exact same issue and receive answers ranging from “That’s a perfectly legitimate deduction” to “That might throw up a red flag for auditors” or “That will send the earth spiraling helplessly into the hottest regions of the sun.”

Some of us take our own sweet time about filing because we’re protesting the lack of ESSAY QUESTIONS. It’s so unsatisfying to slap down the Social Security number of dependents and move on to the next task. Taxpayers yearn to express themselves with “Are you sure you don’t want to see some photos of my little Honor Roll student?” or “Yes, he’s dependent on me, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he fawns over that tramp of a stepmother…”

Okay, truth be told, I don’t necessarily AIM for April 15 (or May 17 this year) as my time to get serious about taxes. My good intentions invariably fall victim to one of the ugliest words in the English language: “surely.” (“Surely, once I get my Form W-2, I can sequester myself in the den and knock this out.” “Okay, surely once Valentine’s Day folderol is finished, I’ll be able to devote my time to taxes.” “Surely, the ghost of Leslie Nielsen isn’t giving me the stink-eye for calling him Shirley…”)

Getting taxes finalized early reminds me of the Stephen King novel “11/22/63,” in which the protagonist travels back in time to stop the assassination of JFK. But history doesn’t WANT to be changed, so “coincidences” keep popping up to complicate his mission. Similarly, bright ideas about “Just do it!” guarantee computer crashes, ER visits and Folgers-stained documents. And NOW King has me wondering if there are clowns living in the sewer near H&R Block!

Hurry up and make an appointment with one of the name-brand accounting firms, before you must settle for Cletus’s Tax Preparation and Bait Shop. (“We swear you won’t be on the hook for more than …that hussy took Bubba for on ‘Real Housewives of Southeast Podunk’…”)

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Copyright 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.

How About Celebrating History’s Unsung Mothers?

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Since you asked, my niece Claire is expecting her first baby in August. Her sister Emma is expecting her second child in October.

I have faith that both young ladies will someday earn a spot in a Hall of Fame for Mothers.

Alas, history is littered with mothers who DIDN’T receive proper recognition. Here are some particularly egregious examples:

The mother of “Washington Post” owner and Amazon founder Jeff Bezos, who once scolded him, “Democracy dies in darkness? It smells like something died in your room! Now get it cleaned up or receive same-day delivery of corporal punishment!”

Teddy Roosevelt’s mother, who offered, “If the riding is going to be rough, let Mama put a little talcum powder on your tushie. And stop carrying that big stick – you’ll put an eye out.”

Albert Einstein’s mother, who consoled, “No wonder the other children won’t play with you, Albert. It’s supposed to be “E-I-E-I-O’ – not whatever it is YOU’RE saying.”

Biblical strongman Samson’s mother, who fretted, “Why are you having a meltdown? All I said was that I put a lock of your hair in your baby book.”

Emperor Nero’s mother, who insisted, “No one remembers a fiddle player. That’s why your father and I are paying for kazoo lessons.”

Rock star Steven Tyler’s mother, who urged her little toddler, “Walk this way…walk this way…no, not toward the toys in the attic…”

Bram Stoker’s mother, who put little Bram to bed with an admonition of “Try to think about something other than bedbugs biting.”

John James Audubon’s mother, who sighed, “This rebellious phase will end. Little Johnny will lose interest in the WILD LIFE.”

Louis Armstrong’s mother, who declared, “The saints may go marching in, but I’ll bet they have sense enough to leave their muddy shoes on the front porch.”

Dr. Seuss’s mother, who taunted him, “Oh, the places you won’t go – once I babyproof the house.”

Vladimir Putin’s mother, who gasped, “I just felt the baby kick – and flex his bare chest muscles.”

Alexander the Great’s mother, who growled, “No more worlds left to conquer? Well, there’s plenty of real estate behind your ears, young man! Get a wash rag!”

Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s mother, who opined, “’I see one-third of a nation ill-housed, ill-clad, ill-nourished…’ packs more gravitas than ‘I see London, I see France…’”

Christopher Columbus’s mother, who sighed, “Very good, son! You DISCOVERED where we hid your Christmas gifts in the closet. I just wish you had done it without giving us smallpox and measles in the process.”

Johann Gutenberg’s mother, who questioned, “And just how do you plan to get out of learning to write cursive?”

Ferdinand Magellan’s mother, who fumed, “Stop stalling. You don’t have to go all the way around the world just to answer a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”

Orville and Wilbur Wright’s mother, who mused, “Keep on tinkering with your bike shop, but I wish you could invent some way to unload all those crates of peanut packets your father got stuck with.”

Confucius’s mother, who warned, “When I want YOUR advice, young man, I’ll… go to a Chinese restaurant.”

Dr. Anthony Fauci’s mother, who fussed, “No, no, at this part of the game of peek-a-boo, you’re supposed to uncover your face!”

Whether possessing the hand that rocks the cradle brings you fame and fortune or not, Happy Mother’s Day to all.

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Copyright 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

As graduation looms, my son Gideon has been named both salutatorian and Wittiest Boy of the Cornersville (TN) High School Class of 2021.

(I myself did well academically “back in the day” – which even then was about 15 years after the hoary phrase “back in the day” had applied for Medicare. I also absorbed comedy vibes from Steve Martin and Monty Python and made good use of the copy of “10,000 Jokes, Toasts and Stories” that belonged to my father – another salutatorian. I just wanted you to know that Gideon comes by certain predispositions honestly. And that I go by my father’s axiom, “Blessed is he who tooteth his own horn, else it might not get tooted.”)

The salutatorian honor looks good on college applications (although nowadays even “Listen up, dean – I don’t think a diploma from your institution is worth anyone except Uncle Sam PAYING for and if you beg nicely, I’ll allow the graduate assistants to mow my parents’ lawn” is not necessarily a deal-breaker), but the long-term prospects for “Wittiest” seem more questionable.

Oh, I agree this vale of tears will always NEED bon mots, wry observations, sly jabs, satirical barbs, clever turns of phrases, outrageous puns and slapstick pratfalls; but will it always APPRECIATE people with a sense of humor?

Granted, there will always be a place for the umpteenth permutation of “That’s what SHE said” or knee-slapping “glory days” reminiscences of all the butts that were kicked and all the bras that were removed under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol; but will genuine cleverness and originality survive?

I have enjoyed driving Gideon to school and engaging in fast-paced verbal jousting based on current events or sights along the road. Up until my recent crisis of confidence, I have believed that the ability to THINK ON YOUR FEET is a skill worth developing. Now I fear that most people, metaphorically speaking, would rather zone out while getting a pedicure.

A push for inclusiveness will rob jokes of their spontaneity and simplicity. There may be a future Oscar Wilde or Will Rogers out there, but how many humorists will tolerate requirements of checking all the right boxes? (“A priest, a rabbi, a minister, a mullah, a warlock, an atheist, a shaman and approximately 15 other people from somewhere along the spirituality spectrum start to walk into a bar but realize the bar doesn’t have any Cro-Magnons on the payroll, so instead they wait around on the sidewalk for a stranded-on-a-deserted-island anecdote to develop.”)

Once upon a time, Shakespeare’s Polonius assured us that “Brevity is the soul of wit.” Now that advice would be greeted with “The word ‘soul’ is so problematic…”

The self-deprecating humor of a Rodney Dangerfield wannabe is triggering, too. (“You’re guilty of ‘Myron McGillicuddy of Weasel Spit, Wisconsin’ shaming.”)

Don’t get me started on the prospects of artificial intelligence making human jokesters obsolete. (“Alexa, give me another of those rib-tickling ‘Yo’ momma’s algorithm is SO fat’ jokes.”)

No matter how politically correct you make your wisecracks, there’s always another hurdle. (“We have several people with untreated ADHD in the audience. Maybe instead of one-liners, you could deliver some HALF-liners.”)

Perhaps someday Gideon will moonlight from his proposed engineering career and gamely continue THIS column.

Yes, son, I’d be honored for you to fill my shoes. No – not the pedicure bath! My shoes!

*Sigh*

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Copyright 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.