Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Tree huggers, are you contemplating a Zoom meeting with Mr. Elm instead?

Yes, this is dedicated to the millions of you who share my susceptibility to seasonal allergies.

(Seasonal allergies? Yes, “When is allergy season?” is a popular Google question. I don’t mean to be ungrateful for fleeting symptom interruptions around Christmas; but that question is as pollyannaish as asking “When is double-chin season?” or “When is robocall season?”)

Hopefully, this column will also have a little something for the lucky stiffs who AREN’T bothered by pollen. Perhaps you can pause your fairy-tale existence long enough to ponder it. Hmm…I hadn’t realized just how lucky we are that our fairy tales aren’t marred by allergies. (“Fee fie foe fum…I smell the …I smell the…actually, I can’t smell anything. By dose is all stobbed ub.”)

Although we adults whine about the “return” of allergy season, we’ve known forever that it’s part of earth’s life cycle. Our biology teachers taught us all about stamens and pistils — although, in retrospect, they should have been telling us more about CVS and Walgreens!

We’re resigned to the fact that pollen-based, bee-enabled plant reproduction is a necessary evil. It’s just that sometimes, when we want to enjoy the Great Outdoors without coughs and sneezes, we’d like to tell Mother Nature’s flora and fauna, “Get a room!” Too late – the dust mites and mold have already claimed all the indoor accommodations. (“Bermudagrass, did you not see the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, dude?”).

Yes, I googled “Do bees have allergies?” That search brought up astonishingly few results. I guess we just have to IMAGINE those rare worker bees sniffling and putting in for sick leave – and the queen responding with, “We are not amused. Off with their heads and thoraxes and abdomens!”

I did encounter lots of advice about surviving allergy season. After you’ve been outdoors, leave your shoes by the door, wash your face and hands and change clothes – or, better yet, take a full shower. And if you can stand the pet dander, maybe encourage your cat to lick off the top several layers of skin. (Admit it – you’ve never seen a skeleton using Flonase.)

Allergies like to add insult to injury. We are advised to pick out the medication that is right for US; but when your eyes are red and itchy, it’s difficult to decipher all the fine print about durations, side effects and whether your four-year-old will be operating heavy machinery.

It gets worse. We suffer with pollen during the growing season. Then we must deal with food allergies when consuming the finished product. I’m surprised Mother Nature hasn’t bankrolled the introduction of “new Charmin with poison ivy.”

Allergies present us with the double whammy of constant reminders AND unpleasant surprises. It’s bad enough to experience never-ending nasal drip or itchy skin, but phlegm and other allergy manifestations show up at the most inopportune times. (“I’m sorry, caller number 12, but our station call letters are, in fact, NOT ‘Akkk! Gulp! Haarrkk! Ptooey!’ Guess those backstage passes to the Rolling Stones concert are still up for grabs.”)

Oops. Out of space. Go on back to your medicine cabinets or your fairy tales, as the case may be.

“Not by the hair of …Hey! This new cologne is messing with my chinny chin chin! It burns! It burns!”

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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

Did I ever tell you about my late Uncle Vernon and the time his slanderous lies about a respected business got unceremoniously debunked?

In the mid-70s Uncle Vernon hired a Nashville company to apply vinyl siding to his home. When he was completely disgusted with the finished product, he tried and tried to get satisfaction from the company.

Failing that, he turned to the consumer-defender “action news” segment of a high-rated local TV show for help. After a painstaking investigation, the ombudsman reluctantly informed him that his claims proved to be baseless and unreasonable.

Interestingly, the vinyl siding company was the SPONSOR of the “action news” segment!

This “fox guarding the hen house” incident springs to mind because I am alarmed by the frequency of the word “debunked” popping up in news reports and editorials.

“Debunked” has become ubiquitous in 21st-century society. “Ham on rye, hold the debunked.” “I identify as debunked.” “Next yoga position: the debunked dog.”

Our reliance on the word “debunked” owes much to our sheep-like dependence on self-appointed “fact-checkers.” (“You can trust me with your five-year-old daughter. I’m a fact-checker! Now, do you have a peg to hang my raincoat on?”)

Journalism used to require a modicum of digging and elbow grease: wear out some shoe leather, interrogate multiple sources, search through documents, scrutinize alibis, wear a hidden microphone. Now it’s more a question of “Were you corrupt or incompetent in your actions?” “Of course not!” “Good enough for me. There’s ANOTHER myth debunked!”

Most members of the Fourth Estate wouldn’t know investigative journalism if it bit them on …well, you know. (“Ouch! Something bit me. Must be bedbugs from that motel chain we thoroughly vetted.”)

Media gatekeepers and “talking heads” are quick to rely on unnamed “experts in the field,” but often the only advantage of being in the field is the convenience of snatching up cow patties!

Through a combination of laziness, tight budgets, follow-the-leader syndrome and bias, a cry of “Debunked!” has become a reflex action. A PROPHETIC reflex action, in some cases. (“I understand the CEO wore a bow tie to work this morning.” “That’s a lie! That was debunked SIX MONTHS AGO!”)

Granted, if you don’t have the right connections, it’s an uphill battle to get a designation of “debunked.” (“True, our reporters had a sit-down interview with the senator’s wife yesterday afternoon – but the senator’s claims that he did not murder her last month are still in dispute by respected authorities.”)

Citizens continue having to navigate a minefield of urban legends, health hoaxes and smokescreens, so there will always be a legitimate need for legitimate debunkers; but currently the word is so overused as to be meaningless. In any given instance, does “debunked” mean “thoroughly investigated and demonstrably proven false” or does it mean “Buzz off! I’m George Freakin’ Stephanopoulos”?

I guess my best advice is to greet the phrase “debunked” with a grain of salt. Or maybe a big handful of salt.

(“The connection between sodium and blood pressure has been debunked! So says Stu the backup night watchman at the Acme Man We’ve Got A Serious Oversupply of Salt to Dispose of Corporation warehouse.”)

Rest in peace, Uncle Vernon. I hope you’re getting to enjoy decent vinyl siding in heaven.

(“News flash! Recent revelations from anonymous part-time agnostic have debunked the possibility of vinyl siding in heaven!”)

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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

My wife and I would never have met, except that her family fled a densely populated state when she was 11.

Given her satisfaction with the simple life (deer in the yard, the neighbors’ ponds and livestock across the road), I dreaded sharing game-changing news with her the other evening.

“One of the neighbors said a 100-house subdivision is planned for one mile away on our country road.”

(Technically, I think the revelation was “One of the neighbors said a 100-house subdivision is planned for one mile away on our country road; now, where’s my supper, woman?” I’ll probably be able to remember more precisely when the swelling goes down.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not holier-than-thou when it comes to turning forests and pastureland into domiciles. For much of my childhood, my father helped keep a roof over our heads by working as an agent for my mother’s cousin, a real estate developer.

(Dad also kept a FLOOR under our feet, but I’ve noticed parents never get much credit for any non-roof amenities. Maybe parents should diversify their speeches. “Well, young lady, as long as you’re benefitting from my threshold and my wainscotting, you’re living by MY rules!”)

My wife and I became homeowners nearly 28 years ago, so I balk at begrudging anyone else their own shot at affordable housing and the American Dream. Granted, the American Dream ain’t what it used to be, if townsfolks’ new aspiration is to be wedged between Casa de Tyree and the industrial park! I’m just saying.

Yes, everyone is entitled to their own little piece of Paradise – which brings an interesting twist to a classic philosophical conundrum: “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” (“I don’t know – but way more than can fit on Mike’s subdivision deck, dude.”)

I refuse to be one of those petition-waving NIMBY (“Not in My Back Yard”) soreheads. Because, frankly, most of the theoretical future neighbors would stare and ask, “What’s a back yard?”

I’m not even going to lose any sleep over the eventual cute, ironic name of the subdivision. You know, the developments are usually celebrating something that is no longer around BECAUSE of the development. Maybe it will be Turkey Cove or Groundhog Meadows – or The Ability to Turn Your Cat Outdoors Without It Getting Splattered by Umpteen Garbage Trucks, Ambulances and Police Cars Acres!!!

Ours is not the only part of the county experiencing a flood of home construction. People from every corner are gobsmacked by the situation and ask some variation of “If we suddenly need all these houses, where the (bleep) are the people living NOW?”

Good question. Maybe there are citizens far to the north hearing the Siren call and rationalizing, “Yes, they’ll be cookie-cutter homes, but they’ll be cookie-cutter homes that will provide AIR CONDITIONING BILLS out the wazoo.”

Or, most likely, we will see pasty-skinned adult children emerging from their parents’ basements in search of a home of their own. (“The man at the hardware store called this a ‘leaf blower’ – but it would be so cool to use against Orcs and trolls!”)

I’ll not stand in the way of Progress. Even if rising home values supersize my tax bill.

“Well, old man, as long as you’re living in MY COUNTY, you’re not going out with money left in your pockets!”

*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.

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

There was certainly nothing trivial about the events of that first Easter Sunday, but that hasn’t stopped magazines from cranking out baskets of Easter trivia year after year.

Admittedly, magazine writers are trapped on a hamster wheel of producing seasonal material. (“See the latest table settings for National Fasting Week!”)

The widening divide between the sacred and secular aspects of Easter apparently requires some dumbing down of the tidbits. Woman’s Day magazine thought it necessary to note that there’s no mention of an Easter Bunny in the Bible (although the bunnies WOULD be good at the “begetting” business).

Perhaps Woman’s Day should also have stipulated that there is no Island of Misfit Pharisees in the Bible. Or that no reputable prophet ever bellowed, “Verily, the unrighteous shall be as lost as last year’s Easter egg!”

According to Good Housekeeping, old superstitions held that if you wore new clothes on Easter, you would have good luck for the rest of the year. Of course, the EXCEPTION was the poor bozo who got trampled by the horse and carriage of clothiers who were laughing uncontrollably on their way to the bank.

Multiple sources felt obligated to disclose that it took 27 hours to produce a batch of marshmallow Peeps back in the primitive days of 1953. Coincidentally, that’s how long it takes some people to remember what the preacher’s Easter sermon was about. (“Wait, wait…I’ve got it…no, I’ll just ask him at Christmas.”)

Most of the magazines displayed a morbid fascination with which part of a chocolate bunny gets eaten first. I’m surprised no one has turned this into a 13-part Netflix true-crime miniseries yet. *Sigh* While we’re obsessed with how people are nibbling candy, China is EATING OUR LUNCH.

Americans spend up to $2.6 billion on Easter candy each spring. Apparently, that’s because nothing says “rebirth” like begging for Type 2 diabetes.

In Finland, children dress as witches on Easter Sunday. That’s right: in Finland, children dress as witches on Easter Sunday. All I’ll say is that maybe Finland needs to direct some more of their socialized medicine to the PEDIATRIC wing.

Good Friday is not a national holiday and is officially recognized in only 12 states. Analyzing the list of states, I really can’t find a common thread. Maybe each of those states just happened to have a marketing guru who came up with a slogan along the lines of “COME for the tax rate/beaches/mountains…STAY to think about someone dying an agonizing death on the cross. Oh, yeah…and the biggest fireworks stand in seven states!”)

According to Parade magazine, effigies of Judas Iscariot are burned during Easter bonfires in countries including Greece, Mexico and Spain. Of course, HERE the effigies would be taken on a late-night talk-show rehabilitation tour. (“Dad! I saw the smoke and was worried you had started burning Judas in effigy.” “No, I just burned the Easter ham. I dozed off on the sixth chapter of the chocolate bunny miniseries.”)

It was also Parade that featured a quiz stating that the impulsive apostle Peter was the first person to enter the Empty Tomb. They strayed from orthodoxy, however, when they implied that he announced, “Now it’s time to cash in on the Tiny Empty Tombs trend! Ka-ching!”

Tired of ephemeral magazines? My timeless book “Yes, Your Butt Still Belongs in Church” is drawing favorable reviews on Amazon.

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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

First off, Louis Armstrong was right about it being a wonderful world. And I realize many people suffer far worse troubles than mine.

But still…I would die of shock if I ever experienced 10 consecutive minutes of comfort, serenity and dignity. (Okay, anesthesia gave me two of the three; but instead of Doctors Without Borders, we need to mobilize Procedures Without Hospital Gowns.)

Through a combination of overcommitment, aging, Murphy’s Law and innate klutziness, I am a man of constant aggravation.

True, I have outgrown zits, dandruff, warts and absent-mindedly locking my keys in the car. But aches, pains, frequent bathroom visits, sinus pressure and mild asthma play tag team to fill the vacuum.

Ten minutes after I bypass a Nail Clippers R Us kiosk, I spontaneously develop the Mother of All Hangnails. Half an hour after I’ve scrutinized myself in my bathroom mirror, acquaintances are abruptly exposed to a nose hair that resembles something a junior high P.E. class always dreaded climbing

I faithfully strive to look presentable in public, but inevitably I transform into what my mother would call “slouchy.” There is a pants leg crammed into a sock, a smear of who-knows-what on my eyeglasses, a mysterious food stain from an animal that was hunted to extinction 150 years ago and a trousers fly that is 95 percent zipped but will elicit a Good Samaritan’s shout from across a crowded room, nonetheless.

Jeans that fit perfectly yesterday suddenly have me tugging at them like I’m a (slightly) more svelte “Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker.” And I dread going to my own version of the “van down by the river,” because there is always a seatbelt buckle that gets slammed in the car door, a sideview mirror that (truth in advertising!) gives me a panoramic view of the SIDE OF THE CAR and a towering pile of food wrappers that show the calorie content in hieroglyphs.

Granted, I have seldom experienced the classic toilet-paper-trailing-from-the-shoe humiliation, but I believe I could unerringly step in dog poop at a Garfield Look-alike Contest.

Similarly, I have a sixth sense for seeking out staplers without staples, sticky notes without stickiness, and battery-operated devices without batteries. I’m glad I’m just FLIRTIN’ with disaster, because if I tried to write down her phone number, the pen would promptly explode in my pocket. (“Wait…I’ll just MEMORIZE it…after deleting extraneous information. There. Hey, didn’t I used to know how to drive a stick?”)

Coins and keys relentlessly create holes in my pockets. Receipts can’t wait to wiggle out of my wallet. Notes containing brilliant column ideas somehow defy gravity and escape from my shirt pocket. (Surely it was aftereffects of anesthesia, but I thought I heard my left nipple cheering, “Nobody’s looking – let me boost you over the top to freedom.”)

Honestly, I try to live a simple life. For me, a “three-way” means the cat is throwing up on IRS documents at the same time the unbalanced load of laundry goes “WHOMP WHOMP…” and an altruistic individual calls to Make My Day with an extended warranty on band candy.

Thanks for letting me vent. I could ramble on a lot longer, but I see by the clock on the wall…allow for not springing forward…remember you’re running three minutes fast…

*Sigh* Only I could get nostalgic for zits, dandruff and warts.

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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

“My father and mother were Irish, and I am Irish, too.”

As Saint Patrick’s Day approaches, I keep remembering that song from our third-grade music book, which strove to examine music from an international perspective (WITHOUT a “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” detour into “Come see the cultural appropriation inherent in the system!”)

I am proud of my Scots-Irish heritage. But at the time, when I discussed the music assignments with my father, it was unsettling to hear him talk about the song’s link to where I came from. You mean the STORK is Irish? I thought storks FLEW around delivering babies. Now you tell me they haul infants around in paddy wagons?

Sadly, that’s far from the only thing problematic about St. Patrick’s Day.

I know it’s supposed to be an inclusive “the more the merrier” gesture; but it’s troubling when someone announces, “Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.”

What if we started treating our other observances that way? Are we ready for “Everyone is president on Millard Fillmore’s Birthday”? Bicycles will go idle as youngsters fight over access to Air Force One. (“Oh, yeah? Well, my Secret Service agent can beat up YOUR Secret Service agent.”)

Pinching an acquaintance who commits the mortal sin of failing to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day – now THERE’S a tradition that couldn’t possibly go wrong. Just think of the possibilities for someone to exploit that custom – someone like, I dunno, Andrew Cuomo. (“Sorry. I didn’t notice that you’re wearing a green bracelet. Or a humongous wedding ring. Or that I was using a Vulcan nerve pinch on your gluteus maximus. Or that this is August.”)

I am disturbed when the “Old Farmer’s Almanac” reports that cabbage seeds are often planted on St. Patrick’s Day, and that old-time farmers believed that to make them grow well, you needed to plant them while wearing your nightclothes. I suddenly imagined Victoria’s Secret models industriously planting cabbage seeds. Cabbage kickstarts ENOUGH bodily functions without me hyperventilating as well, thank you very much.

I feel uncomfortable that some people view Saint Patrick’s Day as just a convenient way to interrupt the sacrifices of Lent. I’ll fight against letting that attitude creep into traditional wedding vows. (“Forsaking all others…unless some civil servant dyes the river green!”)

I dread people without an ounce of Irish blood spouting off with “Top o’ the mornin’” and all the standard cliches. I think one of St. Patrick’s sermons was about the Special Corner of Hell where faux Irishmen, Halloween pirates and carolers greet one another with “Faith and begorrah,” “Arrrrr, matey!” and “Dickens of a Christmas!”

I don’t remember attempting this as a child, but I read that some children construct LEPRECHAUN TRAPS to ensnare the little folklore creatures. (Give these juvenile delinquents a couple of weeks and they’ll be planting landmines along the Bunny Trail!)

Considering that Saint Patrick spent six years as a SLAVE before he entered the priesthood, leprechaun traps are probably an insensitive tradition. Besides, if kids really did catch a leprechaun, they might have a hard time negotiating reparations later. (“Just stop waving that shillelagh and I’ll give you…three marbles…and a frog…and a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich…”)

Furthermore, it might give Bernie Sanders too many ideas. (“Surely there’s room for funding ‘small businessman traps.’ I know they’re all hiding a pot of gold somewhere…”)

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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

Sure, it made the rounds of the “News of the Weird” columns when a Nashville businessman left $5 million in a trust fund for his beloved border collie Lulu. But such gestures aren’t as eccentric as you might think.

Many estate plan experts now include pet planning as part of the comprehensive services they offer.

(“That takes care of your rare cockatoo and your thoroughbred racehorses. Now surely you’ll want to upgrade to the premium plan and maintain your GUT BACTERIA in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed?”)

Really, you’re just dog-whistling past the graveyard and kicking the Alpo can down the road if you haven’t contemplated your own mortality and the fate that could befall your pets once you’re gone.

Will they be resented and mistreated by your heirs? Dumped at the animal shelter? Euthanized? Or worse, will their naps be ruined by unending robocalls about the extended warranty on your vehicle? (“MAYBE your master’s grandchildren will let you hang your head out the window; but if the window should tragically refuse to lower…”)

ALL of us should be proactive about our pets’ uncertain future. Sadly, not all of us will be able to leave a Lulu-sized tidy sum for our four-legged friends. Despite my affection for my pets, I anticipate cobbling together a decidedly UNKEMPT sum. Oh, I think I can spring for excavating my burial plot; but my cats may have to help with covering the casket. (“Wait…wait…I think there’s still room for the hairball and the well-chewed robin.”)

I’ll at least have to stipulate that the executor ration care to make the money last. (“Yes, you may have a tummy rub, but I’m selling the static electricity to the power grid.”)

Honestly, I don’t begrudge anyone the financial resources for lavishly rewarding the loyalty of their fur babies. I do wish more of the affluent had the same compassion for the two-legged entities in their sphere of influence. (“Thanks for 45 years of service, Jones; but I’m shipping your job to Malaysia. Go fetch a new job, boy. Go fetch!”)

Yes, much of the impetus for making long-term arrangements for dogs is their unconditional love and unswerving fidelity. Think of the stories of pitiable pooches who lingered for weeks or months near the spot where their master abandoned them. Come to think of it, instead of gold-plated toilet bowls, dogs’ inheritances should include SELF-ESTEEM CLASSES and “Beware the Nigerian Prince’s Widow” signs.

It’s easier to leave funds for your pets when you have no human offspring; but that still doesn’t mean there won’t be great-nephews, mistresses and charities crawling out of the woodwork and initiating legal challenges when the will is read. (“I was always Uncle Calvin’s favorite…I mean, I was always Uncle KEVIN’S favorite. I have fond memories of all the …stuff…we did at…the place. Hey, it’s bad enough a terrier is getting the inheritance; do we need that drug-sniffing dog here in the courtroom?”)

Establishing a trust fund for your pets can give you priceless peace of mind. Rest assured that if you do precede them in death, they will be pleasantly shocked that you had the mental capacity to provide for them.

(“Dude, the way he was always asking, ‘Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?’ 20 or 30 times a day, I was sure he had advanced senility!”)

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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

The relentless airbag recall notices concerning my mother’s old truck have progressed from a mailbox-clogging nuisance to a grim reminder that our unresponsiveness has felled more trees than Paul Bunyan in his prime.

Okay, I realize more consumers should be conscientious about product recalls, for the safety of themselves, their families and mankind in general. But when you’re a husband, father, son, inventory clerk, writer and Sunday school teacher, arranging your schedule around somebody else’s screw-up is not necessarily Job One.

Besides, my mother hasn’t driven since she turned 90 or 91. I chauffeured her in her truck briefly, but now I drive her to the doctor in my car. The truck has been parked for more than a year. Insurance coverage has lapsed.

But, with the hope that springs eternal within the corporate liability attorney’s chest, the notices continue.
Usually, the glossy recall entreaties are instantly recognizable; but sometimes the sly manufacturer disguises them as something less triggering, like, I don’t know, an appeal from the Jehovah’s Witness Fruitcake & Bagpipes Festival.

The company has become increasingly desperate to cajole us into getting the repair done. They offered a loaner vehicle. They indicated they MIGHT be able to send a mechanic out to the premises. I think the latest offer was sending a second technician to moon up to five of my enemies while his buddy test-drives the truck.

One of the most galling aspects of this ordeal is that Mom already took the truck to a dealership and got the airbag repaired several years ago.

But now the letters tell us something to the effect of “Oopsie. After fixing all those millions of vehicles, we remembered it was just a PARTIAL fix. You’ll need to schedule another visit to the dealership. I swear, we’d forget our heads if they weren’t tied on! Ha ha. They’ll probably fall off anyway, since we bought the string from some shady guy in the alley.”

Honestly, I would hold recall notices in higher regard if the producers of vehicles, appliances and food would be a little more forthcoming about the perfect storm of incompetence, haste and penny-pinching that created, say, an UNEXPECTED CHOKING HAZARD WITH BALL PEEN HAMMERS in the first place.

That’s right – no wishy-washy mea culpa. We want names and consequences! (“Honest, until we found ol’ Brad Strudelflinger’s suicide note a month later, we thought he was just funning’ us about dumping his ex-wife’s body in the vat of clam chowder. Live and learn. We did slap Brad’s wrist at the funeral home.”)

I’m not Mr. Perfect. I realize sometimes Stuff Happens. (Or DOESN’T happen, if you’re talking about the recalled batch of Ex-Lax.)

I should be glad that manufacturers own up to their mistakes at all, but it would be immeasurably better if they could learn from Billy Joel lyrics. I mean “I’ve gotta get it right the first time/That’s the main thing, oohh oohh…” – not “We didn’t start the fire; I think it was the fuzzy dice!”

Can’t we go back to the days of the Quality Control department assessing the quality of the products coming off the assembly line instead of the quality of the paint job on the “Department of Woke Resources” sign?

Ah, enough venting. I want to research if Paul Bunyan ever answered the recall notice on that wobbly axe head.

Look out!

AAIIEE!

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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

Yes, a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since February 20, 1971 – but it’s still hard to believe that Granny Tyree (my father’s mother) has been gone for 50 years.

Oh, I shouldn’t have been caught off-guard. All the joys, sorrows, friendships, jobs, technological innovations and cultural upheavals of five decades leave this former 10-year-old with only hit-and-miss memories of Sarah Elizabeth Gipson Tyree (a.k.a. “Sallie Bet”).

Perhaps I’ll consult my older cousins when I write my memoir (“The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tyree”), but right now I’m frustrated that I can’t remember (or worse, never appreciated) Granny’s favorite color, favorite food or the distinctive qualities of her voice.

So, I try to focus on the big picture of how she directly or indirectly (through Dad) shaped the person I am today.

Would I have such a thirst for knowledge if she hadn’t encouraged my father, my uncle and my aunts to get an education? What about if she hadn’t exhibited her love of books, magazines and newspapers? (My mother the workaholic confided that she used to hate visiting her in-laws and finding everyone sitting around – ugh! – READING.)

Would I be a newspaper columnist now if Granny hadn’t gotten me hooked on seeing my youthful witticisms in print by submitting them to the “It Happened Hereabouts” column in the “Nashville Tennessean” Sunday magazine?

Is it pure coincidence that I’m syndicated by Cagle Cartoons, or did Granny’s scrapbook of World War II editorial cartoons plant an idea?
Would I fight so hard to leave an “I was here!” message if not for the diaries Granny kept?

Didn’t my writing of an inspirational book owe a little something to Granny’s religious convictions, which still resonate in descendants undreamed of during her lifetime?

How did I learn to look for the silver linings in life? Perhaps it partly stems from the sense of humor Granny maintained as she faced the cancer that cut her life short just days before her 64th birthday. (I’m still haunted by memories of ultimately futile “cobalt treatments.” But at least Granny could get a chuckle from a hospital roommate who matter-of-factly informed a visitor, “I’ve done had my whole hysterectomy took out!”)

I like to think I’m “paying it forward” when I count to 10 and tolerate some inconvenience caused by my son. After all, Granny did try her best to catch my pet chameleon that ran onto a busy street, and she did dutifully walk visiting grandchildren to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but sometimes I dwell on the fact that every day someone else who knew Granny Tyree (or at least shared the planet with her) has passed away.

I know many of my readers are grandparents. If you’ve passed on wisdom, life skills and love, take a bow.

If you HAVEN’T always been the most nurturing person, today is the first day of the rest of your life.

As for younger readers, if your grandparents are deceased, write down the good things you remember about them. It doesn’t have to be Pulitzer-worthy – just heartfelt.

If you have living grandparents, the crossword puzzle can wait. Text, call or visit right now to let them know how much you cherish their impact on your life.

It may be the least regrettable thing you ever do.

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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

Whether you read these words before or after Presidents’ Day 2021, be advised that I’m already thinking ahead to Presidents’ Day 2071.

If you get your jollies reading about the only bachelor president or the first bathtub in the White House, just think how many more milestones and tidbits of trivia will have built up over the next 50 years!

In the next five decades, we may very well see the first female president, the first Hispanic president, the first Asian-American president, the first openly gay president, the first closeted tag-team presidency. (“The press is lying when they say there are two of us. Oooo…we’d…I’d… like to give them such a body slam!”)

Thanks to medical miracles, we may see the record for “oldest president” broken more than once. (“I can remember why I came into the Oval Office, but I can’t remember why half the country hates me. Hey, I don’t remember that goldfish being in the bowl before…”)

We may finally see the first openly atheistic president. (“I believe that the children are our future. Of course, after that, they’re just worm food. In bluntness we trust.”) I wonder if they’ll sound as conflicted as some of today’s RELIGIOUS politicians. (“Speaking as a devout atheist, I’m going to make sure that school lunches include communion wafers and sacramental wine.”)

Maybe we’ll see the first president born on Mars. (Slogan: “Take me to your leader – oh, wait, I am your leader!”) Imagine inspiring voters with proclamations such as “America needs citizens who aren’t looking for a hand-out but instead are looking for a TENTACLE.” Of course, the candidacy will trigger a whole new wave of “birthers.” (“That’s okay. I’ve got the death-rayers on MY side!”)

I suspect the BIGGEST changes will come about if we drop the arbitrary “at least 35 years old” requirement for presidents.

Picture a chief executive who wears the nuclear codes in a nose piercing! Or who uses the Space Force to target lasers at zits!

He or she could make it less likely that vice presidents will have to take over when assassins strike. (“Unghh! Coach was right – I think I CAN walk this off.”)

But why stop with presidents who still have double-digits in their age? Maybe there will be a commander-in-chief who eschews the siren call of deep-pocketed donors and instead funds his own campaign – with lunch money “donated” by smaller classmates. (“No Swamp – just swirlies.”)

Yes, there could be a time when ballots ask, “Do you LIKE me like me? Check yes or no.”

Timeless speeches will include lines such as “Fourscore and…fourscore and…are you sure I can’t use my calculator for this?”

Think about bold international challenges, such as “Tear down this bouncy house – because I didn’t get one for MY birthday!”

Granted, youthful prejudices will make cabinet selection agonizingly complex. (“Do I HAFTA take him? Well, can he play right field instead of being the Secretary of Labor?”)

Can you imagine the reelection campaign? (“It’s morning in America – so scarf down some sugary cereal and start bouncing off the walls!”)

Let’s all watch for exciting presidential developments in the years to come.

But watch out for the centenarian yelling, “Hey, you kids get off the Lawn That Must Not Be Named Because It Conjures Up Images of Slavery and Jim Crow and Powerhouse Football Teams and…”

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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.