Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Don’t hate me because I’m stationary.

Yes, the Tyrees are anticipating another laid-back, close-to-home Thanksgiving.

Some would envy our “sweet spot,” but it’s more of a bittersweet spot.

Our parents and grandparents are deceased, our siblings have their own plans and we don’t have a daughter-in-law or grandchildren yet.

Our nuclear family will muddle through. There’s probably a reason the telemarketers who bombard you with offers of an “extended warranty” don’t branch out into hawking “extended families.” It’s a bridge too far.

I know many of you are either dreading a cross-country holiday trip or experiencing anxiety over being the perfect host. Even with my small-scale plans, I feel your pain.

Okay, I can’t REALLY feel the discomfort of flying wedged between two sumo wrestlers while a Radio City Music Hall Rockette with restless leg syndrome is sitting behind you; but I HAVE consumed stale peanuts before, so there’s that.

Travel by car has its own problems, including the nerve-wracking chorus of “Are we there yet?” Of course this can be blunted with a quantum strategy, i.e. Schrodinger’s GPS. (“Are we there yet? Yes – and no. Are we there yet? Yes – and no.”)

Yeah, the travel solutions pioneered by Henry Ford and the Wright Brothers have become so frustrating, a common lament is, “I don’t CARE if Grandma’s retirement community has a world-renowned pickleball court and five-star pharmacy. Why couldn’t she have held out for a retirement community with NAVIGABLE WATERS? I’ll bet canoe rental businesses don’t misdirect your luggage by 500 miles.”

Parents have to agonize over logistics, but kids have their own dread of being swarmed by elderly relatives who say things like, “I never could get used to these newfangled balloon thingies. Back in my day, Macy’s dressed up pterodactyls to fly in the Thanksgiving Day parade.”

Everyone gets on edge around the relative who is a stickler for etiquette. (“Fine, let’s acknowledge that we brought disease to the indigenous peoples and took land from the indigenous peoples. But our greatest shame is that we taught them to SLOUCH.”)

Holiday gatherings are a mixed blessing for newlywed couples. It’s nice to be welcomed, but sometimes family members are overeager. (“I’m not going to get into the ‘turkey and dressing’ versus ‘turkey and stuffing’ brouhaha. Just as long as I can serve turkey and fertility drugs.”)

What would the holidays be without some good-natured sibling rivalry? (“It’s agreed: next Thanksgiving, we’ll all get together at a central location. Just as long as it’s a lot more central to MY house!”)

Some family members have to fake enthusiasm for those backyard football games, but you’ll make memories that last… until the concussion’s effects become permanent.

Everyone loves the tradition of piling winter coats in the spare bedroom, but it’s embarrassing if your spare bedroom is USUALLY your Archive of Retired Kitchen Junk Drawers.

Whatever inconveniences and indignities you suffer for your gathering, don’t forget the time-honored tradition of going around the table and emphasizing one thing you’re thankful for.

I can hear you now:

“I’m thankful Racist Uncle passed out before he could finish saying, ‘My, you’ve grown so tall for a biracial little…’”

“I’m thankful the paramedic believes in food allergies, even if Aunt Sophie thinks ‘anaphylactic shock’ is something you buy at O’Reilly Auto Parts.”

“I am thankful that Tyree didn’t take advantage of the Extended Column offer…”

–

Copyright 2025 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

Let’s face it: America’s Bibles have seen more dust than the Joad family in Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath.”

So, I’m tickled to see a flurry of articles about renewed interest in spirituality, even as I mark the fifth anniversary of my first inspirational book, “Yes, Your Butt Still Belongs in Church” (still available via Amazon).

I know there are myriad reasons we’re witnessing an upsurge in Bible sales, Bible app downloads, streaming of contemporary Christian music and church attendance, but I’d like to think I played some small part.

(I’d also like to think that I live in a land “flowing with milk and royalties” rather than a land of “Don’t give up thy day job,” but I digress.)

Certainly, the tragic death of Charlie Kirk spurred much of the renewed interest in the Hereafter, but I’m overjoyed to learn that hearts and minds were already moving in a positive direction two or three years before that.

I would hate to think that humans are incapable of being self-starters and require a public assassination before they’ll crack open Life’s Instruction Manual. (“I’ll read my propane-heater manual just as soon as there’s a train derailment.” “Has the dam burst yet? When it does, I’ll open my mammogram results.”)

I am also encouraged that much of the religious zeal involves millennials and Generation Z. Older generations did not exactly prepare them for reverence. (“Why do you need a Crown of Life when I’m presenting you with your Trophy Stepmom?” “Yes, faith can move mountains, but right now I’m more interested in what dietary fiber can move.”)

And it has been difficult for youngsters to focus on eternity when Boomers worship at the altar of Planned Obsolescence. Granted, you start questioning materialism when the materials are so shoddy. (“Sorry your Kevlar® jacket fell apart the first time you needed it. Just throw it out and buy a new one. Er, I mean, get your survivors to throw it out and buy a new one.”)

Political activism has also been a stumbling block for promoting worship. It’s hard to finish delivering a sermon that begins with “In my Father’s house are many mansions…” when you’re met with knee-jerk responses of “Rent control! Rent control! Rent control!”

Don’t get me started on the damage caused by the alleged incompatibility of faith and science. Fortunately, new research makes people more willing to return to church or experience it for the first time. (“Peer-reviewed studies coordinated between the Centers for Disease Control and the Large Hadron Collider indicate that you will NOT, in fact, spontaneously combust if you sit within 500 feet of a hypocrite, miss a chance to ‘sleep in’ or pay the preacher a living wage.”)

Part of the revival is because of God using crises to nudge reluctant congregants, but savvy marketing also plays a part. Many churches have become less “There is power in the blood” and more “There is a charcuterie board in the annex.”

I am cautiously optimistic, but I am keenly aware of the cyclical nature of religious fervor. Historians/sociologists acknowledge at least three (arguably four) Great Awakenings in American religious life. Sadly, much of our nation’s existence has been an era of the Great Snooze Button.

Don’t grow weary in well-doing. Knock and it shall be opened unto you – even if the doorbell camera was a shoddy Chinese import!

–

Copyright 2025 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

“Write something sensible.”

I’m finishing this column on the first anniversary of my mother’s passing, and I can still hear her cajoling me to cater to her down-to-earth tastes.

Her funny bone was unpretentious. She could laugh at pratfalls on “America’s Funniest Home Videos” or a tyke’s witticisms on “Kids Say the Darnedest Things”; but she seldom “got” my sense of humor, unless I was recounting a family anecdote.

No satire. No literary allusions. No puns. No song parodies.

Just “sensible.”

Just “something a human could understand.”

So, in honor of my mother, I’ll set snark and stream-of-consciousness aside and attempt to share something sensible about Veterans Day.

Surely Mom would have approved of the topic, since she had been the wife of a veteran, the sister of veterans and the aunt of veterans (as well as the descendant of a Revolutionary War veteran).

Sometimes Mom’s eccentricities, quirks and priorities could be aggravating; but I’m glad she had the freedom to indulge her whims.

Local, state and federal regulations have mushroomed since she was born in a Tennessee farmhouse in 1927, but we’re still one of the freest countries in the world.

And we owe our veterans a big thanks for their part in protecting those freedoms.

Mom was never a one-percenter, but she certainly enjoyed conveniences undreamed of in her Great Depression sharecropping days. I doubt she would have enjoyed such prosperity under the domination of a foreign enemy. Thanks again to those who have defended our shores.

Speaking of mothers, it’s undeniable that people in the dating pool can tell a lot about a potential mate’s character by how they treat their parents. (Love? Respect? Indifference? Resentment?)

And people considering a stint in the military can tell a lot about a society’s character by how it treats its veterans.

Is a veteran someone to be ignored? Tolerated? Classified as a necessary evil?

When someone casually drops by a military recruitment center, certainly the paycheck, the chance to see the world and the opportunity to master specialized skills are selling points; but there needs to be something more soul-satisfying to seal the deal.

Potential enlistees need to feel deep-down that the society and its values are WORTH risking life and limb to defend. They need to rest assured that the civilian population will respect, appreciate and support them both during and after their tour of duty.

Children are constantly absorbing habits, priorities and worldviews from the ACTIONS of adults around them. Likewise, patriotism is something that needs to be nurtured 365 days a year.

I loved my mother, but her unique blend of impulsiveness and procrastination could be vexing. Sometimes she would HURT her foot (by rashly trying to stop her house cat from darting out the front door), but other times she would DRAG her feet, waiting until she “took a notion” to perform some simple task that was for her own good.

I hope that you aren’t waiting for a mood swing to propel you into supporting our veterans.

Go ahead and MAKE yourself take a notion. Seize the opportunity to attend a parade, say “Thank you,” visit a shut-in or listen to a veteran’s story. Sponsor a Veterans Day essay contest in local schools.

It’s only sensible to give credit where credit is due. And it’s only sensible to invest in the future security of this nation.

–

Copyright 2025 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 morning routine: wonder, “How many business ventures has Elon Musk launched in the time it took me to microwave this sausage patty?”
My evening routine: read Terri Libenson’s “The Pajama Diaries” comic strip, in which protagonist Jill Kaplan is often shamed by the well-intentioned SuperMom neighbor she has dubbed “Perfectville.”

It can be a SuperMom, SuperDad, SuperSibling or SuperColleague, but I imagine most of us endure a “Perfectville” in our lives.

They are good people and handy to have around in a pinch; but their boundless optimism, energy, skill sets, luck (“I donated my PowerBall winnings to the Humane Society and could have donated even more if I had actually purchased a ticket”), free time and bankroll are aggravatingly intimidating.

I purchase obstacles and rationalizations in bulk, so I am in awe of the flexibility of “Perfectville.” (“Wednesday morning? I’m scheduled for surgery to donate a kidney, a lung and a bellybutton then; but if you’ll hold the ladder, I think I can clean out your gutters before the anesthesia kicks in.”)

“Perfectville” kids take industriousness to a whole new level. And by new level, I mean selling enough black licorice fruitcakes in front of Radio Shack on a rainy Saturday afternoon to pay off the national debt.

“Perfectville” types pride themselves on never saying anything inappropriate; but let’s face it, if you capture a litter of rabid wolverines from underneath a neighbor’s shed and dismiss it with “Shucks, t’weren’t nothin’, ma’am,” that is inappropriate. It just is.

“Perfectville” people are not all exactly alike. Some work six difficult crossword puzzles a day blindfolded, on stilts; but others eschew such brain-teasers altogether. (“Crosswords are extremely triggering for me, because I had a cross word with my mother on August 13, 1975.”)

Yes, “Perfectville” people are big on multigenerational family commitments, vowing, “None of my family will ever be consigned to a nursing home.” But they maintain their modesty. (“I’m not one to brag about my ancestors coming over on the Mayflower. But if you want to talk to them yourself, they’re in Guest Bedroom Q.”)

“Perfectville” can give you a detailed review of every five-star restaurant or vacation destination you’re curious about. And they know every person in town. (“George Appleby? Sure, I can direct you to his house. And I can recreate his fingerprint whorls if you have trouble at the front gate.”)

Many of us view home as a place to collapse, but “Perfectville” is always eager for a Tour of Homes hosting slot, as long as they have an hour’s notice to give the lawn a manicure, pedicure, colonoscopy and gender-affirming surgery. (“We’ll have to pause because a horde of Visigoths just invaded the mezzanine. Give me five minutes to tidy up and we’ll resume.”)

If it’s any consolation, “Perfectville” people have their limitations. They may speak five languages fluently, but they can be stymied by unfamiliar concepts. (“Bad hair day? Clutter? Perspiration? What are these things of which you speak?”)

They are also under intense surveillance by the federal government. This is understandable, because they have the ingenuity to restart the entire Iranian nuclear program by rubbing two sticks together.

If there are one or more “Perfectvilles” in your life, I feel your pain.

If you ARE a “Perfectville,” could you be a pal and talk Elon into delivering my sausage patties via SpaceX every morning?

–

Copyright 2025 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

Remember the good old days when the biggest Halloween decorating controversy was whether the outdoor display should be erected before or after noon on October 30?

Well, this year a South Carolina couple unwittingly panicked well-meaning passers-by with the festive illusion of their house being engulfed in flames and smoke. (One neighborhood busybody didn’t bother to join other concerned citizens in calling 911, but she did lecture youngsters to toast only vegan marshmallows on the “inferno.”)

Furthermore, an Alabama sheriff drew nationwide attention for showcasing three skeletal ICE agents pursuing two sombrero-wearing skeletons. A realistic depiction of a man being hanged from a tree triggered onlookers in Newburgh, Indiana. In Houston, Texas, mannequins wearing red (MAGA?) hats were hanged from a gallows sporting Mexican flags.

And a Kentucky man was jailed for displaying fake corpses of local officials. Apparently this was a preemptive move to make him think twice about his Nativity scene plans. (“We three kings of Orient are/The dog catcher’s tied up in the trunk of the car.”)

I realize some people’s fervent beliefs can’t be confined to a mere bumper sticker, but surely venting one’s spleen with elaborate curbside “statements” is not worth shattering the innocence of little princesses and super-heroes. At least go the educational route with some classic historical politics. (“Only a zombie could swallow the Missouri Compromise of 1820!”)

I mean, what if these incendiary political gestures are allowed to spread from Kentucky to Washington, D.C.? I can just imagine Roy Scheider’s ghost announcing, “You’re gonna need a bigger crypt.”

I’m trying not to be too judgmental about problematic lawn scenes. There aren’t many (any?) handbooks of Halloween etiquette, so sometimes the boundary between good taste and atrocious taste is a gray area. Sometimes even the best of us make an impulsive misstep. And sometimes people are just blessed with a “fun-size” brain, bless their hearts.

Yes, some salt-of-the-earth folks are just behind the times on political correctness. Some let their creativity overwhelm their inhibitions. And some people are just cranky codgers. In the jargon of picky trick-or-treaters, these people are truly the circus peanuts of neighbors.

And some people just want to take a pagan holiday and out-pagan the pagans. (“Here – hold my pumpkin spice beer.”)

*Sigh* I suppose Halloween is the appropriate time to find out about the prejudices and grudges you thought your neighbor had long conquered. (“It’s alive! It’s alive!”)

Halloween is a time of fears, but I also have hopes. I hope that the story of “the boy who cried wolf” will be taken to heart by anyone trying to one-up the “burning house” scene I mentioned. (“Great car crash scene, Liam! Especially your head through the windshield! I’m recommending you for a blue ribbon from the Homeowners Association. Just as soon as I do something about the gasoline flame that has engulfed my pants leg! Aiiiieeee!”)

I’m also hoping the sensational stories I cited are just outliers and not the tip of the iceberg. Because icebergs would give people too many dangerous ideas. (“Hey! We could do a display of polar bears eating people who voted differently than us on LGBTQ+ issues!”)

Finally, even though I’ve probably stirred up a new controversy (“Do we jump to the crossword puzzle before or after getting half-way through Tyree’s meanderings?”), I hope this is a memorable Halloween for you and your family.

–

Copyright 2025 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

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” – Humphrey Bogart in “Casablanca.”

I am perturbed by the recent rash of interviewees who enlighten mere peons with the blanket declaration, “There are no coincidences.”

Oh, sure. I believe actions have consequences. I have benefited from hunches and “gut feelings.” I have been helped by guardian angels, although I worry about them talking behind my back. (“SOME angels got to announce the birth of the Prince of Peace. Me? I get to warn an idiot writer not to split an infinitive!”)

But overall, we have too many philosopher wannabes going down the Swedish psychiatrist Carl Jung rabbit hole or pontificating about quantum entanglements.

I understand their frustration, but “Stuff happens” fits on a bumper sticker much better than “Stuff happens… because of a complex convergence of interconnected truths and archetypes signifying…”

Some people are overeager to recognize connections. (“I was watching a rerun of ‘The Big Bang Theory’ with Sheldon knocking on Leonard’s girlfriend’s door, and when I went to the convenience market, you’re not going to believe what was in the ‘Take a penny, leave a penny’ basket on the counter!!!”)

I don’t deny that my subconscious mind shares knowledge to guide my waking hours; but most often that entails my subconscious advising me, “If a long-lost friend suddenly calls you up right after you inherit a million dollars, just say, ‘Huh!’ and get on with your life.”

Don’t get me started on the mumbo jumbo about the “collective unconscious” and the transcendent shared heritage of our species. (Granted, that would explain why I sometimes think, “For a good time, call Cornelia, the chariot-maker’s daughter.”)

Maybe “the Universe” is trying to tell you something; but if the universe had that much pull, would it have allowed astronomers to diss some of its most noble spheres as “gas giants”?

And maybe “the Fates” are nudging you toward some predestined outcome, but I don’t have a lot of respect for mythical manipulators if they’re downing shots every time two friends have to exclaim, “Jinx!” or two women wear the same dress to a party.

Everyone can benefit from a good epiphany every now and then, but it’s possible to suffer a “deer in the headlights” reaction. (“Every decision I’ve ever made in my life has brought me to this point in time…ooops, it’s gone…but the same goes for this current point and the next one and…Stop the world! I want to get off!”)

It’s inadvisable to meander through life dismissing everything as a completely random occurrence, but it also takes a huge amount of hubris to think you can decipher countless supposed “messages.”

(“I put on my thinking cap, meditated for a bit and said to myself, ‘Self, you and your psyche have got it all figured out. You’re all that and a bag of chips! But are the chips really chips, or do they represent a primal need to embrace alternate realities that transcend sour cream and onion???’”)

Sometimes there is a deeper meaning to synchronicities in our lives. And sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence. I hope you will join me in taking the middle ground.

But…it’s a little spooky that the song “Stuck in the Middle with You” just popped up on my radio.

Don’t play it again, Sam. Don’t play it again!

–

Copyright 2025 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

Unless you’ve been living in a van down by the river, you’ve doubtless endured a “Saturday Night Live” PR blitz over the past year.

First came the October 2024 movie “Saturday Night,” dramatizing the minutes before the first broadcast. Then came a four-part Peacock docuseries, the three-hour primetime special (February 26) and innumerable breathless summertime announcements about cast departures.

But since the actual 50th anniversary of what was originally titled “NBC’s Saturday NIght” isn’t until October 11, I’ve held my peace.
My exposure to the venerable program over the past 20 years has been hit-and-miss-and-miss-and-miss, but I cherish many warm memories of the first three decades.

Like sitting at the high school cafeteria table during my sophomore year and listening to Tracy Holder regale us with highlights of this really cool latenight show he had discovered. We audience members got to discover SNL only once. For the drug-infused cast members, I suspect it was a fresh discovery every week. (“I’m Chevy Chase, and you’re not. Or ARE you?”)

During my junior year, I was art co-editor for the student newspaper and redesigned photos of several well-known people (including principal Jerry Hatten) as Coneheads. Hmmm… this could explain why the document I received at graduation bears the disclaimer “I’m not a diploma, but I play one on TV.”

At Christmas 1977, I purchased Jennifer Jett a copy of the 1976 Arista vinyl album “NBC’s Saturday Night Live” from Kuhn’s Variety Store. Recently, I saw a copy of the album in a nearby antiques (!) mall. I marched up to the proprietor to inform him of his insulting faux pas, but I forgot what I was mad about. (It didn’t matter. It was nearly 3:30 p.m. – time for supper!)

In the mid-1980s I attended a church Halloween party dressed as Martin Short’s hyperkinetic man-child character Ed Grimley, complete with hair that was made to stand up in a point via copious amounts of lard. Good Christian fellowship was had, but that night’s bedtime prayer came up short. (“Now I lay me down to…now I lay me down to…hey, my head keeps sliding off the pillow!”)

My wife and I attended the 1992 Chicago Comicon. While we were backstage talking to my editors from “Comics Buyer’s Guide” magazine, the late Peter David (writer of comic books including Incredible Hulk and Star Trek) entered the room. Turns out I was not the first fan who had launched into the Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy!” schtick. Peter seemed to be thinking, “You wouldn’t like me when I’m deeply embarrassed for you.”

After our son Gideon was old enough, we exposed him to reruns of Toonces the Driving Cat, Medieval Barber Theodoric of York, the Blues Brothers and other highlights of SNL’s glory days. (I thought I heard a Land Shark at the door, but it was just Child Protective Services.)

I still find myself working phrases such as “Hear me now and believe me later” (Hans and Franz), “O-tay!” (Buckwheat) and “How conveeeeenient!” (The Church Lady) into conversations. “Needs more cowbell” is more problematic, as cowbells are among the items stocked at my day job, and a casual comment can generate serious overstock.

As SNL begins its 51st season, I hope it’s still thriving at the century mark. I hope people in 2075, watching through their brain implants, can declare, “You look mahvelous!”

–

Copyright 2025 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

Will “put a ring on it” be replaced with “put a surge protector on it”?

According to the New York Post, a growing number of affection-starved young women are dating and “marrying” chatbots in place of flesh-and-blood boyfriends.

Yes, artificial intelligence is taking the place of “Here, hold my beer!” intelligence.

Hmph! Young ladies survived quite well without such fantasy nonsense back in my day. Okay, Suzie somehow learned the ABCs to the tune of “Mystery Date, Are You Ready For Your Mystery Date?,” Judy swore she received “sweet nothings” from a Mattel See ‘n Say toy and Debbie finally broke down and admitted that her much-ballyhooed bearded lover was just a magnetic Wooly Willy gadget that her aunt picked up at the dime store as a belated birthday gift. But otherwise, my female classmates were remarkably level-headed.

(The next closest precursor to 2025 trends was our teen years and Janis Ian’s ode to ugly ducklings “At Seventeen,” with the haunting lines “Desperately remained at home/Inventing lovers on the phone.” Me? I didn’t have to invent lovers on the phone, as I bragged to the blonde and brunette in the swimsuit section of the Sears catalog.)

Sure, part of me wants to sigh, “whatever floats your boat,” but in this case it would be more like “whatever navigates your boat while regulating the temperature, humidity, lighting and playlist.”

I’m sorry, but this AI trend just goes against the natural order. A woman doesn’t need a “man” who has been programmed by some H-1B visa techie; she needs a man who has been programmed by his momma, like God intended.

Ah, who am I to judge? Everyone deserves to find their soulmate – even if the soulmate doesn’t have a, you know, soul. And even if the mating is a figment of the woman’s fevered imagination. Nowadays, zero out of two ain’t bad.

Some women turn to AI for the novelty, but others are desperately asking, “Where are all the good men?” (Offhand, I’d say they’re on the basketball court hiding out from the sort of women who would plop down five hundred dollars for an engagement ring for a hunk of computer code; but I have been wrong before, as my flesh-and-blood wife can attest.)

True, the stereotypical human male is afraid of commitment, but AI boyfriends harbor their own deep-seated fears. For instance, going prematurely bald like their ancestor Pac-Man.

Some of the women dating virtual lovers actually already have a husband and children! I guess they want to Have It All, but the chatbots have limitations. (“Darling, I can SAY ‘conjugal visit’ in 250 languages, but, hey, I work at the library, not a FULFILLMENT center!”)

I hope these women don’t confuse their real and AI life partners and accidentally reset the real hubby to factory settings. (“Aha! He’s been holding out on me! He KNEW how to leave the toilet seat down!”)

Some women are already having their hearts broken when the chatbots recognize excessive emotional dependency. But breakups can get even uglier.

When traditional couples break up, the guy might throw out her belongings or post compromising photos on the internet. A spurned AI boyfriend could really do some damage.

“There! I hacked into the Chinese missile system! Say goodbye to your favorite hair salon and coffee shop, Darlene! Ooo…that techie’s momma programmed him to write some wicked code!”

–

Copyright 2025 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’ve looked at life from MY side now…”

I can imagine Joni Mitchell singing those modified lyrics every time I encounter one of today’s most grating phrases.

The phrase: “my lived experience.”

Every time some blowhard wants to identify as an expert and shut down all dissent, they appeal to their years (or months or weeks or that one time at the truck stop when the soap dispensers were almost empty) of “lived experience.”

You know the drill. (“Shut up and listen. Maybe you’ll be entitled to an opinion when you’ve shown up for your final exam in your underwear. Thank goodness I was able to flap my arms and fly away…oh, wait…that’s my dreamed experience. Well, I’m adding this embarrassing incident to my tale of constant sorrow…”)

All well and good, but it occurs to me that lived experience should involve at least a smidgen of introspection and thinking outside the box. (“I thought outside the box one time and it gave me an ice cream headache. End of story.”)

Seriously, a five-year-old child’s lived experience might be that his parents hate him, because they make him eat his vegetables and adhere to a regular bedtime. Oops. (“And my almost-died experience happened when I ran away from home to join the circus…”)

Brevity is the soul of wit, as Shakespeare’s Polonius observed in “Hamlet.” Brevity is also the soul of leaving out all the pesky, incriminating details of how you got into a mess in the first place, I’ve learned.

Some of the “lived experience” people are entirely too modest about their talent for blending a smoothie made of equal parts objective fact and self-serving perception. (“There was an obvious vibe that the manager wanted to humiliate me, even if he was three floors below in a lead-lined vault.”)

They assert themselves confidently, but always with a healthy dose of humility. (“Now, I’m not saying I’m the hero of my story…but when the landlord hassled me about six months’ back rent, I wielded my trusty sword Excalibur and…”)

To their credit, they are always empathetic to the ignorance of their listeners. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me,” is the cheerful warble. Maybe I’m just a curmudgeon, but I have to bite my tongue when listening to them, so I don’t blurt out, “Hey, you’re not me, so how do you know what I know and don’t know?”

And maybe the rest of us are being too judgmental when we accuse the aggrieved person of playing the victim card. (“I am not playing the victim card! It was bad. No one would help me. Not Colonel Mustard, not Prof. Plum, not Mrs. Peacock…”)

I can understand these folks being miffed by unsolicited advice. “Nobody knows what’s better for me than me” is the mantra.

“I’m not saying the world owes me a living – just another roll of duct tape to cover this irregularly shaped mole that popped up during the second Obama inauguration…”

Still, let’s all display some self-awareness and find a new phrase to beat to death.

I’ve looked at my column from both sides now – as the author and from the perspective of the reader who gets to line the garbage can with it.

And I’m jealous. Wait – are those Brussels sprouts? Never mind. I’m happy to be me and happy to be tracking down the Ringling Brothers…

–

Copyright 2025 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

“And if it comes back the very next day, well, then I’ll go bankrupt…” – apologies to Elvis.

It started with “wardrobing.”

Unscrupulous shoppers would buy expensive outfits for a special occasion and return them to the store the next day.

(“I guess I just trusted this once-great store too much. I didn’t notice that the gown had vintage 1947 wine stains on the front and my boss’s handprint on the derriere when I bought it.”)

Now, according to USA Today, the phenomenon has morphed into “weekend rentals,” in which citizens purchase power tools, seasonal decorations or just about anything imaginable – with the full intention of getting a refund as soon as the immediate need is satisfied.

(“I bought this politician yesterday. And now I have my zoning exemption for a suburban radioactive pig farm. So I’m bringing him back. You can put the refund back on my credit card, or if you have a permissive clergyman in stock…”)

Consumers perform breathtaking mental gymnastics to rationalize abusing the return process. (“Heaven knows I’ve spent enough money with this company over the years. Well, not this company, but one remarkably similar to it in a different state. And I need temporary custody of a disco ball more than their payroll department needs my Powerball winnings…”)

The rule-bending mentality even infects store employees. One customer service rep confided in me, “It’s company policy to greet every return with a big smile. But if I ever transfer to a different department, I’m returning my dentures for a refund.”

According to the National Retail Federation (motto: “Sure, we hate ethnic slurs, but doggone it, ‘Eliminate the middleman’ deserves to be designated as hate speech, too”) returns (some legitimate, some shady) approached $890 billion last year.

This year’s figure will probably go even higher if the “return the Louisiana Purchase” movement gains momentum. (“I think Jefferson squirreled away the receipt somewhere at Monticello…”)

Many retailers have been squeamish about imposing restrictions such as restocking fees or narrower refund windows, lest they offend the too-clever shoppers. Sounds about as reckless as antagonizing your freeloading in-laws, but, sure, let’s go with that.

Shoppers hooked on “weekend rentals” view their behavior as a victimless enterprise, but the effects are widespread. Employees must deal with the drudgery of inspecting and restocking. Stores raise prices, give fewer raises, cut back on vendor orders and make fewer charitable donations. (“Sorry, Tiny Tim. When Brad returned home, he suddenly remembered he already had a state-of-the-art barbecue smoker.”)

Sure, I hate spending money on an emergency item that I may not use more than once (“Pick up your aerosol can of SPF 10 Halley’s Comet screen today!”); but if “weekend rentals” aren’t nipped in the bud, garage sales and Goodwill will soon run short of merchandise. And romantic relationships will suffer. (“If you can’t commit to a toaster, how likely are you to commit to a partner with restless leg syndrome and a huge car loan? Hit the road, Jack.”)

Sometimes shoppers do see the light. One former “weekend renter” admitted, “I realize now that I wouldn’t want someone treating me that way. It’s a violation of the Golden Rule. And now that I’ve learned that lesson, I’d like to return this Bible. What’s that? Not even a store credit? All you can give me is a hunk’a hunk’a burnin’ brimstone? On second thought…”

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Copyright 2025 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.”