Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“The right place at the right time.”

I realize that not everyone recognizes Jesus Christ as the Son of God (or even a real person); but for Christians, his birth, ministry, death and triumph over death fit the “right place at the right time” for fulfilling prophecies of the Messiah.

Perhaps that is one of the most constructive themes to explore this holiday season and in the coming year: striving to be in the right place at the right time.

Common courtesy dictates punctuality and following directions, but there’s much more to it than that.

Sure, the limitations of the human mind leave us zigging instead of zagging in this complex world. Pure dumb luck can land us in calamitous circumstances due to no fault of our own.

But…

…often we are “cruising for a bruising.” We make ill-advised snap decisions or gradually become trapped in a routine that is less than ideal for ourselves, our family or our community.

“Mama Told Me (Not to Come)” was a tongue-in-cheek hit for songwriter Randy Newman and rock group Three Dog Night; but it’s also true that we frequently ask for trouble with our choices of friends, hang-outs and pastimes. (Yes, Billy Joel, sometimes running with a “dangerous crowd” does hurt someone.)

Many innocent people wind up in jail because their lifestyle made their guilt downright plausible. (“Abstain from all appearance of evil,” the apostle Paul advised.)

All God’s children have troubles, but some of our solutions are merely treating the symptoms. And in the case of substance abuse as a coping mechanism, not treating the symptoms very successfully at all. “At the bottom of a whisky glass, all day long” is neither the place nor time for making rational decisions.

Even laudable endeavors such as good, honest work can pose risks of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yes, many people are living paycheck to paycheck; but others have the privilege of declaring “Enough is enough.” Once you have a roof over your head, food on the table and an emergency fund, is it really wise to keep working extra just for things?

Put “Cat’s in the Cradle” on the stereo and see if you don’t start thinking that perhaps the right place and right time is “Tina’s school play at 7 p.m.” instead of “at the office until daybreak.”

With all the opportunities for mentoring, donating food, collecting clothing, visiting shut-ins and cleaning up neighborhoods, there’s certainly a buyer’s market for volunteerism. Maybe “scrunched down in the back row every time there’s a call for raised hands” is not the best place and time.

According to the book of James, “To him that knoweth to do good and doeth it not, to him it is sin.”

“On the top side of the ground, while you’re both still breathing” constitutes the only chance for rebuilding bridges that have been burned; but some people are too prideful to take the first step toward clearing the air over some slight — real or imagined. That baby in the manger did not grow up to promote such stubbornness.

I wish each of you a joyous holiday season. But as you map out who sits where or strategize a timeline for taking down the decorations, I hope you’ll also make a commitment to consider the right place and time for life’s more substantive endeavors.

–

Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

A course is a course, of course of course …

Or is it?

According to those madcap bean-counters at the National Golf Foundation, the number of off-course golfers (those going to simulators, driving ranges and entertainment venues such as Topgolf) recently surpassed the number of traditional on-course golfers in the United States.

For the sake of full disclosure, I am neither a traditional golfer nor a high-tech golfer. But I do enjoy playing miniature golf with my wife and son when we’re on vacation. (For the sake of fuller disclosure, the biggest hazard in such scenarios is not water but “got through nine holes quicker than I expected and now we have more time for the outlet malls. Yay.”)

Yes, glitz and convenience have swayed many golfers, both neophyte and seasoned. (“The rise of the strip-mall country club,” someone dubbed the phenomenon.)

But long-term, I wonder just how glitzy and convenient it will be to sidestep hordes of unemployed caddies and greenskeepers, with their “will manicure landscape for half of that hoagie you purchased 10 feet away from the computer-generated Abu Dhabi Golf Club” signs.

I dread the Saudis ever getting involved with the “golf lite” venues, like they have with professional golf. (“We’ll pay you 10 zillion dollars to incorporate some laser tag moves into your backswing.”)

I suspect that my Scots ancestors would be turning over in their graves if they knew about the relaxed dress codes and other compromises creeping into the outdoor sport they invented; but then, they probably never stopped turning over in their graves from a diet of vegetables cooked in sheep intestines.

I am attempting to be a dispassionate observer of the changing scene. Some 20 years ago, a customer declared that if I ever satirized golf again, he would kick my (sit-upon spot). His knees and hips are two decades older and my padding is more ample, so I am sticking my neck out just a little.

I will interject that maybe the wrong aspects of golf are being simulated. Perhaps we should go the virtual route for country-club handshake agreements. (“Let’s not coronate the next mayor, bulldoze a historic neighborhood and finalize the nuclear plant next to the teeter-totter at the playground and say we did.”)

Some industry officials are trying to be realistic, but more pie-in-the-sky analysts are confident that casual players will eventually evolve into dues-paying members of full-scale golf courses.

As one expert remarked, “Any activity that puts a golf club in more people’s hands widens the funnel for new golfers.” (“Joe Blow, you just beat your wife and mother-in-law to a pulp with a 9 iron. What are you going to do next?” “I’m going to Augusta National!”)

Another industry leader opined, “Ultimately, every golfer’s aspiration is to play green-grass golf — or at least buy a breeding pair of those dancing gophers like in ‘Caddyshack.’”

I guess this is like asserting that pumping up the number of junior high hall monitors will produce a steady stream of Supreme Court chief justices. Anybody want to make a friendly wager?

Whether you’re a dedicated purist or a laid-back dabbler, I hope the evolution of golf goes to suit you.

I’ve tried not to shank this essay. I hope you don’t have to grant me a mulligan.

“I saw an ad that mulligans are BOGO at the outlet mall!”

*Sigh*

–

Copyright 2023 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

It was never as high-profile as “Rudolph” or “Frosty,” but it’s worth noting that the animated special “The Bear Who Slept Through Christmas” turns 50 on December 17.

I’m sure I saw the program at least once, but my niece Claire used to drive her parents to distraction by insisting on seeing the VHS tape of “Chris’mus Bear!” over and over and over.

(My guess would be that Claire’s young son Elliot has his own exasperating yuletide rituals. Payback, as they say, is a reindeer.)

The show was misleadingly named. Protagonist Ted E. Bear (voiced by Tommy Smothers) actually stayed awake to find out what Christmas was all about, while the rest of the bears hibernated.

After scouring the internet for phrases such as “reasons I hate Christmas,” “things I despise about December” and “Here are some jokes your readers will never realize you ripped off,” I have come to the conclusion that a significant percentage of humans would love to hibernate through the holidays, which is okay, I guess, unless you have a hang-up about atrophied muscles, bed sores and some prankster leaving your hand dangling in warm eggnog.

The appeal of being semi-comatose goes beyond the oft-cited misgivings about commercialization, canceled flights, budget-busting lights displays, awkward workplace parties and formulaic Hallmark movies. Innumerable citizens yearn to escape the seasonal onslaught of rock/pop singers who have always dreamed of recording a Christmas album showcasing the same embellishments as a celebrity rendition of the National Anthem. It’s amazing how much “Do you hear what I hear?” can sound like “Oh, say can you seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?”

Other people want to escape the pity parties for friends with birthdays inconveniently close to December 25. Going forward, maybe we could tweak the birthday timing by re-branding March as “the month that comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb and in-between there’s no tight jeans or Barry White records.”

Some conscientious folks wish they could hibernate because they feel guilty about spending a month lying to youngsters about various aspects of the holiday. (They seem to have no qualms about spending the other 11 months of the year telling youngsters, “My political party can cure poverty, crime, climate change and bad hair days with one hand tied behind its back,” but that’s a topic for another time.)

Tons of people would be willing to snooze through December to escape having their latest romantic partner “dissected” at family gatherings. (“Try coming down the chimney. If you get stuck, that means you have the proper child-bearing hips.”)

Countless individuals are tired of being judged because they’re all thumbs at wrapping gifts. (“I’m not saying it’s the TOP survivalist skill, but one look at that pathetic ribbon makes me think you should ditch the six-month food supply and just die.”)

Possibly half the population would be willing to hibernate to escape the ritual of stressing out over selecting perfect gifts for imperfect people. (“I had to re-gift the Rolex with the names of all my fraternity brothers engraved on it. While dealing with my gluten intolerance, I found out I’m also allergic to timepieces that start with an ‘R.’ Sorry.”)

Whether you prefer to hide from Christmas or immerse yourself in it to the fullest, that’s up to you.

Just remember the time-honored maxim: “Let sleeping bears … shred that Christmas sweater into a million pieces.”

–

Copyright 2023 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 understand some commentators are accusing Target of scoring less than a bullseye in dealing with shoplifters.

The retailer encourages the police to help fight inventory “shrinkage,” but insists on “handcuffing” the officers into staging low-key, out-of-sight, super-discreet interactions with the alleged criminals. (“Bad cop has the flu today. We’re playing good cop, ‘won’t you be my neighbor?’ cop.”)

A more direct confrontation would supposedly “cause a scene” and generate bad publicity for the chain.

We certainly can’t risk social media spreading gossip about “major retailer takes action to see that pilferage doesn’t jack up prices for honest customers.” That’s almost as scandalous as “Goodwill store gives disabled veteran an opportunity to remain productive.” Brrr.

What if the Target mentality had prevailed in pre-Revolutionary War days? (“No, don’t dump cases of tea in Boston Harbor; dangle a few bags in the lovely endangered wetlands a two-day ride outside of town. And can’t that loudmouth Paul Revere settle for some sternly worded Post-it Notes?”)

Humanity has always experienced “scenes,” “outbursts” and “public spectacles.” Anger, fear, sorrow, insecurity, jealousy and narcissism are nothing new. Now that calls for gentlemanly behavior or ladylike behavior are derided as outdated signs of privilege or patriarchy, it is inevitable that drama-drenched events will be a dime a dozen. (“A dime a dozen? They were a dime for two dozen before the hurricane hit! You price-gouging %$#@*…”)

There’s a lot to be said for ticking time bombs letting off a little pressure, obnoxious sociopaths showing their true colors and the parents of young athletes helping Junior’s coach acknowledge his numerous mental and physical impairments without even a co-pay.

I am on record as stating that retail clerks and restaurant waitstaff should not be bullied (expecting my Nobel Peace Prize any day now); but imagine how humdrum life would be without embarrassingly ostentatious marriage proposals, alcohol-infused wedding toasts, politically charged holiday meals (“Of course I know there’s not a communist behind every tree; my company has clear-cut all the trees!”), over-the-top public displays of affection at funerals (“Hey, get a crypt!”) and threat-infused demands to See The Manager. (“Actually, mister, my mud-pie stand wasn’t envisioned with a hierarchical structure in mind…”)

I admire folks who try maintaining a thin veneer of civilization, but their efforts usually fall woefully short. The best most can achieve is a zen-like “What is the sound of one hand snatching some hussy bald-headed for trying to grab my doorbuster flat-screen TV?”

My late mother-in-law was raised by her mother to be prim and proper and ratchet down her boisterousness. Whispered admonitions of “What would that man over there think?” drummed decorum into her psyche. Nowadays a rowdy child would probably have That Man Over There thinking, “If they can reboot ‘Frasier,’ why can’t they reboot ‘The Jerry Springer Show’?”

I’d love to hear whether you’ve ever caused a scene, either through righteous indignation, irrational exuberance or just bad manners. Thwarted scenes are welcome, too. (“I was going to glue myself to the floor at the Homeowners Association meeting to criticize wasteful Christmas lights, but I couldn’t land my private jet with McMurtry’s Winnebago in the way!”)

In the meantime, I’m going to check up on the patrolmen at Target.

“Hey, someone stole my cardigan and sneakers while I was filling out the report! Someone’s new neighbor is about to be Cuddles on Cell Block B!”

–

Copyright 2023 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

Well, that quarter-century went by faster than the weaver’s shuttle!

(Almost as fast as younger readers Googling, “What the %$#@& is a weaver’s shuttle?”)

As of late October, I have been pounding out a Tyrades! column every week for 25 years without a single break, and with no plans to slow down.

Why does someone keep up the weekly grind after more than 1300 columns? Tradition … TRADITION! (Although, if I was a rich man, I’d give a congressman a .. campaign contribution … in return for slipping an 8-day week into the middle of a 3,000-page omnibus spending bill.)

Other reasons abound. My deeply ingrained work ethic plays a big part in my perseverance. I would show you an album of the hard work performed by my ancestors, but it’s waaay over there on the bookshelf and my gluteus maximus has a binding agreement with this chair.

I’m addicted to the warm, fuzzy feeling of thinking that my observations bring a smile to faces across the nation. That is a smile, isn’t it, and not a nervous tic? (“The editor knows where we live! What if he sends that crazy Tyree son of a gun to the house? I told you we should get the paper from the newsstand!”)

I feel a spiritual responsibility to keep going. I don’t exactly have “talent on loan from God” like the Rush Limbaugh slogan, but I do possess sort of a “talent that God left out on the curb hoping some poor schmuck would haul it off.”

Appearing in print and in digitized archives is my brush with immortality. Although, some people think my brush with immortality should entail being chained to a rock and having an eagle peck at my liver. To each his own.

I am too ornery to go gentle into that good night. Various cultural forces have caused a distressing number of newspapers to go belly-up since I started in 1998 and I want to use my notoriety to inspire the intrepid survivors to keep up the good fight. (“Tyree. T-Y-R-E-E. Yeah, the guy next to the pork-belly futures report.”)

I don’t solve crossword puzzles or memorize sports statistics, so relentlessly brainstorming puns and fine-tuning song parodies are my way of keeping mentally sharp. I THINK I came into the room to write this paragraph. Or was it to stop the spaghetti from boiling over? Decisions, decisions.

My long-suffering wife accommodates my need for time to research, outline, write and proofread. I would hate to lose my excuse for reading three newspapers a day or staying up late. (“Never know when this two-paragraph news item about the prince of Liechtenstein postponing a speech about watching paint dry will come in handy. Could be comedy gold!”)

As I continue to hone my satirical jabs, I aspire to show my mother (age 96) that there are more nuanced ways of getting a point across than some of her unfiltered utterances. Honest, she recently told a casual acquaintance, “I’m glad you got your hair cut. It makes you look HUMAN.” Bless her heart – and gag her mouth.

Seriously, I’m glad my mother has lived to see me collect 75 of my favorite essays into “Tyree’s Tyrades!: 25 Years of Love and Laughter,” available in paperback and ebook from Amazon.

Makes a great stocking stuffer. Fits waaay better than a weaver’s loom.

–

Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

One of my co-workers has an autumnal tradition of spending a week of quality time with her dog Alfie around his birthday.

Some may find that eccentric, but even she is skeptical of a trend I saw reported in the Wall Street Journal.

“Dog birthdays are turning into elaborate social events,” barked the headline.

Yes, professional party organizers are raking in megabucks for lavish festivities centered around the anniversary of a dog’s birth or some other canine milestone (the anniversary of the pooch’s adoption, the anniversary of the legalization of dog poker, the anniversary of suing Pope Francis for not dispatching an exorcist to deal with that creepy possessed vacuum cleaner, et cetera).

Gourmet treats, dog-oriented games, gift-wrapped presents, rounds of “Happy Birthday to You” and stringent rules (“Yes, we allowed you a ‘plus one,’ but not a ‘plus 100’! To the flea dip with you!”) are the order of the day for these celebrations attended by tycoons and celebrities with more kibble than God.

Proud pet owners insist that dogs can sense when something special in their honor is in the works, but why assume that dogs know the hoopla is related specifically to their birthday? Maybe they’ll become anxiety-plagued because they think the special attention is a diversion from bad news. (“Are…are Mommy and Daddy getting divorced??? Or… did that vet lie about neutering being a one-time thing?”)

Some owners think that a mass assemblage of their dog’s acquaintances or long-separated siblings (along with the dogs of the master’s friends) is the greatest thing since sliced bread snatched from the dinner table when no humans are looking.

These are the same cockeyed optimists who think that a harmonious Thanksgiving means bringing together both sets of in-laws along with copious amounts of Uncle Bubba’s favorite potent potable and a collection of political yard signs.

The whole idea of a guest list made up entirely of humans and dogs seems problematically species-ist, anyway. Maybe if the dogs got a vote, they would opt to invite a few giraffes, ostriches or pandas. Or monkeys to do some fast and furious flinging! (“Bet you won’t complain any more about having to operate a pooper-scooper, master!”)

I know people love their fur babies and want them to have their dreams come true on their special day, but narcissism plays a outsize role. To a large extent, this is about status symbols and conspicuous consumption (although not as conspicuous as King consuming whatever he dragged out of the garbage can).

The flashiness and competitiveness will only get worse. Already there are social directors, dog trainers and dog therapists on hand for the parties; but attention-seekers will keep trying to top themselves.

Any day now, an Ivy League dean will be hired to caution the dogs, “Don’t speak! Don’t speak!” High-powered lawyers will be on hand to coach, “Who’s a good victim? Who’s a good victim?” The CEO of IKEA will be unable to turn down lucrative side gigs custom-assembling furniture on the party grounds to satisfy the attendees’ amorous inclinations. Dogs will get to take turns flying a Sopwith Camel and strafing the Germans. (“Curse you, offshore wind turbines!”)

*Sigh*

What’s it all about, Alfie? Is it just for the moment we live? Or do all dogs go to heaven and suddenly realize, “Hey, that cheapskate should have been giving me SEVEN parties every 12 months”?

–

Copyright 2023 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 had forgotten about it, but my father once reminisced about finding elementary school-aged me habitually “watching” TV with my back turned to the set.

He said I explained that I could imagine more interesting scenes in my mind.

The real demonstration of my creativity was that I could conjure a more tactful response than “How about springing for a color TV, Ebenezer?”

I still have trouble giving the boob tube my undivided attention.

My wife and I dearly enjoy certain programs; they are not just background noise. But our busy lifestyle forces us to multitask. In my case, I scroll through newspaper PDFs, outline a column or answer email while casting glances at the screen.

But several recent trends make even the most visually boring programs a hassle to take for granted.

Perhaps the most innocuous is the unexpected transition to a scene where characters are conversing in American Sign Language (ASL).

Truly, it is heartwarming that the hearing-impaired are no longer marginalized as nonexistent; but when I recognize a conspicuous silence and scramble to rewind to play catch-up, it’s just one more example of Hollywood guilt-tripping me.

(“You can’t dance like celebrities on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ or sing like contestants on ‘The Voice’ or spend money like the clowns on C-SPAN. You didn’t even learn ASL. Or marry a doctor who knows ASL. Or give me grandchildren who used ASL in the delivery room…”)

Next are the shows where characters perfectly capable of speaking English suddenly go all Tower of Babel and subject us to a mind-numbing string of don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it subtitles. Perhaps the writers are practicing for their own travels. (“Where is the library? Do they have cocaine in the library?”)

Most annoying is the unheralded shift to characters engaging in a rapid-fire texting marathon, with pivotal messages that are readable only with an IMAX home theater.

Yes, texting is ubiquitous in 21st-century society and writers are trying to “keep it real.” But griping about the skyrocketing cost of streaming service subscriptions is ubiquitous in 21st-century society as well, but no one feels compelled to put those sentiments into the mouth of a dopey dad or hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold. Weird.

Also, the attempt to keep programs cutting-edge and relevant will seem merely quaint in a few years, when we all have brain implants and communicate telepathically. (“What are they doing in this old show?” “I think they called it texting …on an intelligent-phone. She’s probably inviting her friends to buy Pet Rocks and churn butter.”)

I know all the writers, actors, directors, set designers and wardrobe coordinators think there is a social contract that we are obligated to keep jumbo-size Visine handy and scrutinize every blankety-blank frame of every program, but that “all or nothing” volley against multitasking may push more viewers to turn off the set and focus on their pets, reading or getting a weekly colonoscopy.

What’s a good compromise? Maybe programs could have a warning siren when there is about to be a jarring change from a run-of-the-mill conversation. Not an Amber Alert, but more of a Pretentious Artiste Alert.

(We need a separate warning for “Stop sorting your grandmother’s recipe cards! This inane chitchat will be interrupted by your favorite character getting creamed by a hit-and-run driver. Again.”)

I wish my father was here to help. He probably even knew “Bah, humbug!” in Spanish.

–

Copyright 2023 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

Kicking and screaming were not involved, but it did take our 19-year-old son Gideon an interminably long time to show an interest in soloing with the drivers license he obtained at age 16.

Finally, the reality of walking 20 minutes from his off-campus apartment in inclement weather made him more agreeable to letting us buy him a sensible vehicle.

(Also, my over-protective mother has relinquished her habit of squawking, “Don’t let that young’un get splattered all over the road!” every time the automobile topic arises. Truth be told, that was also her reaction when we got him replacement insoles, earbuds, a Waterpik … But I digress.)

At first I thought Gideon had been an outlier, but statistics from the Federal Highway Administration show a shocking drop in the number of Americans in their teens and 20s who possess/utilize a drivers license.

I’m sure some older Americans breathe a sigh of relief over less traffic congestion and fewer inexperienced-driver wrecks; but this trend smacks of HERESY to most Baby Boomers and Generation Xers, who viewed a set of wheels as a rite of passage, a coveted ticket to independence.

Our creed, to paraphrase JFK’s inaugural address, was “Let every pedestrian know, whether they wish us well or ill, that we shall pay any price (in monthly installments, hopefully softened by Dad being in the same lodge as the salesman), bear any burden (like bratty younger siblings), meet any hardship (of duct tape shortages), support any friend (if they shout ‘Shotgun!’ fast enough), blow exhaust on any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.”

I still have the well-worn “Teen-age Hotrodders” comic book that my cousin Harlin passed along to me when I was five or six years old. I grew up seeing the “Route 66” Corvette convertible, the Batmobile, the Bandit’s Pontiac Trans Am, Greased Lightning in “Grease,” the General Lee in “Dukes of Hazzard” and KITT in “Knight Rider.”

Admittedly, like Gideon, I was contented to walk or be chauffeured around for too many years; but as a generation (or two), yes, we were car-obsessed.

I remember one slightly younger family friend who totaled his first truck within six months and insisted on spending more than it was worth restoring it because it had immeasurable SENTIMENTAL VALUE as his first truck! (Should have seen this coming when he had all those knock-down, drag-out tussles with the Tooth Fairy.)

Many factors contribute to the current complacency about driving: the high cost of vehicles, insurance and fuel; the emergence of Uber and DoorDash; single parents with scant time to give driving lessons; concerns about carbon footprints; and KITT’s recent deathbed confession of being transphobic.

Two other factors: (a) the way younger people spend more time communicating online rather than cruising around in person and (b) the siren call of mass transit systems in urban areas. Sure, why waste time “parking” at Inspiration Point when you can shoot a TikTok video of the loner who was inspired to shove you onto the subway tracks?

I really must ask my cousin Hal (the classic-car enthusiast) what he thinks of the state of the nation. Will cars become more and more a thing of the past, or will traditionalists finally reach a breaking point?

“Son, you’re gonna drive me to drinkin’/If you don’t stop dissin’ that Hot… Rod… Lincoln!”

–

Copyright 2023 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

When I searched online for potential Halloween-column topics, I encountered innumerable headlines screaming about fun, easy, last-minute homemade Halloween costumes.

Who are all the people in desperate need of fun, easy, last-minute homemade Halloween costumes?

Did some poor loser overlook all the Hobby Lobby displays and simply forget about the spooky festivities? (“You mean they’re having Halloween again THIS year? I thought it was every 12 years like the .., waddayacallem … presidential elections.”)

I’m sure some people have a last-minute need for a costume because one of their “friends” had a last-minute RSVP cancellation and grudgingly invited them to the party. These folks need to band together nationwide and go as a stadium foam finger, albeit not the one commonly reserved for announcing “We’re number one!”

Some celebrants need costume suggestions because of pure cussed procrastination. (“Hey, I work best under pressure. And everyone loved my Guy Wearing His Cardigan Inside Out get-up last year.”)

Of course the Clevererthanthou family loves to show off their creativity. (“And this year, you lucky people, we’re dressing as our 18-page Christmas newsletter!”)

Some people are, understandably, being frugal. (“I don’t remember exactly which show told how to economize on Halloween costumes, but it was on one of the eight streaming services we subscribe to. Wait, I just remembered we also added the Competitive Tongue-Rolling Channel.”)

Some Americans see spurning the hottest store-bought costumes as Sticking It To the Man. (“I simply used cardboard that I bought from The Man and aluminum foil that I bought from The Man and glitter that I bought from The Man and…”)

It’s not always the grown-ups who create the urgency. Let’s remember the kids who announce half-way to school, “Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to wear a Halloween costume today.” There’s not even time for homemade — just SUV-made. (“What am I? I’m a ballerina performing in Roadkill-Swan Lake. Like my ballet-slippers-slash-breakfast-burrito-wrappers?”)

I don’t fit neatly into any of those categories, but I did have my own experiences with homemade costumes that I wore to church Halloween parties as a young adult. One time I used a second-hand jumpsuit, my father’s old U.S. Army knapsack and a vacuum cleaner hose to play a Ghostbuster. (“Who ya gonna call?” “Whichever young lady doesn’t have a restraining order against me.”)

More memorable was the time I dressed up as Ed Grimley, the character Martin Short played on “SCTV” and “Saturday Night Live.” Ed was the nerdy, hyperkinetic man-child who played the triangle, gushed over Pat Sajak and repeated catch-phrases such as “totally decent” and “makes me completely mental.”

I wore an out-of-style shirt and “high waters” pants, but the “cherry on top” was the hair. In order to achieve a cowlick that towered over my head, I coated my locks with a liberal (and by liberal I mean “let’s guarantee a living wage for all gay salamanders”) dose of Crisco.

Was it worth it? Some party-goers thought it was just another bad hair day and some of the older congregants became weepy because Lawrence Welk never got to jam with the Blues Brothers, but I enjoyed myself.

Alas, Crisco is some powerful stuff. Nearly 40 years of lather, rinse, repeat haven’t quite got me back to normal.

Hey, Martin Short, if you’re ever casting a show called “Only Heads That Slide Off the Pillow in the Building”…

–

Copyright 2023 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

“Are ya haaawngry?”

In the 1990s, that question by the late Harold Rowland became a running gag after church every Sunday, as he inquired where I, my wife and my parents would be eating.

In the future, many people may answer “Are ya haaawngry?” with a shrug and a muffled “Meh.”

Investors and food-industry executives are grinding their teeth over anti-diabetic drugs such as Ozempic and Wegovy. The drugs are being used off-label for weight loss and appetite suppression, and so far they seem to be nibbling away at the sales of salty, fatty, sugary foods (a.k.a. “The Foods that Beat Watercress Sandwiches Up After School”).

A 17-member team at the Morgan Stanley financial services company predicts that in 10 years seven percent of Americans will be using such medicines and consuming 20 percent fewer calories (and begging financial services companies to put them out of their misery with a well-placed Roth IRA upside the head).

Believe me, I know there’s a problem. My once-youthful metabolism has deteriorated from Bottomless Pit to “your thighs just absorbed that lasagna at the next table.”

Unhealthy dietary choices (and scarfing down massive amounts of edibles without even thinking about it) have consequences. Too many people face stroke, heart attack, dialysis or amputation. There’s only a slight nuance between “body positivity movement” and “I’m positive the body will (mostly) fit in the casket.” I understand.

The balancing act of living a long life and a happy life is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma wrapped in bacon. Mmm…bacon.

But I’m not sure we can handle the social upheaval of pill-popping, neutered snacks and slavish portion control.

Will people who have been dumped by their Significant Other really substitute kale and locust meal for the time-honored practice of eating a whole tub of ice cream – or will they in fact hogtie their ex and force-feed THEM the kale and locust meal?

Two adjoining counties have Frito-Lay plants. Must I provide dental insurance for laid-off employees who do seasonal work harvesting poke sallet from my yard?

Can cooks for church socials endure having their decadent desserts ignored by congregants with suppressed cravings? (“Heavenly Father, as David smote Goliath, raise up someone to smite Big Pharma.”)

Will the convenience market Big Gulp become the Sniff the Cork? What kind of movies can Hollywood afford to produce without the subsidy of hot-buttered popcorn and other concessions? (Coming soon to a theater near you: a double-feature of “Honey, I Shrunk the Doughnuts” and “Saw – But Put It Back on the Shelf In Favor of Baby Carrots.”)

Will food-industry leaders roll over or will they instead fight fire with … artificial smoke flavoring? Think of the possibilities for Cheap Trick. My well-placed spies tell me that snack manufacturers and fast-food franchises are colluding to have the rock group play “I want you to want me. I need you to need me” 24-7.

Look for the Keebler Elves to stir up a little mischief by “accidentally” spilling some cannabis into their baked goods. (“Tonight’s cage match: appetite suppressor versus the munchies!”)

I remain cautiously pessimistic about the the future of our food, beverages and health.

I may eat my words someday, but at least they’ll be deep-fried first.

I miss Harold. I’m “haaawngry” to see him – and my 34-inch-waistband pants – in heaven someday.

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Copyright 2023 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.”