Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

What spoils even more evening meals than robocalls?

How about newscasts with their endless stream of titillating revelations coyly attributed to “reliable sources,” “people close to the matter,” “people familiar with the situation,” “people who thought the situation was a cast member of ‘Jersey Shore’,” etc.?

The whole concept of “close to the situation” is overrated. Lots of people “close to the situation” can’t see the forest for the trees until Columbo, Poirot or Jessica Fletcher waltz in and make them look like doofuses.

The overkill derives from the hyper-competitive 24-7 news cycle and the need to go beyond “dog bites man” and “man bites dog” to “man bites dog for not delivering the nuclear missile toads to a Russian duffle agent, or at least that’s what my source THOUGHT he overheard. Darned noisy pencil sharpener!”

Every reporter aspires to be Woodward and/or Bernstein. Or at least SOME 70s icon. (“Running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art? Boxing in a meat locker? Drinking raw eggs? I’m settling for Woodward and Bernstein!”)

Don’t get me wrong. There are definitely some true red-blooded heroes among the anonymous sources, but probably ALL the snitches envision themselves as being simply ordinary “aw, shucks” citizens whom Destiny thrust into just the right place at the right time to save the republic from an existential threat. Just like Destiny thrust them into just the right place (on their big brother’s shoulders) at the right time (two weeks before Christmas, 1995) to search the top shelf in their parents’ bedroom closet.

Confidential sources blow the whistle on a wide variety of abuses, but it’s funny how you NEVER hear one quoted saying, “The public needs to know that this company/bureau/agency has waaaay too many nonessential employees meandering around, stumbling into trouble.”

Whether it’s a case of wishful thinking, unmerciful deadlines or pure gullibility, reporters often do a haphazard job of ascertaining the motivations or agendas of leakers. We all know that disgruntled employees are capable of “going postal” in the workplace, but reporters have difficulty thinking on a smaller scale. (“Sure, my source might blow his boss’s brains out, but he would never stoop to falsely accusing him of emitting bad vibes at a company retreat.”)

Most of the wholesome newspapers that carry my column would never think of grooming confidential sources to sensationalize current events (“According to an unnamed onlooker, the mayor contemplated RUNNING with the ceremonial scissors for cutting the ribbon”), but flashy national publications might.

I look askance at some of the NAMED sources in newspapers (“The constellation Sagittarius promises an old friend/colleague/humanoid you haven’t seen in a long time will give you a bunch of money/time/solitude today”), so excuse me if I’m extra-leery of unnamed ones.

Most news isn’t WORTH an unauthorized preview. We used to long for TANGIBLE things. “Be the first on your street to drive a ’65 Mustang.” Now it’s more like “Be the first to learn a Hollywood casting scoop that will be obsolete by the time you finish your…too late!”

The elephant in the room is that nowadays a lot of us don’t even trust the REPORTERS/ANCHORS, let alone their vaunted sources. The circular reasoning used in establishing credentials is cringe-inducing. (“Of course, I’m a trustworthy reporter. My source can VERIFY that. And so can his wife…um, er…Morgan Fairchild! Yeah, that’s the ticket!”)

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Copyright 2020 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

Dear pandemic-battered readers,

As you try adapting to the New Normal, just hope no diehards are waiting to confuse you with a plethora of ADDITIONAL configurations.

It’s best just to suck it up and accept the NEW Normal rather than navigating a world of Classic Normal, Zero Calorie Normal, Satin Finish Normal, Fun-Size Normal, Gelcap Normal, Crunchy Normal, Non-Clumping Normal and Extra-Absorbent Normal with Wings.

Ever since getting assigned to inventory control at my day job, I’ve suffered in silence under the wretched excess of umpteen frivolous variations in consumer goods. I’m finally speaking up because the recent Wall Street Journal article “Betting That Less Is Now More” indicates that restaurants, factories and retailers are finding a silver lining in the efficiencies imposed upon them by COVID-19.

For the sake of simplifying training, minimizing assembly-line downtime and thwarting distribution bottlenecks, a not-insignificant percentage of the items dropped from restaurant menus and supermarket shelves because of COVID-19 may NEVER return.

Back in the days when moguls were moguls, Henry Ford allegedly said of the Model T, “Any customer can have a car painted any color that he wants, so long as it is black.” In more recent decades, however, companies have fallen all over themselves to pander to every consumer whim. Maybe it’s time for the jingle “Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us – but the guy waiting behind you in the drive-through lane may follow you and run your indecisive butt off an embankment.”

Even before the pandemic, grocers such as Aldi were generating profits via stores that were well-stocked but with considerably fewer than a gazillion choices in each product category. And department stores were discovering they could sell MORE hair dryers or coffee pots by offering three choices instead of an overwhelming 14.

This change also leads to decreased injuries in the parking lots, with fewer stupefied shoppers staggering into traffic. (“Get me an ambulance… No! Not that one! A free-range ambulance with gender-fluid gurneys and hypoallergenic siren…”)

Yes, I know variety is the spice of life. But that doesn’t do you much good if the SPICE SHELVES COLLAPSE under the weight of nonstop choices, or if you starve to death while debating different SPF levels of turmeric. (“Guess I’ll have to flip a coin. But all I have is pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and halves. I am so BORED. ZZZZZ…”)

Somehow our forefathers managed to survive with one pickle barrel and one flour barrel (and one dysentery medicine for when the pickles and flour didn’t sell out fast enough), but now we think we’re living in a Third World country if we can’t hand the clerk a list of rock-star demands. (“I’m causing a scene unless I get a bowl of M&Ms with kale DNA injected into every other molecule.”)

I don’t relish the thought of a nuclear war or cataclysmic natural disaster, but I’m sure I would find the bright side of mankind rebooting with basic necessities. I daresay we would eventually be able to have water, electricity, shelter and personal hygiene without the countless gauges, wattages, textures, concentrations and scents that we’ve come to lean on.

“Hi, mister zombie. Let me regale you with lectures on how we still need both 5/16-inch tools and 11/32-inch tools and…wait, you don’t want MY brain. You need one that’s single-use, semi-corrugated and…AIIIIEEEE!”

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Copyright 2020 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 personal finance website WalletHub recently released its ranking of the “patriotism” of all 50 states.

In an era of toppled statues, kneeling athletes, microaggressions, border wall controversies and globalist agendas, trying to define and quantify patriotism resembles voluntarily crisscrossing a minefield.

We’ve settled for a society where the “melting pot” is less important than “TAXING pot”; but once upon a time, patriotism was easier to recognize. Good Americans knew that true patriots kept a watchful eye on the oddball who planted a tree on Arbor Day. (“Mark my words: he’s planting that poplar just so a communist can lurk behind it someday!”)

Nowadays, greed seems to outweigh civic responsibility. If composer John Philip Sousa were alive today, his FIRST march would be down to the offices of Spotify and Pandora. (“Now, how much will you pay to stream the catalog of songs I’ve been holding out? You’re kidding. I think you know where you can put these 76 trombones…”)

Yes, throngs of townspeople used to be able to belt out the uplifting lyrics “Three Cheers for the Red, White and Blue” on Independence Day. In 2020 the song would have to be rendered suitable for the colorblind, the deaf, the hoarse and the mathematically challenged. (“After the neutered fireworks display, instead of a singalong, we have a multiracial, non-binary mime attempting to escape from an invisible box we like to call Western Civilization.”)

Luckily, WalletHub had a panel of experts to help it hash out its criteria. (Patriotism experts? Is that even a thing? Do people graduate summa cum laude in watching the Old North Church, with minors in tight lips and remembering the Alamo? Do experts say things like “I’d love to go to the party, but I must scan the skies in case Commissioner Gordon sends up the Patriotism Question Signal”?)

One of the tasks WalletHub charged the experts with was naming the characteristics of a good patriot. But it would be more fun to enumerate the characteristics of a BAD patriot. (Does bad impressions of Christopher Walken insisting, “Needs more Liberty Bell.” Finds a shortcut to Tipperary. Gives until it hurts…his feelings. Rips up his pocket copy of the Constitution while frantically seeking the words “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…”)

Some of the criteria for ranking states’ patriotism are uncontroversial: highest average number of military enlistees, percentage of veterans per capita, most Peace Corps volunteers per capita, etc. But “highest volunteer rate” sticks in my craw. Not all volunteer work in this great land comes through organized charities. Much of it arrives in spur-of-the-moment gestures, even if they ARE more “showing off” than altruistic. (“You say your boy has a ruptured appendix, Bubba? Let me tie a string to my monster truck. Naw, it ain’t no trouble…”)

I’m also embarrassed that my home state (Tennessee) ranked 48th in the category of “highest percentage of adults who voted in the 2016 presidential election.” In our defense, the pollsters were all saying, “Every minute in the voting booth is a minute away from SEC football.” Pollsters, Jack Daniel…potato, potahto…

Anyway, if WalletHub publishes the listing again next year, maybe some of the lower-ranking states will be spurred to improve their score. And maybe old man Jones will finally repurpose that poplar tree as a SCHOOL DESK, to ward off commie nukes.

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Copyright 2020 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 experienced some vicarious living when our son Gideon (finishing up his junior year of high school) attended the senior prom.

(Yes, VICARIOUS living. It’s not like we got him out of the house, jumped with glee and yelled, “Date night!” It was more along the lines of “Aw, but I yelled ‘Date night’ LAST time. Can’t YOU say it this…ZZZZZZ….”)

You see, we had to experience a high school milestone through Gideon’s eyes because neither of us went to our proms.

My wife’s high school hosted a senior banquet instead of a senior prom. The town didn’t quite have a “Footloose” situation, but there WERE religious factions who felt that even a school-sanctioned dance would be a den of depravity. It’s like they thought TV host Don Cornelius was inviting viewers to watch “Lose Your Sooooul Train.”

I TRIED going to my prom, but my first choice for a date was deemed too young by her parents, my second choice developed mononucleosis and choices three through ten all suddenly started hanging around choice number two. (“We never spend enough time together, Girl from My Home Ec Class. Group hug!”) Say, I’m starting to suspect someone didn’t want to hurt my feelings…

So, yeah, Loggins and Messina were prophesying about U.S. when they recorded “Your Mama Don’t Dance and Your Daddy Don’t Rock and Roll.”

Gideon didn’t take a date to the prom, but that was just fine with a couple of old softies dreading empty-nest syndrome. It also went along with the prom theme (#Here’sToNeverGrowingUp), which was remarkably better than the theme of my wife’s Senior Banquet (“You CAN cut your meat without bumping elbows, you hormone-infused heathens!”)

Gideon is a good, trustworthy, gentlemanly kid, so we had to say only one thing about “protection” (albeit repeatedly): “Don’t drop your phone in the toilet!”

This is a sign of how times have changed. If MY parents (back in the rotary landline era) had told me “Don’t drop your phone in the toilet!,” I would have looked at them like they were crazy. Granted, Gideon gave US exactly the same look. So maybe times HAVEN’T changed that much. I wonder what the Fonz is up to this week…

Gideon said the students prided themselves on digging deep into musical history, but he didn’t remember hearing anything older than Prince’s “Purple Rain.” Hmph. I think the first time I heard that one, I was purchasing this pair of underwear…

We’ve always nurtured eclectic musical tastes in Gideon, so when the DJ asked if he had any requests, he piped up with “That’s Amore” (Dean Martin’s 1953 hit). The girl gyrating in his vicinity was disgusted. (“He wants a song from the RENAISSANCE!”) Funny, but I remember Dean always holding a glass of booze, not a humongous TURKEY LEG.

Anyway, a good time was had by all (as can be attested by more selfies than all the photographs Matthew Brady took of the whole Civil War)!

What about you? Was your prom a blur? Did you marry your date? Share your story.

Now it’s time to plan for the Class of 2021 prom. This year Gideon got by with a regular suit – but next year, it’ll be tuxedo time.

Planning ahead, anybody know how to get humongous turkey leg stains out of a rental tux? Asking for a friend.

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Copyright 2020 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

Speaking as a father (“What – am I made of money? Go ask your mother! When you have your own roof, you can make your own rules! No, my abs aren’t flabby, they’re just meditating…”)

No, this could go on forever. Start over. Speaking as a COLUMNIST, with a strict word limit, I agree good fathers should be loved and respected. But no dad should take for granted that they will receive obligatory World’s Greatest Dad merchandise.

Seriously, they should actively DREAD such a last-minute, no-brainer gift. I mean, if the little rascals are just blowing smoke up your butt, they will become trapped in a stressful pattern of topping themselves. (“Dad, I just paid to have a whole newly discovered galaxy named after you. Yeah…Dad’s Galaxy. Now, could you please co-sign for a new Prius and for …um…what I still owe the observatory?”)

Conversely, if the kiddos sincerely harbor such a lofty opinion of you, they may wind up setting the bar embarrassingly low in other areas of life. (“Pop! I’m so excited! I just drove my generic car to my dorm at Generic University – home of the Fightin’ Indeterminate Species or Historical Figure – and fell in love with your generic future daughter-in-law!”)

Let’s face it: most of us don’t DESERVE World’s Greatest Dad paraphernalia, either because we’re unmotivated, emotionally distant, stereotypically dopey or painfully struggling to seem cooler than we are.

For example, you may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if the “swear jar” threatens to wreck the currencies of the European Union, Dubai and Chuck E. Cheese.

You may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you drive the car over the family pet…WHILE the poor little goldfish is being given a “burial at sea” in the toilet.

You may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you lazily teach the art of self-defense by leaving around a cassette of Carl Douglas singing “Everybody was kung fu fighting…”

You’ll receive even LESS martial arts credit if you accidentally taped over Carl Douglas with Minnie Riperton. (“Lovin’ you is easy ‘cause you’re beautiful…La la la la la…”)

You may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you slapped the “I’m spending my children’s inheritance” sticker on the stroller instead of a Winnebago.

You may be not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you cover your forgetfulness of major milestones by lying, “The Tooth Fairy exceeded his budget while buying teeth from meth addicts.”

You may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you ramble too long with your maxims: “A penny saved is a penny earned,” “There is no ‘I’ in team,” “If at first you don’t succeed, the next vasectomy surgeon may be more competent…”

You may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you keep praying for an early entrance by John Wilkes Booth as little Johnny (portraying Abe Lincoln) explains how to split rails in his school pageant.

Even “woke” fathers face an uphill battle. You may not be getting a World’s Greatest Dad gift if you interrupt your child’s halftime cheerleading routine to protest the cultural appropriation inherent in the “pyramid.”

Speaking as a father again, always set reasonable expectations, appreciate Father’s Day and … oh, just WALK IT OFF with the REMAINING leg, for Pete’s sake!

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Copyright 2020 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

A man’s home is his castle – but sometimes the crocodile in the moat decides he wants to try out the bathtub instead.

At my day job working in inventory control, one guiding principle is “a place for everything and everything in its place.”

Too bad wild animals aren’t as easily pigeonholed as nuts and bolts.

A string of recent events helped me settle on this week’s tirade. My wife replaced the window screen that had been shredded by an impulsive raccoon. A bird kept flying down my mother’s chimney. Yet another (non-poisonous) snake slithered into our lives. A young opossum surprised us in the laundry room (thank goodness for stain-removing detergent!) and seemed to lament being part of a species that is so typecast. (“I’m tired of playing possum. When do I get a chance to play Othello?”)

Of course, we weren’t satisfied with this level of commotion, so my wife unsuspectingly opened the front door for Moggie the cat one fine evening, and he came bounding into the room with a live rabbit clenched between his teeth. (Apparently Moggie was trying to make some money on the side with a “hare-bnb” lodging venture.)

It could be worse. So far, the coyotes in our neck of the woods have stayed away, but only because we keep all those fake boxes of Acme anvils sitting on the front porch.

Perhaps we should’ve been prepared for this series of events by what happened at my son’s high school back in the winter.

It was woodland mating season and a buck deer apparently mistook his reflection for a romantic rival. (Speaking of possums, the buck seemingly heeded the words of comic strip character Pogo Possum: “We have met the enemy and he is us.”) He came charging across the street toward the school, smashed through the front door, galumphed through the hallways (tangled up in a garbage can) and exited via the back door. He was undoubtedly telling himself, “NEXT mating season I’ll just compete by using a disco shirt, a gold medallion and a cheesy moustache.”

The mommas of undomesticated animals seem to be sending the wrong message. (“You’re spending too much time with fresh air and sunshine. Why don’t you try chewing on some computer cables or something?”)

You’ll notice I haven’t even mentioned the mundane categories of pests such as rodents, spiders, ants, moths and ladybugs. Such critters can stir up some real moral dilemmas, as well as perplexing math problems. (“If mouse A is chewing south at one mile per hour and mouse B is chewing north at two miles per hour – is it still okay to eat the Cap’n Crunch in the middle of the bag?”)

I face a never-ending need for repellents, traps, crack sealant and the like. Or maybe I need to counter animal inclinations with an advertising blitz. Nature writers tout the splendors of the Great Outdoors, but the creatures that actually LIVE out there seem enamored of the Great Linen Closet or the Great Crawlspace.

After you get beaten down by the inevitability of varmints slipping through your defenses, you try too hard to look on the bright side. (“There are good bacteria. Maybe there are good rabid skunks.”)

Perhaps things will get better for me. And for that young thespian possum. (“I’m taking Othello on the road. On the road? No, wait…Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!”)

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Copyright 2020 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

“Late at night when it’s hard to rest/I hold your picture to my chest/ and I feel fine, I feel fine/But it’s a rainy night in Georgia…” – written by Tony Joe White and performed by Brook Benton.

I need your input. I know this is a terribly personal question, but which songs make you cry? And why? (And would you be miffed if you suddenly, inexplicably started receiving spam emails for Kleenex and Visine?)

I could name a dozen or more songs that reliably put ME on a spectrum of emotional reaction from “misty-eyed” to “weepy” to “bawling” to “No, hold off with the Jaws of Life until I hear what happened to poor little Teddy Bear …”

(Those manipulative so-and-sos behind TV’s “This Is Us” added “You Are My Sunshine” to the mix a while back, darn it.)

I can share such potentially embarrassing information with you because we’re all friends here, because the macho “Big boys don’t cry” mantra was always a bunch of hooey anyway and because if I DON’T hurry up and write SOMETHING, the paper will probably fill this space with “Family Circus” rejects. (“Who left little dotted lines all over a columnist’s career?” “Not Me!” “Ida Know!”)

You would think that a person would swap out painful songs instead of accumulating them over a lifetime, but whoever said “Time heals all wounds” was WRONG. Time doesn’t heal all wounds; it accidentally sews a surgical sponge inside of you before hitting you with an unexpected out-of-network bill!

Certain songs should carry TRIGGER WARNINGS, as they dredge up poignant memories of unrequited love, deceased pets, faraway homes and shattered dreams. Who am I kidding? I’d probably ignore the warnings. I would masochistically insist on a little of “the hair of the dog that bit him” (especially if the dog wound up shot because of rabies).

WHY do I deliberately subject myself to a barrage of time-tested tear-jerkers on YouTube or my MP3 player? Well, sometimes I just need a CATHARSIS.

Granted, fellows who say things like “Sometimes I just need a catharsis” are the ones who EXPERIENCE unrequited love more than guys who say, “Sometimes I just need a joint; can I get you one while I’m up?”

My 29th wedding anniversary is fast approaching, but “Leaving On A Jet Plane” still delivers retroactive stress related to my long-distance courtship of my wife. “Watching Scotty Grow” is a joyful song, but I get choked up because our son is growing up too fast.

One of the “songs” that is most gut-wrenching for me is actually a recitation: Walter Brennan’s 1962 rendition of “Old Rivers” (written by Cliff Crofford). If you’re not familiar with it, the narrator reminisces about a poor, hardworking neighbor he traipsed along behind as a youngster. Old Rivers is quoted as promising, “One of these days I’m gonna climb that mountain/Walk up there among the clouds/Where the cotton’s high and the corn’s a-growin’/And there ain’t no fields to plow.”

“Old Rivers” resonates because it makes me appreciate the hardscrabble existence endured by my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles during the Great Depression. Of course, it also resonates because I have to get up off the sofa and find the remote so I can watch Walter Brennan in high-definition reruns of “The Real McCoys.” *Sigh*

Seriously, turn on the waterworks and send me those comments.

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Copyright 2020 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

One of the most awkward, self-conscious incidents in my life occurred when I was shopping with a group, and one of my companions blithely continued browsing long after the store doors were locked.

I have done assembly-line work, junkyard work and freelance writing. But I have also punched enough cash-register keys and worked around enough clerks-slash-sales-associates to know that the retail life isn’t all skittles and beer. (Okay, maybe there IS a lot of Skittles and beer, in the sense of “Cleanup on aisle 9 of all the Skittles and beer someone upchucked.”)

Life is messy and legitimate sob stories do exist, but some shoppers are HABITUALLY tardy. Twenty-something years ago, I worked in a retail environment where we (officially) closed every afternoon at 4:30. The same customers were always rushing in at 4:25 and getting finished around 4:40. When we extended our hours to 5:00, those same individuals suddenly, magically started arriving at 4:55 and staying until 5:10.

You might think the “five-second rule” pertains only to eating food that has been on the ground just briefly, but a large segment of humanity interprets it as “if you slip through the front door five seconds before the posted closing time, you have an INFINITE amount of time to window-shop.”

The late, great Jim Croce dreamed of saving time in a bottle. He should’ve tried saving it in a mom-and-pop store.

Savvy shoppers who know all the loopholes brainstorm ever more inventive ways to drag out the shopping experience. (“Yes, dear, I have verified the thread count on all the sheets in ENGLISH, but what if your cousin from Quebec comes for a visit? Un… deux… trois…”)

For the sake of their employees (and for the sake of keeping overtime costs down), some stores do use the intercom to deliver reminders such as “Paperclips, Mucilage & Beyond will be closing in 15 minutes. Please make your final selections and proceed to checkout.” But to the hardened dawdler, that’s just ambient noise, like holding a seashell to your ear. (“Hey, let’s ask for a seashell in something other than the 137 colors they have in stock.”)

Returns are another aggravation. Apparently, most shoppers put all their receipts into a rocket and launch them TOWARD the doomed planet of Krypton. And products are rarely in anything resembling their original condition. (“I didn’t realize until I opened it that it was a pickle barrel instead of a travel pack of Kleenex.”)

Pity the poor clerk who is badgered into honoring some pie-in-the-sky promise allegedly made by a conveniently unidentified co-worker on the customer’s previous visit. Of course, the increasingly irritated customer can never remember any distinguishing characteristics. And the timing of the promise can’t be pinned down any more accurately than “definitely sometime after the Mesozoic Era. I think.”

The NAME of the anonymous co-worker? Don’t make me laugh. Even if a store employs someone with a memorable name (like “O.J. Simpson”), the shopper never “catches” it. (“Wait…wait…it was something beverage-y. Do you perhaps have a Tequila Sunrise on the sales staff?”)

Don’t get me started on the hazards and indignities, like customers licking their fingers before counting money they have produced from deep in their clothing. (“This is my MAD money. I’m mad because my jock itch medicine quit w… hey! What do you mean you’re leaving to get a factory job?”)

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©2020 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

One of my biggest pet peeves: people who can’t hold up their end of a conversation.

Oh, I’m not saying that every single human being is obligated to bring jaw-dropping factoids, whimsical quips and provocative perspectives to every mundane conversation.

But listeners could at least honor speakers with something more interactive than banal “filler” material like “Uh huh,” “Well, I’ll be!” and “How do ya like that?”

If you reveal, “I lost my wallet on vacation, but a former U.S. president volunteered to pay for my meal,” people with an adequate number of neurons should have a few logical FOLLOW-UP QUESTIONS, not “I guess sometimes things happen that way.”

“Really?” grates on my nerves. If I announce, “A cop just gave me a citation because I had a defective brake light,” don’t blurt out, “Really?” (“Okay – a cop METAPHORICALLY gave me a citation because I had a defective brake light. The new police chief had a double major of Law Enforcement and English, so the siren has been replaced by an officer sitting on the squad car reciting SONNETS…”)

When I get fired up about a topic, I want my audience to share the similar life experiences that help them empathize with me. A colloquial “I hear ya” doesn’t cut it. (“You hear me? Good! The auditory portion of the exam is concluded. Now turn your head and COUGH, Mr. Personality!”)

If I bring you a reasonably plausible icebreaker (like “I finally changed chiropractors”), let the exchange follow a logical progression. I don’t need to hear “No kidding?” (“Yes, I’m kidding you. It’s all a practice run for perpetrating a hoax on Col. Klink and Sgt. Schultz and helping those French resistance fighters escape from Stalag 13! Remember: loose lips sink ships!”)

Don’t think you can impress me by interjecting, “Don’t that beat all!” (“Don’t it beat all? Well, the Angel of Death with a royal flush would probably come closer to beating all, but we’re here to talk about anti-vaxxers instead of theology…”)

Poor conversationalists suck all the joy out of good news. If I announce receiving a 50-cent raise, I want to hear, “You deserve it, for your hard work on that big project” or “Hey, maybe we can afford that road trip now.” It just falls with a thud when I get a response of “Huh! Is that right?” (“Is it right? Well, it’s TRUE. As to whether it’s RIGHT, now you’ve got me questioning everything. I WAS going to thank my boss, but now I’ll just bulldoze the place down and give the land back to the Native Americans.”)

Apparently, some conversations invite the old-timey exclamation “Well, did you ever!” (Picture a matronly Southern lady like Aunt Bee.) Example: You tell a friend that, according to “Discover” magazine, some quantum physicists think humans are on the verge of achieving time travel. “Well, did you ever!” (“Me? Obviously not. Because if I had, I’d be off visiting Napoleon or Marie Curie instead of tolerating this conversation.”)

Finally, courts have ruled that “Imagine that!” constitutes fighting words. If I tell you, “I’ve cut my fingertip off with a skill saw,” don’t say, “Imagine that!” (“I don’t have to IMAGINE it, you chowderhead! It’s right here in this paper napkin! Get me to the emergency room! And don’t stop for the police – even if they’re firing allegories at us!”)

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Copyright 2020 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

Murder hornets. (Not to be confused with their close relatives: accessory-to-murder hornets, involuntary-manslaughter hornets, justifiable-homicide hornets and turning-state’s-evidence hornets.) Killer hornets. Asian giant hornets. Or the more politically correct Continent Which Must Not Be Named giant hornets.

The invasive insects go by a confusing array of names, but the New York Times, National Geographic, NBC News and other sources are warning Americans about the potential impact of their spread.

A colony of murder hornets can wipe out a honeybee hive in a matter of hours, decapitating the bees and flying away with the thoraxes to feed their young. (“No, I didn’t bring a coloring book and a 32-ounce soda. Eat your bee thoraxes! There are starving hornets in China who would KILL for those thoraxes.”)

Bees can’t catch a break. It’s always pesticides or parasites or SOMETHING. (“I just flew in from L.A. – and boy, are my wings covered with mites! AAIIIIEEEE!”)

I’m taking this latest threat personally, since (a) I enjoy honey on my sopapillas at Mexican restaurants, (b) I eat a variety of fruits and vegetables that have been made possible by the miracle of pollination and (c) my wife’s name (Melissa) means “honeybee” in Greek. (No, she’s not from Greece. She’s from New Jersey, which means she knows where all the thoraxes are buried.)

Bees are not alone in facing physical harm. The murder hornets’ stingers are long enough to penetrate a beekeeping suit. Aggressive group attacks kill up to 50 people a year in Japan (leading to the faddish popularity of the “Muhammad Ali hornet” designation: “Floats like a butterfly, stings like a &%$#@”), but luckily the hornets weren’t spotted in the United States prior to last autumn. This has not stopped the Chinese government from insisting that the killers were maliciously introduced into Asia by frontiersman Davy Crockett. (“It’s right there in the song: He killed him a samurai when he was only three.”)

So far, the hornets have been verified only in Washington state (and across the border in British Columbia). But you and I know this fact won’t stop the immediate proliferation of anecdotal sightings in all 50 states. (“I remember it distinctly. Thing scared me so bad I nearly spilled my sixth margarita! And it looked exactly like my cousin said his podiatrist’s brother-in-law’s love child described it.”)

At least the authorities have succeeded in pretty much debunking that report from Florida – the one about the woman’s grandson being carried around and around in the air by one of the gigantic insects. (“Ma’am, apparently that was the Dumbo ride at Disney World.”)

If we don’t stop this threat quickly, the airwaves will be inundated with entomology nerds doing their “mandible-splaining.” And everyone will be out to make a buck from merchandising: murder hornet tattoos, T-shirts, traps, detectors, etc. (“Get a six-pack of abdomens – left over from harvesting the thoraxes!”)

Scientists hope to use thermal imaging and other advanced tools to stay one step ahead of the menace. The United States Department of Agriculture is brainstorming its own ways to stop the hornets. The prevailing wisdom is to saddle them with a herd of dairy cattle and watch them go broke.

Another tactic is to target the QUEEN. (“Hey, look at what your grandchildren are doing in the tabloids! Yeah, that stinger works really well for hara-kiri, doesn’t it?”)

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– 2020 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.