Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Look around me/ I can see my life before me/ Running rings around the way / It used to be…” – Crosby, Stills & Nash

I couldn’t eat at my favorite Chinese buffet, attend the cinema or even hang out at the public library. But in mid-April, I celebrated my 60th birthday, bolstered by the love of my family, the companionship of my pets, an impressive degree of health and the guilty pleasure of newspapers being stuck with conveniently OUTDATED photographs of me. (Mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away!)

Even though I realize I’m exactly the age God meant for me to be…and, come to think of it, platypuses look exactly the way He meant for them to look and Yoko Ono sings exactly the way He meant for her to sing…Whoa! And I was worried about crow’s feet and gray hairs being a bummer!

Where was I? Right. It’s amazing how well I’ve handled the milestone.Well, not so amazing if you consider the recent Wall Street Journal article “The Emotional Benefits of Getting Older.” According to the lead author of a new study published in the journal “Emotion,” the biggest predictor of successfully resisting your desires is age.

There are exceptions to every rule, but in general, decade by decade, people grow more mature, stable and mellow as they age. They finally learn “A penny saved is a penny earned,” “Beauty is only skin deep,” “Measure twice, cut once” and all those other adages. Call it the gradual transition from raising hell to raising your fiber intake. Or the change from bragging “I got away with pulling out my fake i.d.” to “I pulled money out of my 401(k) PENALTY-FREE!”

People my age and older crave most of the same things as younger folks, but we are better able to pace ourselves, resist conspicuous consumption, set reasonable goals and delay gratification. Older people are disciplined enough to play the Long Game – as in when getting even with their own children via spoiling the GRANDCHILDREN. (“Revenge is a dish best served with caffeine and sugar.”)

By and large, younger people are known for impulsive marriages, foolish purchases, daredevil stunts, substance abuse and poorly planned job-hopping. Yes, if time machines existed, we seniors could go back and give our younger selves some stern lectures — assuming we could find some tech-savvy youngster to help us when we whined, “Why can’t they design a time machine with just one or two big buttons?”

Truly mature older people know how to bite their tongues, swallow their pride and avoid BURNING BRIDGES behind them. Or if they do burn bridges, they know to buy the DAY-OLD BUNS for the hot dogs they roast over the flames. (“Let’s share with those madcap jokers at the DMV.”)

I must brag on my contemporaries for remaining non-violent while navigating all the “local franchise policies vary” red tape on Senior Discount offers. (“Okay, you’re 61-and-three-quarters, a Capricorn, delivered by C-section on the third floor by a Lithuanian-American obstetrician…Wait…the free appetizer for YOUR group was LAST week. Now, take the Hobble of Shame back to the end of the line, Grandpa.”)

I’m 60. My glory days are ahead of me. And if they aren’t, I’ll just patiently, calmly convince myself they ARE. And that this platypus won’t talk editors into using HIS picture instead of mine.

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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

“Never in history has such ruination – physical and moral – been associated with the name of one man.” – Sir Ian Kershaw, English historian.

April 30 marks the 75th anniversary of the suicides of Adolf Hitler and his newlywed bride, Eva Braun.

Historical milestones seem to be a dime a dozen in today’s hectic world, but Hitler’s impact was so great that each of us should pause to remember the Nazi dictator’s legacy in one way or another. (The six million victims of Hitler’s genocidal programs are often cited, but we should also remember that 28.7 million soldiers and civilians died as a result of military action in the European theater.)

Probably my earliest awareness of Hitler (or a Hitler parody) came from reruns of Moe Howard as Moe Hailstone (“Hail, hail, Hailstone!”) in the Three Stooges shorts “You Nazty Spy” (January 1940) and “I’ll Never Heil Again” (July 1941). Perhaps on April 30 I’ll fire up my Stooges DVDs again.

In the same vein, YouTube offers assorted videos of the irrepressible Spike Jones and His City Slickers performing “Der Fuehrer’s Face” (Bronx cheers and all), a song which gained added exposure in an Academy Award-winning 1943 Donald Duck cartoon.

If you want to skip past entertainment fare such as “They Saved Hitler’s Brain” (1963) and 1967’s “The Producers” (with Mel Brooks’ brilliant “Springtime for Hitler”), there is certainly no shortage of books and documentaries detailing the sacrifices of Allied service personnel and the horrors of the Holocaust.

Pandemic-induced social distancing has caused the cancellation or postponement of numerous 75-year commemorations that World War II veterans had anticipated attending. Under the circumstances, perhaps April 30 would be a good time for families to discuss the war and the reaction to the death of Hitler (“the coarsest, cruelest, least magnanimous conqueror the world has ever known,” as English historian Hugh Trevor-Roper described him).

Younger generations eventually regret not asking more questions, so people who were in the military or holding down the home front should take the opportunity to preserve their memories (via pen-and-ink, audio recording or video recording).

April 30 could be a starting point to cease trivializing Hitler’s evil. The use of the over-the-top term “soup Nazi” in a 1995 “Seinfeld” episode was clever, but now every single person who disagrees with us in the slightest is denounced as a “Hitler” or “Nazi.” When EVERYONE is a Hitler, NO ONE’S misdeeds call for a response.

We can certainly ponder the absurdity of a “master race” and contemplate Hitler’s disdain for those he considered to be “Untermenschen” (subhuman). We could stand to think long and hard about those we consider to be less than human, whether because of national origin, criminal record, mental illness, age or occupancy of a womb.

April 30 can be a day of prayer (for those so inclined). Let’s pray for those alienated individuals who are in denial of Hitler’s atrocities – who think being a “neo-Nazi” is somehow cool and on the right side of history. Let’s pray for the caregivers of our veterans. Let’s pray that America will always have enough checks and balances, competing ideologies and selfless citizens that we can avoid the socio-economic conditions that bred Hitler and fueled his quest for a “Thousand-Year Reich.”

Don’t mourn Hitler on April 30. Mourn those who will not learn the lessons of history.

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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

On a recent Saturday afternoon, 86-year-old Uncle Doug shared a bit of family lore about his grandfather (my great-grandfather).

When great-grandpa Henry Lee Gipson was four years old, a stranger came knocking on the door. The visitor introduced himself and went inside to conduct his business. As he was leaving, he apologized for using a pseudonym and confided that his real name was Jesse James!

(This was when Jesse and brother Frank were living in Nashville, and three or four years before “that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard” “laid poor Jesse in his grave,” as the folk song goes.)

Times have changed. Now kids are paranoid about accepting a Milky Way from a kindly stranger. In great-grandpa’s day, the protocol was “You’re getting’ a butt-whuppin’ unless you hurry up and let the train robber in!”

That insight into family history made me start thinking about the handful of famous or near-famous people I’ve met over the years. In 1977, while on a youth tour of Washington, D.C., I cornered Sen. Howard Baker (famous for the “What did the president know and when did he know it?” line during the Watergate investigation) so I could deliver an impassioned plea. The hapless senator was obviously thinking, “What is a TASER and when can I get one?”

On the same trip, outside the White House, a fast-walking President Jimmy Carter told me, “The Secret Service will have to take that.” (You’ll have to wait for my memoirs for the context on that one.) Suddenly, as I sit typing, I FINALLY experience my “what I should’a said” moment. I should have said, “Well, excuuuuuuse me!!!”

On September 23, 1980 I got to shake hands with William F. Buckley, Jr. (founder of “National Review” and host of public television’s “Firing Line”) after he delivered a speech on campus. I got the impression that if the erudite Buckley ever hit one of those thumbs with a hammer, there would be a torrent of 14-letter words.

On September 22, 1981 I turned down a chance to interview actor William Windom because leaving the theater in time to meet the writing deadline would mean missing his performance as James Thurber. Also, without the modern research crutch of the internet, I would’ve been stuck in Chris Farley mode. (“Remember when Thurber wrote that story for some magazine or another? That was awesome!”)

On November 19, 1981 I dined with public speaker/filmmaker/activist Jean Kilbourne before introducing her presentation about (sexist) “Images of Women in Advertising.” Despite promising, I STILL haven’t sent her a copy of my news article about the experience. (There are some remaining commitments ahead of her. Mrs. Shelton, I promise to have that vinegar-and-baking-soda volcano done before summer break!)

But enough about me. I’d like to hear your own accounts of meeting celebrities, either before or after they became famous. Chats in the autograph line are fine, but it would be especially interesting if you “met cute” or there was an ongoing relationship.

Have you kept the encounter to yourself, or are you a name dropper? Was the celebrity everything you expected, or less? Did they put their pants on one leg at a time, or did they lecture you that the evil capitalists at Levi should volunteer to put the pants on for you?

Enquiring minds want to know!

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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 recent death of actor James Drury (star of the 1962-1971 TV Western “The Virginian”) adds insult to injury when one considers what will occur next month.

When the networks announce the shows they’re canceling and launching, yet again there will be no true Westerns in contention for a coveted spot on the fall schedules.

The year I was born, there were 30 “horse operas” spread out across three broadcast networks in prime time, and that culture left an indelible mark on me. (Not in the public execution sense, but indelible nonetheless.)

I still see Oscar-winning director Clint Eastwood as Rowdy Yates from “Rawhide”. Ten-year-old me agonized when my parents sold my Twenty Mule Team Borax plastic model (the purchase of which was inspired by the company’s sponsorship of “Death Valley Days”). I’ve cheered every attempt to reboot “Maverick.” It’s not unusual to hear me whistling the themes to “Gunsmoke,” “Bonanza” or “The Wild Wild West.” (If you happen to hear me whistling anything about “Rubber Ducky,” this bathtub ain’t big enough for the both of us, pardner.)

Sure, sophisticated viewers wallowing in today’s supposed Golden Age of Television might call that sort of genre saturation “wretched excess”; but what about the modern viewer’s seemingly insatiable appetite for “police procedural” dramas and true-crime miniseries? Today’s teens can’t whine, “Is it a CRIME if I stay out 30 minutes past dark?” without their parents replying, “We won’t know until after the AUTOPSY. If you cannot afford an attorney…”

Isn’t there room for a good ol’ “high noon” showdown amidst all the hype-filled competition shows? During the glory days of Westerns, when you saw someone wearing a mask, it meant there would be bank vaults exploding, stagecoaches careening and bullets flying. Now viewers settle for the thin gruel of “He wears a mask and he…he…be still, my beating heart…he SINGS.”

True, there are Western themes in science-fiction programs such as Disney’s “The Mandalorian,” but I still have a hankering for at least one or two low-tech series about owlhoots and varmints and sidewinders. As long as we don’t have to jazz them up by having the loner protagonist take along Baby Grizzled Prospector.

Granted, it would be an uphill battle to resuscitate the Western genre. To a large extent, producers, directors and writers have been so insulated in their world of churning out flashy urban dramas, they just don’t know how to produce a wide-open-spaces Western. (“I wish I hadn’t skimped on research. Horses do vote Republican, don’t they?”)

Potential showrunners would be loath to deal with today’s breed of nitpicky fact-checkers. (“The Washington Post gives that anachronistic use of post-1910 medical terminology four Pinocchios. No, wait – they’re building a campfire out of Pinocchio! Nooooo!”)

*Sigh* I wouldn’t want political correctness to overtake the rugged individualism of Westerns. Guest-star RuPaul anywhere near a group of dance hall “girls” would have me figuring out the saloon exits. It’s hard to develop much dramatic tension between herders of laboratory-grown lamb and ranchers of laboratory-produced beef. No one wants to see the cavalry colonel telling Native Americans, “Why compete for scalps when we have these nice PARTICIPATION RIBBONS?”

Seriously, Hollywood – let’s sit down with a sarsaparilla and work this out. We already have enough writers growling, “Crud! While I was ripping a story out of today’s headlines, I messed up the Sudoku!”

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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

“Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important.” – C.S. Lewis

“Better safe than sorry” is an overriding theme for individuals, businesses and governments struggling with the current worldwide health crisis.

“Better safe than sorry” propels the hoarding of consumer products, the cancellation of major sporting/entertainment events and the frenzied push to provide ample medical resources for a worst-case scenario.

As we enter the Easter season, I wonder if we can somehow squeeze “a right relationship with God” onto our priority list – now and moving forward in the New Normal. Can we adopt a “better safe than sorry” approach to Christianity?

Many “practicing” Christians darken the church doors twice a year, daydream during the sermon, skimp on the contribution, delegate all the good deeds to the preacher (“That’s what we pay him for!”), water down doctrine to legitimize their own shortcomings and never share the Gospel. Considering that “strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life,” what are the odds that the slothfulness I’ve just described will leave you “safe” rather than “sorry”?

Meanwhile, people who have drifted away or never quite embraced Christianity in the first place are out there merrily slapping together an eclectic collection of mix-and-match concepts and catch-phrases to forge their own nebulous “spirituality.”

Would you feel safe around an electrician or surgeon who tossed away his education and just did whatever “resonated” with him?

Then, of course, there are the people who are MILITANTLY opposed to Christianity. Maybe, just maybe, there is no Creator, no afterlife, no Judgment Day. But is it worth the risk just for the MOMENTARY PLEASURE of mocking prayer groups, driving people of faith out of the public arena or producing pornographic portrayals of the son of God? Pride may tell you that some jerk sneezing on your lettuce is infinitely worse than hellfire, but pride also has an unenviable track record of going before destruction.

Why haven’t we practiced our new-found pandemic skills in matters of eternity? We rush to the radio, TV or internet for a glimmer of good news about the health crisis, but we let our Bibles accumulate dust. When we’re intimidated by the language or symbolism of the Good Book, we flee rather than availing ourselves of Bible dictionaries and other aids.

Most of us have learned to practice “social distancing”; but unless we’re in a “Twelve Steps” program, we never think of shunning evil companions, enablers or immoral venues.

Despite our grumbling, we have adapted to 2020 ways of working, eating, getting an education and “attending” weddings and funerals. But let someone cramp our style with one little religious “thou shalt not” and a meltdown ensues.

The media and the authorities dutifully warn about virus scams, but it’s awkward nowadays to warn about the Prince of Lies. “If it feels good, do it” remains embedded in our self-destructive psyches.

We’re learning to identify “essential businesses,” but we seldom weigh the value of something as essential as our SOUL.

Yes, viruses and their economic impact call for bold, decisive action; but as the Empty Tomb captures at least the periphery of our attention, I hope we can learn from the business advice of Stephen Covey.

“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
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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.

Since “Playboy” recently published its final print issue, and since I’m reading a biography of publishing magnate Conde Nast on my tablet, I felt it appropriate to share my misgivings about magazines.

During the research phase of this column, I developed severe writer’s cramp while standing in a bookstore frantically scribbling down the names of the mind-numbing array of specialized-yet-overlapping periodicals. (Luckily, one of the magazines was the April issue of “Your Right to Loiter in A Bookstore If You $#@& Well Please Illustrated.”)

Maybe I’m overly nostalgic for the days when millions of Americans watched the same three TV channels and read the same general-interest magazines (“Life,” “Look,” “Family Circle,” “Saturday Evening Pliers for Changing TV Channels,” etc.). But I’m alarmed by the wretched excess of niche magazines for every hobby, profession, ethnicity, travel destination, political persuasion, vehicle ashtray model and level of skill at making bridesmaids’ lives a living hell.

Don’t get me wrong. I love magazines. I’m even one of those people whose eyes are bigger than his stomach and who (with the hope that springs eternal within the human breast) hauls discarded magazines home from the library demonstrably faster than he can read them. (“If we quietly move the bed and the microwave onto the deck and don’t do anything to antagonize the heap of magazines, maybe it won’t attack us.”)

I can’t read my scrawled notes, but I think there really was a “Northern Hemisphere Invertebrates Whose Eyes Are Bigger Than Their Stomachs Monthly” on the bookstore’s magazine shelves.

Spinoff magazines add to the clutter. There’s “Teen Vogue,” “Very Interesting Junior,” “National Geographic Little Kids.” The dental offices of 2035 will doubtless feature late-2020 issues of “AARP Magazine: The In Utero Edition.”

I’ll admit that some of the magazines sound like they’d make absolutely brilliant ONE-SHOT publications. But, realistically, how can they keep delivering on the hype month after month after month? When the cover of a survivalist magazine touts “25 more essential survival skills,” it makes me feel sad for the poor losers who kicked off LAST year (you know, 300 essential survival skills ago!!!!!).

It’s not just survivalists. Are there REALLY 75 sizzling new sex secrets, 50 all-new kale-and-Pop Tarts recipes, 42 unprecedented mullets and 63 must-have tattoos based on the video game Pong each and every month?

These claims are about as trustworthy as a live-in lover promising you, “Baby, here are 25 MORE exciting reasons you should forget about that gun-in-the-face incident last night and continue letting me crash on the couch all day while you work three jobs to pay for my beer and weed.”

I know the ubiquitous “word search” magazines are supposed to keep you mentally sharp, but how sharp is it when the only word you can think of to reply to an internet scam is “Certainly!”?

As a bookworm and writer, I don’t want to dash cold water on anyone’s love of reading; but it can’t be healthy to spend ALL your time indoors curled up with “The Journal of Belly Lint Shaped Like the Lesser-Known 19th-century Vice Presidents.” Sometimes you simply have to feel the sunshine, breathe the fresh air and actually gather up the belly lint shaped like…

*Sigh* Could somebody just locate a subscriber to “Homemade Prison Shivs of the Mid-70s” and let him put Mr. Belly Lint Collector out of his misery?

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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.

Not that you were so brazen as to ask, but one of my greatest sources of pride as an old, happily married man is that I always managed to resist the siren call of premarital sex.
(Okay, I probably had help from the fact that once those mythical temptresses got a good look at me, they invariably stammered, “Um, sorry… wrong number. And your face looks like it has ALREADY smashed against the rocks.”)

Still, I would have felt less geeky and self-conscious in my teens and twenties if something like the current “Virginity Rocks” phenomenon had existed then.

As you may know, Danny Duncan (a 27-year-old YouTube personality and prankster) introduced “Virginity Rocks” T-shirts as a joke in 2017. But the message has caught fire. Chastity fans embrace it with dead seriousness, while hedonistic hipsters embrace it for the irony.

Of course, the casual observer’s confusion over who falls into which camp can both blunt the lesson AND cause people to practice abstinence even after tying the knot. (“Honey, I say that guy over there truly believes that True Love Waits.” “Wrong. I say that guy is mocking traditional values, dear.” “I say you’re crazy.” “I say you’re sleeping on the sofa for the next couple of weeks.”)

Duncan’s lark has caught business experts by surprise, generating millions of dollars of sales of trademarked merchandise. (Apparently, at least half the consumers are announcing, “I’m saving my VIRTUE for marriage, but I’m blowing my PAYCHECK on those sandals and hoodies.”)

A feeling of kinship with like-minded individuals nationwide might have given me more backbone when I was 14 and working at my uncle’s junkyard. As it was, I remained silent when one of the scrap haulers (a macho loudmouth) pontificated pronouncements such as, “If my son ain’t (had sex) by the time he’s 16, I’m buying him a (hooker).” After 40-plus years, I still wonder how that boy turned out. (“Dude! My STDs plotted against me and voted me out of the house! Guess I can sleep on a park bench and cover myself with paternity suits.”)

The world of “Virginity Rocks” first caught my attention via news reports of the quandary faced by school administrators. Some schools have sent students home for having the audacity to wear “Virginity Rocks” shirts to class. Parents have protested that it’s illogical and counterproductive to punish kids for displaying a POSITIVE MESSAGE. (A “Don’t Run with Scissors” lanyard would probably get the young hoodlums sentenced to breakin’ rocks in the hot sun.)

No, really, the T-shirts are intimidating because the administrators would rather that students not think about sex at all. That’s asking a lot from teens awash in raging hormones. Their minds can drift onto sex from just about any subject, whether the Magna Carta, the shifting of tectonic plates or the Trail of Tears. (“So, how exactly would a Cherokee maiden send smoke signals of her breasts to a young brave she’s interested in?”)

I know there are people who sneer at the “Virginity Rocks” adherents and espouse “letting it all hang out.” These folks might sing a different tune if they ran afoul of a protective father who decided to avenge the deflowering of his precious daughter. (“Ouch! I prithee exercise a modicum of self-restraint. OUCH! No sir, you just can’t beat keeping your emotions in check and calmly…ARGGHH!”)

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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.

“The sincere wish to be good is half the battle.” – Marmee, in Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women.”

“The OTHER half of the battle, however, is the part where the ungrateful objects of your kindness are unleashing the Rottweilers on you.” – Danny Tyree, in a shameless attempt to pad his word count.

According to the Associated Press, Michael Schur (creator of the critically acclaimed NBC series “The Good Place”) has signed with publishing house Simon & Shuster to write the humor/philosophy book “How To Be Good: A Definitive Answer for Exactly What To Do In Every Possible Situation” (scheduled for fall 2021).

In a world where we’re constantly bombarded with negative messages such as “Only the good die young” and “Nice guys finish last,” it’s uplifting to see the concept of goodness analyzed and promoted, even if in a tongue-in-cheek manner.

I thought it would be a hoot if I challenged each of you to write “alongside” Schur, spending the next year and a half pondering ethics and jotting down your thoughts on pivotal questions, such as “What is goodness?,” “Why does goodness matter?” and “Could I make amends for all my youthful indiscretions by depositing a sizable check in Danny Tyree’s Cayman Islands account?”

I anticipate that perspectives on goodness will vary wildly. Some of you will find its foundation in the Ten Commandments or the Golden Rule. Others may embrace simply Doing the Right Thing with no acknowledgment of a Higher Power. Your motivations might involve an eternal reward or an upgraded reincarnation or leaving the world a better place before your consciousness blinks out of existence. Just don’t let MEDITATION sour you on the concept of goodness. (“Becoming ONE WITH THE UNIVERSE makes my butt look really fat doesn’t, doesn’t it?”)

When you wrestle with issues such as carbon footprints, animal rights, little white lies and mercy killings, you realize goodness isn’t as clear-cut as you would like. Oscar Wilde’s character Dorian Gray certainly oversimplified when he remarked, “To be good is to be in harmony with one’s self.” Yeah, I don’t care if the voices in your head are harmonizing in a BARBERSHOP QUARTET – if they’re whispering suggestions like, “Dude, let’s spend another weekend frolicking and planting pipe bombs,” we need a definitive answer to the situation of having a sociopath in our midst!

Doing good can generate great peace of mind, but it is no panacea. You can still wake up in the middle of the night with the chilling realization that “Back in 2007 when I vacationed in Dollywood, Earl gave me strict instructions of ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’ — but I DID! May God have mercy on my soul, I did!”

Part of goodness involves not overreaching. If you ACHIEVE goodness, stop. Don’t show off by trying to be “good and READY” or “good ‘n’ plenty” or any of those highfalutin variations.

Now get started writing your journal of the path to goodness!

Kind-hearted person that you are, you’ll probably wind up making allowances for people because of their baggage. Just don’t set the bar as low as for your “Good boy!” four-legged family members.

That would radically change the standards for sainthood. (“No, I can’t document any miracles performed in Jason’s name – but he ALWAYS waited until visitors left to cough up a dead squirrel and scoot across the carpet.”)

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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.

The recent New York Times article “The Struggle to Mend America’s Rural Roads” used Wisconsin as a microcosm for the infrastructure crisis that either directly or indirectly affects all Americans.

(There was supposed to be a hastily called roundtable meeting about the situation last week, but the roundtable bounced out of Bob’s truck and was last seen rolling through a flock of sheep on its way to a watery grave in Simpson’s Swamp.)

Personally, I’m tickled with the job the county road department does with my own stretch of country road. But for people in many states and localities, broken axles, wrecked suspension systems, busted tires, emergency road closings and unpredictable weight limits for aging bridges are an ever-looming danger. Shoppers, commuters, tourists, farmers and truckers hauling the nation’s food supply are all at the mercy of substandard rural roads.

The normal life span of an asphalt road is 30 years, but many rural roads have been in service for more than 75 years. (“Wow! Since the time of Plymouth Rock!” Okay, history teachers need more money, too.)

Unfortunately, road construction and maintenance do not come cheap. Reconstructing a mile of road costs $300,000; even chip sealing (a kind of short-term patching) costs $17,000 a mile. Some officeholders are better at keeping costs down than others. (“I’m the county mayor, and I brought a big stack of COUPONS to negotiate with! And I just turned 62. What kind of senior discounts on asphalt have you been hiding up your sleeve?”)

All federal, state and local agencies must make hard decisions about finite resources, but some places are less ashamed of their stinginess than others. (“Yes, we are a proud POTHOLE SANCTUARY STATE.”)

Many urbanites – unable to see past their subways and other forms of mass transit – demonstrate a dismaying lack of empathy for fellow Americans who live in “flyover country.” (“I didn’t FORCE them to live in the boonies. Granted, I’ve tried to force them to stop exploiting the vultures who eat roadkill, but I didn’t force them to live in the boonies.”)

Yes, many people treat rural drivers like second-class citizens. But as Shakespeare’s Shylock observed, “If you prick me, do I not bleed? If I meet you on a narrow road and you force me too far over against the crumbling shoulder, do I not plunge to a fiery death?”)

To be sure, open-minded city-dwellers can visit the hinterlands and really “click” with the locals and their needs. Their hearts are in the right place. (Or maybe their hearts have shifted to the LOWER INTESTINE REGION after hitting one bump too many.)

But even the most sympathetic visitors know that whatever state or federal funding might materialize, the answer must start with the people directly affected. And locals can be reluctant to disrupt the status quo by opening their wallets wider. As John Denver sang, “Country roads, take me home – unless there’s a big tax bill waiting in the mailbox!”

Still, I hope the Times article will reignite a long-stalled national discussion of the seen and unseen costs of deteriorating infrastructure. People from all regions, all income levels, all political persuasions must put their petty differences aside, roll up their sleeves and brainstorm solutions.

As Prof. Emmett Brown from “Back to the Future” might have said, “Bipartisanship? Where we’re going, we don’t need bipartisanship! KA-THUMP KA-THUMP CRASH! AIIIIEEEEE!” 

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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.

I was nearly a decade late, but, yes, I finally summoned my intestinal fortitude and underwent a colonoscopy.

Some people procrastinate about diagnostic tests because they’re terrified of potential bad news (“That mole is NOT irregularly shaped; it’s shaped just like a basketball, and, um, about the same size”) or because they’re swayed by alarming anecdotes (“My mechanic’s cousin’s life coach got a colonoscopy once – and the next morning there was a hook hanging from his car door!”) or because they don’t realize modern medicine has replaced old techniques like the greased-ferret-going-in-and-taking-meticulous-notes method.

It was not a desire to be cantankerous that kept me away from the gastroenterologist for so long. My sincere plans to schedule a colonoscopy were continually thwarted by more pressing health issues, such as an enlarged prostate, a cracked vertebra, a sprained wrist from hitting the snooze alarm, etc.

I also lost valuable time when I decided to take my insurance company’s suggestion and compromise with one of those mail-in kits instead of a full-fledged colonoscopy. You know, where you put a sample in a special envelope and ship it to the lab. I must have flashed back to Cub Scout days, because I wound up lighting the envelope on fire, leaving it on the neighbor’s doorstep and ringing the doorbell.

Yes, a colonoscopy (from the Greek for “Pay the anesthesiologist twice their asking price!”) is something that people of a certain age (as well as younger people with enhanced risk factors) are supposed to buckle down and get done – to catch problems early, give their family peace of mind, keep healthcare costs down and just be a responsible member of society.

People of a certain age. *Sigh* How quickly time slips away. One day it’s all “Sesame Street” (“Sunny day, sweeping the clouds away, on my way to where the air is sweet…”), and seemingly overnight, it’s “Let’s go spelunking where the sun don’t shine!”

I am confident that people who have survived colon cancer because of an early diagnosis will give my recommendations a hearty “Amen.” Granted, people who are currently drinking their sodium picosulfate and prepping for a colonoscopy will have religious leanings more like “Dear God, please make it stop!”

I am eternally grateful for my family’s being supportive during my purging activities. Emperor Palpatine would have been more willing to give up the throne than I was.

People who cast a ballot get rewarded with an “I Voted” sticker. Why can’t people who undergo a colonoscopy get an “I made Lysol stock skyrocket” button?

Every colonoscopy patient needs to do at least a little tidying up so the camera can perform properly, but some people have gotten extraordinarily behind on their bathroom duties. (“Wow! The last time I saw those pancakes, Aunt Jemima was still Baby Sister Jemima!”)

But I digress. Everything turned out fine. Not even any benign polyps to remove. “See us again in 10 years.”

In fact, my wife the college biology teacher was so impressed with the snapshots of my innards, she plans to show the pics (“better than the textbook!”) to her class next semester. I kid you not.

But I may flash back to mischievous Cub Scout days again. Maybe I’ll trigger the students by mixing the colon pictures with photos of a water-skiing ferret!
Class dismissed. Oh, yeah, I dismissed with class a long time ago.

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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.