Cagle World

Do you long for the days when the only outbursts our delicate ears had to worry about were the Z word (“Zoinks!”) and the J word (“Jinkies!”)?

Then you might want to pop open some Scooby Snacks and celebrate the fact that September 13 marks the 50th anniversary of “What a Night for a Knight,” the first episode of “Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?”

Yes, the generational torch (of viewers and creative personnel) has been passed time and again during the past 50 years (and I can only hope that the more cynical fans are WRONG about Norville “Shaggy” Rogers lighting up a little cannabis every time the torch passes).

It’s hard to exaggerate how intricately the Scooby mythos has become woven into our culture. According to my top-secret sources (okay, Ghost Clown and Carlotta the Gypsy), Al Gore and Hillary Clinton have both been known to mutter, “…and I would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for you meddling Electoral College electors!”

Much of the success of Scooby-Doo is attributed to its being exciting without being TOO nerve-wracking and nightmare-inducing for young viewers. But binge-watching can cause trauma for those of us who are rediscovering the shows through our children or grandchildren. I mean, you stroll up to the bathroom mirror and announce, “Let’s see who this really is” – before screaming, “It’s me! It’s really me!”

Ah, but who cares about a few gray hairs and wrinkles? At least I’m alive, unlike a dismaying number of prematurely departed first-generation Scooby fans. As a public service, Scooby always taught us that you can invariably trick pursuers into playing hopscotch, pattycake or jump-rope with you. Unfortunately, cutting-edge computer models developed since 1969 have proven conclusively THAT DON’T WORK SO GOOD IN THE ‘HOOD!

Scooby-Doo and Shaggy are almost inseparable, but sometimes Scooby falls short on the Unconditional Canine Loyalty benchmark. Although the whole Mystery Incorporated gang is together for the newly launched “Scooby-Doo and Guess Who?” series on Boomerang (the 13th TV series incarnation of the Scooby franchise!), some of the versions have completely eliminated teammates Fred, Daphne and Velma. (“Relp! Relp! The network is offering me all kinds of cash to ditch the third, fourth and fifth wheels!”)

Although a 2013 “TV Guide” survey ranked Scooby-Doo the fifth greatest TV cartoon, after five decades the show still hasn’t won an Emmy award (and has garnered only two nominations). But Scooby is accustomed to being put down by the critics. (Although, at his age, he does frequently worry about being put down by the VET.)

Who knows what it would take to bedazzle the Emmy voters, anyway? The Mummy of Ankha has opioid prescriptions written on his wrappings? The Miner 49er is killed in prison when it is discovered he used fracking techniques? Scooby gets a more upscale nephew? (“I just sneaked out the doggie door at Downton Abbey for a hop across the pond! By Jove, don’t you recognize cousin Scrappy Grantham?”)

While countless “hot” TV characters have faded into obscurity, Scooby-Doo is loved everywhere. Our church helps sponsor a missionary to Guyana, and his most effective icebreaker is passing out Scooby T-shirts. The appeal is not just international. I’ll bet that when the first earthlings plant a flag on Mars, there will be a Little Green Man muttering, “Ruh roh! There goes the neighborhood!”

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Copyright 2019 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.

First, some disclaimers.

When my son Gideon was in kindergarten and first grade, I indulged him by recording countless hours of hyperactive, unseen-outside-the-family DVDs he called The Gideon Channel.For more than seven years, we have made annual trips to the local radio station to cut commercials for my retail day job.

But that’s as far as I exploit him (outside of this column). So, I was flabbergasted to see a CBS News report about the phenomenon of “kid influencers” dominating Instagram, YouTube and other social media platforms.

Precocious children living out their lives in front of a webcam (interspersing their antics with commercials, using the sponsor’s products onscreen, etc.) could be an $8 billion industry by the end of the year. (Even more if UPS and Johnny’s parents can figure out a way for Johnny to unwrap Greenland for his breathless audience.)

The major online platforms prohibit accounts by youngsters under age 13, but parents can certainly take charge of building the media empire on behalf of the tykes. Remember when parents said, “Hold down that racket”? Now it’s “Help me RUN this racket. Oh, the wheels on the bus go KA-CHING KA-CHING…”

While ostensibly having fun, “kid influencers” are saddled with helping major brands manipulate the purchasing decisions of other youngsters and their parents.Forgive me, but I tend not to take stock tips from somebody with an office in a 1973 Ford Pinto or cereal/toy/sneakers purchasing suggestions from someone who thinks a cake should be baked for 100 hours at zero degrees!!!

I was brought up in the “children should be seen and not heard” era, so I’ll admit I probably have an inherent resistance to “kid influencers.” Yeah, their channels influence me all right – to switch over to the Yoko Ono With A Sore Throat Channel!

Deep-pocketed advertisers seek out younger and younger kids to promote their wares, but sometimes they go a little too far. It’s hard to endorse an energy drink when the only liquid you’re acquainted with is AMNIOTIC FLUID.

Remember when kids wanted to do something challenging, like becoming a nurse, cowboy, astronaut, or president? According to CBS, “becoming a social media star” is one of the most popular career aspirations named by kids in a recent survey. Save lives? Lead the free world? Nah, let’s capture the attention of perverts, jealous classmates and klutzes who can’t find the water-skiing squirrel videos.

The wide-open industry worries childrearing experts. With no regulations on amount of screen time, accounting or working/playing conditions, things could get grim. (“My momma always said never to run with scissors. She never said anything about not running with this new Stihl model MS 170 chainsaw!”)

LEVEL-HEADED parents can maintain a sense of balance in the lives of their “kid influencers.” But they will face unrelenting pressure to increase profit quarter after quarter. (“Are you SURE there’s no chance of my delivering conjoined quintuplets, doctor? It would mean so much to my other child, Asset One.”)

Like former child stars of film and TV, online sensations may be totally unprepared for their cuteness to expire. Big brother’s voice changes? Time for little sister to become the favorite child! Circle of life. Or circle of death, when a grizzled big brother someday picks a fight in a bar. (“I can whip any man in the place! Where’s my &^%$#s Nerf bat???”)

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Copyright 2019 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.

July 5, 1970 was a red-letter day in my childhood.

On a Sunday afternoon fishing trip with my little brother and late father, I caught 15 fish at the lake in Lewisburg, Tennessee.

(Yes, the number 15 has stuck in my memory for 49 years. Oddly enough, 15 is the same number of minutes it now takes me to remember why I entered a room.)

Although my son caught a minnow or two in my brother’s backyard creek a few years ago, I have had only one real fishing excursion since that personal-best day in 1970.

(Non-aquatic) Life got in the way.

My experience is hardly unique, judging by a Wall Street Journal article titled “Does Fishing Have A Future?”

According to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (motto: “YOU say ‘shutdown of nonessential government services’; I say, ‘Herds of caribou and elk mysteriously stampeding through fashionable D.C. restaurants'”), the number of Americans who at least dabble in fishing has grown in recent years, but the TOTAL DAYS FISHED has dropped alarmingly.

Organizations such as the Recreational Boating and Fishing Foundation are striving mightily to (a) keep youngsters motivated to fish as they enter their teen and adult years, (b) lure former anglers back into the hobby and (c) make fishing more alluring to women and minorities.

I wish the volunteers well. I know many people are yearning for “Andy and Opie” fishing-hole adventures, and that they romanticize the Good Old Days when whole families fished together. But tradition-sharing nuclear families are endangered, and Mom’s Latest Boyfriend usually has a shorter expiration date than the WORM.

Yes, I support the educational programs that encourage fishing; but I do so with gritted teeth, because I know it’s part and parcel of the tiresome “make the kids put down their electronic devices and commune with nature” guilt trip that so many codgers (and codger wannabes) espouse nowadays.

I mean, isn’t it a little ironic that do-gooders can see youngsters on the verge of driving and dating and badger them with “Nooooooo – get in touch with NATURE. Don’t mess with that ‘birds and bees’ stuff”?

Multi-generational bonding is all well and good, but kids are being encouraged to drag retiree grandpa out of his easy chair when the only “catch and release” grandpa wants to do involves catching 40 winks and releasing something that is initiated with a mirthful plea to “pull my finger.”

Let’s face it: the different selling points of fishing actually work against each other. On the one hand, fishing is touted as a laid-back, peaceful pastime. But high schools and colleges are rushing to organize COMPETITIVE FISHING TEAMS. (“Okay, use the fish bladders as stress-relief balls if you must; but you’re running laps in the lake if your arch-rival doesn’t get a few accidental *wink wink* concussions from your trout.”)

I always get a special feeling when I eat fish, because I know Jesus cooked fish for his apostles (at least four of whom were literal fishermen). But, in these hyper-sensitive times, Christianity’s ties to fishing may just derail the fledgling revival.

“SINKERS and FLOATS? That’s some seriously judgmental, triggering imagery you’ve got there. And fish travel in SCHOOLS? Well, as long as they celebrate Winter Holiday and That Guy Who Did Good Deeds for No Particular Reason and Is Remembered on February 14 Day…”

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Copyright 2019 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.

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“Took away our native tongue/And taught their English to our young…” – from “Indian Reservation,” by John D. Loudermilk.

According to the United Nations, there are about 6,500 distinct languages (not just dialects) spoken throughout the world. And HALF of those languages are in danger of disappearing by the next century.

That’s right: one language becomes extinct every two weeks! Which means somewhere, right now, someone is smacking his forehead and muttering, “I KNEW I should have read the shopping list a day sooner.”

Sometimes languages disappear because the tribes or ethnic groups who spoke them were tiny to start with and couldn’t outlast famine, flooding or a protracted war of the sexes. (“What part of ‘uytrpkmnjnxw’ do you not understand?”)

Sometimes languages disappear because the speakers did not appreciate their uniqueness until it was too late. (“How come nobody TOLD me we are INDIGENOUS PEOPLES? I thought we were just homefolks keepin’ it real.”)

Sometimes languages disappear because the natives who utter them get exasperated by well-meaning anthropologists performing the HEIMLICH MANEUVER on them.

Sometimes languages die because they lack a few crucial phrases, such as “Don’t eat those berries over there!”

Let’s not forget assimilation. All too often, tribes in the boonies are FORCED to adhere to the customs of the national government or urban trendsetters. Glad we don’t have that problem here. (I was going to omit this paragraph, but the Environmental Protection Agency and Taylor Swift insisted.)

It is difficult for linguists to explain the urgency of the situation to good ol’ “survival of the fittest” Joe Sixpack. Yes, every extinguished language leaves mankind immeasurably poorer; but Joe would respond, “Student loans, an underwater mortgage and that GOLDDIGGER I married in Vegas left me immeasurably poorer. Waving bye-bye to a few clicks and whistles? I can do that standing on my head.”

More open-minded individuals recognize the importance of societies maintaining their identity and sharing their accumulated knowledge with the world.Indeed, among the leading causes of depression are isolation, unhealthy relationships, negative self-talk and the inability to think of 50 different words for snow.

Yes, we can benefit from the fables, metaphors and idioms of other cultures. Although, we already have ENOUGH troubling idioms, such as “shooting fish in a barrel” and “more than one way to skin a cat.” Can we stand all the high jinks that ensue when we finally compile a cannibal dictionary?

I would point out that a culture that lacks a single succinct noun to describe a good-natured ceremony of drenching a newlywed couple with honey and letting a one-eyed camel drag them westward across ant hills is probably going to have fewer actual INSTANCES of, well, you know.

Happily, the language app Duolingo recently added courses on Navajo and Hawaiian. Language videos are constantly being added to the Wikitongues YouTube channel.

I just hope the volunteers working feverishly to preserve Languages That Might Be Useful Someday live long enough to see their efforts rewarded. Of course, this depends on their not getting crushed under a mountain of used pudding cups, busted analog TVs, college-days jeans and other things that Might Be Useful Someday.

And I hope our archives make a good impression when the aliens from Proxima Centauri return. (“What? They haven’t progressed beyond the languages from 5,000 years ago? Ha! Give them a cure for cancer? Uytrpkmnjnxw way, Jose!”)

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Copyright 2019 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.

For various reasons, my graduating class has seen two milestone anniversaries sail by without a class reunion materializing.

So, I can understand the disappointment of those on the slightly older end of the baby boom generation who have now seen the 50-year reunion celebration of the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival collapse.

Although the organizers had no aspirations of matching the 400,000 attendance of the original Woodstock, they did originally envision a three-day multi-generational event for 100,000 or more guests, held at a Formula One racetrack in upstate New York. A whopping $32 million in talent fees was guaranteed upfront.

It was sad to watch the Woodstock 50 promoters keep haggling and downsizing the festival.By the time the plug was finally pulled, I understand the talent and venue could best be described as “that annoying guy in the next cubicle, humming an off-key rendition of ‘I Get by With A Little Help from My Friends.'”

Perhaps the Woodstock anniversary is marred by the same mixed emotions as the recent Apollo 11 golden anniversary. We haven’t done a lot with space exploration since the moon landings; and Woodstock, which was supposed to be part of the “dawning of the age of Aquarius,” hasn’t exactly inspired overachievement of its goals of peace, love and harmony. Half a century later, while we keep waiting for the break of day, someone has painted a swastika on the paperboy’s bicycle and threatened the rooster with an assault rifle.

Woodstock 50 was a precarious balancing act from the start. It was envisioned to celebrate the spirit of the original festival while also being relevant to the youth of today. It’s sort of weird for the generation that cautioned “Don’t trust anybody over 30” to try talking their grandkids into finding an Uber driver with a psychedelic Volkswagen bus for picking up old hippie hitchhikers. (“Don’t worry. After 50 years, the shrapnel from the collapsing stage only occasionally gives him nightmares.”)

Don’t get me started talking about Woodstock 1969 attendees who feel compelled to tell their middle-aged children, “Enjoy the ride. This is a bootleg of the 20-minute drum solo you were conceived to. Or somebody was conceived to. You’ll love it. Let me know if you need any more details.”

The world has changed so much in the past 50 years. The newspapers and TV networks reveled in salacious reports of the mind-altering drugs freely available at Woodstock. Now minds CAN’T be altered. (“Don’t bother me with your well-rehearsed talking points. I KNOW that Trump’s fiery rhetoric was directly responsible for the Spanish Inquisition and the Salem Witch Trials.”)

The sort of public nudity that scandalized a nation in 1969 would just lead to confusion among the younger generation nowadays. (“Wait ‒ based on your gender and my gender, I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be turned on or not. Where are my notes???”)

I’ll keep on listening to music from 1969, but perhaps the demise of the 2019 Woodstock is for the best. I’ll bet most of the people who attended the original will remember it as a convergence of cultural forces that could never be replicated. It would be like catching lightning in a bottle.

Or, like the popular LSD-enhanced Woodstock game of catching unicorns in a butterfly net. (“It’s so pretty. It’ll look so good in President George McGovern’s Oval Office!”)

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Copyright 2019 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’m a big softie when it comes to children’s books.

I remember my first library card (TWO trips to the library that glorious day!), and my held-together-with-duct-tape childhood copy of Little Golden Book “Danny Beaver’s Secret” (by Patsy and Richard Scarry) sits proudly on my writing desk.

So, I was overjoyed to have the opportunity to pose some questions to author Martin Powell, whose latest children’s books, “Private Eye Princess and the Emerald Pea” and “Rapunzel vs. Frankenstein” go on sale August 1. Both will be available via bookstores, libraries, Amazon and other sources.

Powell (a Louisville, Kentucky native) and wife Leia (an author and award-winning stained-glass artist) now live in Florence, Alabama. He has been a professional writer since 1986, not only creating original characters but also regaling the reading public with adventures of timeless literary and pop-culture figures such as Batman, Sherlock Holmes, Superman, Hercules, Dracula, Robinson Crusoe and The Phantom. His most successful books include “The Tall Tale of Paul Bunyan” (which won the Golden Sunbeam Award for Best Children’s Graphic Novel) and “Red Riding Hood.”

In addition to prose, comic books and graphic novels, Powell is currently writing nearly a dozen online comic strips for Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc. – the folks carrying on the Tarzan legacy.

Powell says most of his books are aimed at an “all ages” audience, but these ARE the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth books he has written for Capstone, a company dedicated to developing a love of reading among children and young adults. (Capstone’s motto: “Loved by kids. Trusted by librarians.”)

Powell’s Facebook page makes frequent mention of inspirations Ray Bradbury and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When I narrowed the discussion to children’s books, he unhesitatingly cited Dr. Seuss, L. Frank Baum (author of the Oz series) and cartoonist E.C. Segar (creator of Popeye the Sailor) among his indispensable inspirations.

The basic concept of Powell’s two newest books is to “take a well-known fairy tale and twist the elements into something more entertaining and relevant for a young reader of the 21st century.” Powell is aiming for 4th- through 6th-grade readers, but he adds that both books would certainly be fun for parents to read aloud to much younger kids.

Powell noted that kids, and girls especially, seem to read lots more than adults nowadays, which is why he focuses on an element of “girl power” in all his books.

Powell receives fan letters from all over the world. (“I always answer them, every single one.”)

When I asked Powell for closing remarks, he opined, “When I was a kid, a book was a window into a wonderful other world. It warms my heart to see kids absorbed by an open book, rather than squinting at the screen of an electronic device. The greatest playground of all is within their own imaginations. We must continue to nurture those adventures.”

Well said.

A 2011 quote from my son (then age seven) recently resurfaced in the “Memories” section of Facebook. Gideon wanted to “spend some quality time with Daddy.”

“Quality time” is that will-o’-the-wisp that parents and grandparents yearn to share with the youngsters in their lives.

Luckily, books are a great way to get a grip on quality time and bonding.

Be sure to peruse Powell’s Amazon page at www.amazon.com/Martin-Powell/e/B001JRXRSU.

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Copyright 2019 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.

“What to buy (and not to buy) at the dollar store,” blared the headline for a Washington Post analysis of retail chains such as Dollar Tree and 99 Cents Only.

Although my own experiences have been mostly positive (clean, well-stocked, easily navigated stores with friendly employees), I can understand the need for the Post, Consumer Reports and other periodicals to offer pointers for maximizing the shopping experience.

First, the good news. Dollar stores have been a reliable source of snacks, party supplies, gift bags and toothpaste for my family. I was tickled to find perfectly serviceable reading glasses for my mother at ONE-FIFTH the price I had encountered at other “everyday low prices” stores. I am especially grateful for the name-brand “two for a dollar” greeting cards offered at dollar stores. I had always felt stupid emptying my wallet for “one and done” cards that should really say, “I can’t believe you’re six years old – and that this bleepin’ card cost more than the obstetrician who delivered you.”

On the other hand, consumer advocates advise checking the package weight, ingredients and expiration dates on “too good to be true” bargains. The date on processed meat should contain a month and year, not a reference to CARBON-14! And, regardless of the advertised SPF level, you probably won’t get much protection from sunscreen with a dusty label proclaiming, “When you run out of children to sacrifice, this offers last-ditch protection against that giant ball of fire in the sky.”

Critics warn that “you get what you pay for” and should be willing to shop for high-quality versions of certain items at actual hardware stores. You know the old saying: “When the only tool you have is a dollar hammer, every problem starts to look like the head flying off and coldcocking your spouse.”

Cosmetic products may be watered down or contain harsher ingredients than other brands. But in case you’re putting on a community theater production of “The Wizard of Oz,” can you really pass up spending a buck to have a REALISTIC portrayal of someone with green skin moaning, “I’m melting, I’m melting”?

Toys can be particularly lacking in sturdiness. (“Stop crying over that busted paddle ball or I’ll GIVE you something to cry about – a sack of dollar yo-yos!”)

Skeptics say some fly-by-night suppliers are lacking in transparency, track record and accountability. On the other hand, the vaunted name-brand manufacturers can afford the best lobbyists and lawyers. (“Battery spewed acid down your esophagus? We have this bunny that just keeps going and going and going… back to court. Don’t spend your settlement in one place. Aw, you splurged on gum.”)

Dollar stores have been controversial in some communities. They are accused of driving grocery stores out of business and reducing access to fresh food. Tulsa, Oklahoma and other cities have imposed restrictions on the establishments. Because, you know, consumers who would invest a dollar in an extension cord are going to live long enough to reap the health benefits of kale and mangoes.

Finally, no kidding, home pregnancy tests are among the top selling items at dollar stores. Sales really spike after some Lothario stocks up on dollar bottles of wine. Perhaps those Lotharios should toss in an appropriate greeting card. (“I can’t believe this wine is six days old – and cost more than my vasectomy.”)

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Copyright 2019 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.

According to NBC News, a committee of the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering and Medicine has offered a ray of hope for those who fear developing Alzheimer’s disease or other forms of dementia.

A miracle cure remains elusive, but research shows that certain “common sense” practices (including regular exercise, specific memory training strategies and controlling high blood pressure) may substantially delay and soften memory loss.

And… even if the researchers turn out to be embarrassingly overoptimistic, you won’t remember it and will continue cheerfully making donations to the National Academies of Sciences, Engineering and Medicine. It’s a classic “Win, Don’t Remember LOSING” situation.

Excuse me. There is nothing at all funny about dementia, but there is certainly humor to be found in how we process this good news about reining in its ravages.

The research paper contains so many oft-repeated bits of advice, I suspect that the nation’s moms talked doctors into shoehorning a lot of extra helpful hints into it. Among the dead giveaways were tips buried in the twelfth paragraph, including “Be sure to wear clean underwear,” “Wash behind your ears again,” “Finish that ‘thank you’ note to great-aunt Elvira right this minute” and “Stop making that face or your memory will freeze like that.”

The looming threat of cognitive impairment (the loss of the ability to think clearly and make decisions) in old age puts the fear of God into some of my acquaintances. (“You mean if I don’t do what the scientists recommend, someday instead of saying, ‘Here, hold my beer and watch this,’ I’ll be saying, ‘Here, hold my whatchamacallit and watch this’?That’s a scary degree of intellectual decline, dude.”)

For those of us with certain carnivorous cravings, it stings to see the perpetual bogeyman “red meat” listed among the things to avoid. It’s an impossible situation. If you ignore the warning and continue scarfing down burgers, you’ll EVENTUALLY FORGET all the good times you had with your backyard grill. If you acquiesce and go the “Eat Mor Chikin” route, you’ll ALWAYS REMEMBER the good times you USED to have with beef.

(If you try to console me with Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” I’m going upside your head with this bottle of steak sauce.)

I know I need to work more fruits and vegetables into my diet; but on the other hand, I’ve never seen a clover-munching rabbit that could remember to stay away from our predatory cats. Just saying.

Those of us who enjoy curling up with a good book or partaking of the much-ballyhooed Golden Age of Television hate being guilted into playing “catch up” with the insufferable jokers who are already out there merrily power-walking, aerobicizing and shooting hoops.

(“Hello? You say you fell off the cliff and your femur is sticking out? I downloaded a YouTube video with a fix for that, but I deleted it because I’m conscientiously trying to save more brain cells. I’ll never forget you, Travis.”)

Seriously, investigate the research. It’s terrible to watch your identity fade away. Of course, in 2019’s fluid environment, we see a lot of YOUNG PEOPLE who don’t know who the heck they are. (“I’m Bubba-Bob, the baddest black woman you’ve ever smoked the peace pipe with. Hey, why isn’t this brain-teasing crossword puzzle in my native Babylonian?”)

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Copyright 2019 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.

Back in 2000, the presidential election was tight and much attention was focused on who better related to the public. Al Gore was viewed as an automaton, the product of reverse taxidermy who had to be hosed down every spring with Thompson’s Water Sealant. He needed a strobe light at press conferences just to give the appearance of movement.

George W. Bush, on the other hand, was a good ol’ boy Texan. “Someone you could have a beer with.”Of course, the whole nation remained on alert in case we had to take away the car keys.

Ever since, likability has played a pivotal election role. Except in 2016, when the two candidates were as beloved as wounded coyotes fighting over a dead rabbit in a broom closet.

If you had to pick one of the 20 debate-qualified Democratic candidates to have a beer with, you could do worse than John Hickenlooper, who helped found the Wynkoop Brewing Company before stints as Denver mayor and Colorado governor. A man who knows his India Pale Ales and Summer Wheats from his 3.2 percent Utah dishwater.

Beer expertise might not be a prime arrow in the other candidates’ quivers, but they all sport individual characteristics that could endear themselves to certain distinct demographics. Some more targeted than others. For instance:

– The best guy to sit on a porch in matching rocking chairs to wax poetic about the bad old days; Joe Biden.

– Anybody interested in arguing the merits of Texas vs. Iowa barbecue should report directly to Beto O’Rourke.

– If you want someone to belt out a couple of choruses of The Internationale with: Bernie Sanders is your man.

– Planting a garden of sustainable Swiss chard mulched with leaves and pine straw? Talk to Jay Inslee.

– Looking for someone to peer review new regulations for the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau- see Elizabeth Warren.

– If you need to dust the top of a really tall bookcase, give Bill DeBlasio a call.

– Curious as to how “Minnesota Nice” differs from “Minnesota Get Things Done,” sidle up to Amy Klobuchar.

– You want the real skinny on Marcia Clark, Arnold Schwarzenegger or Willie Brown, you need to talk to Kamala Harris.

– Rate the skits in The Best of Al Franken on Saturday Night Live DVD with Kirsten Gillibrand.

– Hankering to sing some Broadway musical karaoke with a Naval Intelligence officer, check out Mayor Pete Buttigieg.

– Talk smack about the Alabama Crimson Tide football program with Ohio State Buckeye alumni, Tim Ryan.

– Looking for someone who knows someone who might could possibly get you backstage at a Bruce Springsteen concert, how about Cory Booker?

– Get down and dirty as to how you’ll spend your guaranteed $1,000 a month mostly on gum and candy with Andrew Yang.

– Trade loco moco recipes with Tulsi Gabbard.

– Discover which of the TV pundit shows has the best snacks in the green room by talking to Michael Bennet.

– Discuss the ins and outs of playing The Parent Trap for real with Julian Castro.

– For an extremely accurate but sympathetic tarot reading, Marianne Williamson.

– Argue where Spiro Agnew ranks on the list of most corrupt Maryland politicians with John Delaney.

– Lay odds on who will be the next candidates to follow in his footsteps by quitting the race with Eric Swalwell.

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Copyright 2019, Will Durst, distributed by the Cagle Cartoons Inc. syndicate.

Will Durst is an award-winning, nationally acclaimed columnist, comic and former sod farmer in New Berlin, Wisconsin. For a calendar of personal appearances, including his new one-man show, “Durst Case Scenario,” please visit willdurst.com.

Some people never break the posted speed limit, they gingerly seal it in bubble wrap.

While lead-footed daredevils announce, “Put the pedal to the metal,” the contrasting lost-in-their-own-little-world “helium-footed” motorists chant the mantra “Do not violate the pedal’s personal space.”

Honestly, I don’t hate anyone in the whole world, but I can empathize with frustrated motorists who post essays declaring “I Hate Slow Drivers.”

Most of the writers are kvetching about slowpokes who take up permanent residency in the passing lane of an interstate highway, but I have encountered more than enough sightseers impeding commuters along country roads.

I know some people like to show up “fashionably late,” but if you’re so slow that you arrive wearing fashions from the previous decade…

Perhaps timid drivers stay well below the speeds recommended by safety engineers because they think it’s a trap. They envision the engineers sadistically waiting for vehicles traveling 55 miles per hour in a 55 zone to vibrate to pieces. (“Look! They’re burning up on reentry into Podunk. Sweet.”)

Nervous Nellies act out a “Wayne’s World” “We’re not worthy!” routine when told they have permission to reach a certain speed. They probably also cut the penny in half when instructed “Take a penny, leave a penny” and meekly ask the “free samples” staffer at the supermarket, “Might I just take the toothpick instead of the bacon-wrapped cocktail wienie?”

If challenged on their habits, the more self-centered slowpokes get defensive and mutter, “Well, if the speed demons behind me were in such an all-fired hurry, I guess they should have started 10 minutes sooner,” while clearing a place in the glove compartment for their Folksy Humorist of the Year award. These are the blame-the-victim jerks who think Lee Harvey Oswald should never have been arrested. (“If JFK had arrived in Dallas 10 days before the motorcade, none of this unseemly mess would have happened.”)

Slowpokes view themselves as exemplars of safe driving, but they don’t recognize when excess becomes wretched. They think driving 10 miles an hour slower than the legal limit is their obligation to mankind, even if they have new tires, new brakes, perfect weather, perfect visibility, a newly paved road and their GUARDIAN ANGEL visibly riding shotgun. (“Every time a horn honks, an angel gets the finger.”)

Some daydreaming dawdlers eventually pull over just long enough for the procession behind them to get up to speed. I always give them a smile and a wave for their consideration; but I’m still leery of the guy who motions for me to pass him on a blind curve. (Didn’t I see him on “The Twilight Zone”?)

Don’t assume this is an ageist rant. I’ve seen drivers from all generations behave badly. On the other hand, I HAVE gotten a good look at a lot of bumper stickers that read, “God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve – and I know because I was on their bowling team.”

When struggling to get to work on time, I’ve learned to accept reality, roll with the punches, take a deep breath and go to my Happy Place. Of course, I must always imagine myself going to my Happy Place via HIKING BOOTS.

I always tell myself that it could be worse: instead of blocking traffic, the jerks could be PARKING on the roadside and producing the next generation of idiots.

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Copyright 2019 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.