Cagle World

Sentimental fool that I am, a recent change in my son’s extracurricular activities was like an early Christmas gift.

Gideon has joined the staff of his school’s newly launched (online) newspaper, the Cornersville (TN) High School “Paw Prints.”

Since I cut my journalistic eyeteeth at my junior high, high school and college newspapers, Gideon’s decision was heart-warming – and much safer than two klutzy individuals seeking father-son bonding via athletic roughhousing. (“Don’t panic – I remember reading a book that tells what to do if you get a football caught in your esophagus… “)

I’m so proud. Gideon is following in his old man’s footprints (or following in his old man’s SLIME TRAIL, depending on your opinion of the press).

When I was a campus writer, we journalism nerds viewed ourselves as budding Woodwards and Bernsteins. No one could take away our First Amendment rights to inform the public. The band nerds could take away our LUNCH MONEY, but no one could take away our First Amendment rights to inform the public.

For the first issue of “Paw Prints,” Gideon has contributed a witty essay about obscure December holidays, as well as the first installment of a painstakingly drawn comic strip about a dystopian future. And not the usual teenager dystopian future. (“What? I’ll someday have to pay my own phone bill and cable bill? What terrorist nation caused this?”)

Gideon stays abreast of the political scene, but someone else was assigned to write the opinion piece. I expect a lot from Cornersville editorial writers, but not every school promotes such lively debate. (“Whatever.” “I was, like, whatever FIRST.” “You’re LITERALLY making my whatever explode… “)

I hope faculty advisers will adhere to strict journalistic ethics and not be pushovers, like some teachers are in the classroom. (“Teacher, I was technically incorrect with that scoop about the cafeteria lady being a former KG–assassin, but don’t I get bonus points for this cool font?”)

I hope the staff realizes just how wonderful today’s resources are. When I look back at my printed school newspapers, I realize they were saddled with bulky paragraphs, tiny print and watered-down ink. It’s interesting to contrast my generation’s two main sources of breaking news: the bathroom wall (“For a good time, call Drusilla”) and the student newspaper (“For herniated retinas, read the newspaper”).

With online publication, the staff can update scores or make retractions in a timely fashion. No more gossip columns being comically out of date by the time they reach the public. Of course, modern couples present their own problems. (“Well, yeah, like Jenny dumped me; but I still IDENTIFY as being her main squeeze.”)

With online publication, the staff has the luxury of sharing almost-unlimited amounts of crisp, color digital photographs and even spicing up the pages with audio and video. (Back in the day, the only audio was the sound of 500 students murmuring, “Trees had to die to print Tyree’s crap?”)

I can imagine investigative reporters capturing incriminating admissions in the teachers’ lounge. (“Yeah, I get massive injections of Botox, so I can keep a straight face when I tell the students how Captain Ahab will be useful to them in the Real World.”)

Best wishes to budding journalists at Cornersville and everywhere. You may never get rich; but, then, there’s less chance of somebody mugging you with a tuba.

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Copyright 2018 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.

1968 was a year desperately in need of a Merry Christmas.

The year had seen student protests worldwide, the Tet Offensive in the Vietnam War, a chaotic Democratic National Convention, the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy and countless other examples of discord.

NASA came through with an uplifting message. On Christmas Eve, half a billion people around the world watched historic, Emmy-winning TV coverage of Apollo 8 orbiting the moon.

The three astronauts (Bill Anders, Jim Lovell and Frank Borman) took turns reciting the first 10 verses from the Book of Genesis.

The words and images showed that (despite our different colors, languages and customs) we homo sapiens are actually close together in the vastness of the universe. They showed how mankind is a mere speck, but a speck with inherent worth in the eyes of its Creator.

NASA had assigned the astronauts the loosely defined task to “say something appropriate” for the monumental achievement. They could have scrounged for some vaguely relevant statement by Shakespeare or the Wright brothers, but the Old Testament soundbite they did settle on resonated with a large, diverse portion of the world’s population.

CBS News anchor Walter Cronkite initially felt trepidations about a Bible passage, but conceded it was “just the right thing to do.”

And by the “reasonable person” standard, it was indeed the right thing to do. It was a simple, broad, non-nationalistic, non-proselytizing message. There was no mention of a kosher diet, circumcision, sin, the Virgin Birth, the Resurrection or praying toward Mecca.

But no good deed goes unpunished. Militant atheist Madalyn Murray O’Hair sued the United States government because the reading completely destroyed the First Amendment or induced nightmares in millions of agnostics or forced hapless viewers to be baptized or … SOMETHING.

O’Hair’s lawsuit fizzled out, but it certainly sowed the seed for today’s concept of “microaggressions,” made a crucifix immersed in urine acceptable as “art,” emboldened comedians to joke about knocking that baby out of the womb and fanned the flames of today’s overheated rhetoric.

Fifty years after Apollo 8, as we still mourn a former president who imagined a “kinder, gentler nation,” the world still needs all of us to “say something appropriate” every day.

Whatever your age, gender, ethnicity, spirituality, income level or political leanings, common sense and decency compel us to “measure twice, cut once” when choosing our words.

It is not appropriate when your words use actual malice (or willful tone-deafness) to wound others.

Nor is it appropriate to reply caustically to a well-meaning expression such as “Happy holidays” or “Let me open that door for you, ma’am.”

It is not appropriate to use half-truths, rumors and automatic cries of “hater” to make your point.

It is not appropriate to deify Hollywood celebrities and “this week’s rising politician” while ridiculing or bullying someone trying to worship in a more traditional manner.

Whether you PRAY to a Supreme Being for strength or work your highly evolved brain to the max, strive to avoid vulgarity and divisiveness.

Please believe that I have only love in my heart as this week’s column finishes with sentiments from the Apollo 8 broadcast.

“And from the crew of the Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas – and God bless all of you on the good earth.”

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Copyright 2018 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 fan of comfort foods, but a recent headline made me feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“Tuna seeks return to salad days,” blared the Wall Street Journal.

To my dismay, once-ubiquitous canned tuna has fallen upon hard times. According to the United States Department of Agriculture, per capita consumption dropped 42 percent between 1986 and 2016.

I’m disappointed by snobbish modern consumers who sneer at canned tuna. My fellow Baby Boomers and our parents certainly gobbled down mass quantities like good Americans, even though Charlie the Tuna made an unnerving animated spokes-tuna for StarKist.

Charlie was the antithesis of Chick-fil-A’s cows painting “Eat Mor Chikin” graffiti. Charlie BEGGED to be caught and processed and consumed by StarKist’s customers. Talk about one sick puppy. Speaking of which, I’m surprised Madison Avenue didn’t produce cigarette commercials with sick puppies. (“Smoke that second pack with the confidence that at least you don’t have mange and tapeworms.”)

I guess the slow decline of canned tuna began decades ago because of worries about potential mercury poisoning. The industry should’ve done a better job of responding. (“Beef: it may be what’s for dinner, but will it take your TEMPERATURE?”)They should’ve expanded into the medical benefits of other seafood.(“The chowder that mimics a stethoscope.” “Squid tentacles that tell you to turn your head and cough.”)

And I suppose people wearied of the great “tuna fish” redundancy. (“*Sigh* Sorry, sir, we’re fresh out of tuna FISH; but I have some lovely tuna MARSUPIAL. It comes with its own pouch for holding the mayo.”)

Canned tuna struggles to catch on with younger consumers, who prefer fresher, less-processed options (if they eat tuna at all). Canned tuna is deemed too INCONVENIENT for younger shoppers. With no guarantee of a Purple Heart, they are sometimes forced to endure the living hell of opening the can, draining the water and fetching a utensil. (“It’s like being dragged back to the days of landline pushmowers and landline iceboxes or whatever, dude.”)

According to the Journal, many millennials don’t even own a can opener! Folks, this is not butter churn and spinning wheel territory. No one is asking you to steal a can opener from the Pioneer Days craft fair. Museums have generously turned a few loose for the general public. Oh, to be a fly on the wall. (“Open, can – open! Baby, I think this universal remote is broken!”)

Today’s consumers complain that traditional canned tuna smells too “fishy.” Folks in Biblical times got on the last nerve of prophets, but surely, they weren’t THIS whiney. The 5,000 whom Jesus fed with five loaves and two small fishes were thrilled to get a meal. There’s no record of anyone complaining, “Can’t we have something that smells like brimstone instead? And were any locusts harmed in this meal’s preparation?”

The tuna industry is valiantly trying to reboot demand for the product with resealable bowls, meal kits and premium lines of safer, more sustainable high-quality fish.

They want to make tuna cool and exciting again. Hey, maybe they can use distressed cans, all pre-rusted and decorated by ball peen hammers. (“Only twice the price? Pinch me – I’m dreaming!”)

Don’t get me started on the mad dash to desecrate good ol’ tuna with TRENDY FLAVORS, like “Hot Buffalo Style.”

Move over “Eat Mor Chikin.” I guess it’s time for “Kater To Mor Filisteenz.”

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Copyright 2018 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.

Does your workplace have a tradition of employees giving a Christmas gift (er, holiday gift… um, scrupulously secular seasonal transfer of goods) to the boss?

Although many work environments leave it up to employees whether or not to give an individual gift to their superior, at my “day job” of nearly 20 years, we always pool our money and present the head honcho with some token of our esteem.

In such workplaces, most employees are only too happy to chip in. But you have to watch the people on the opposite extremes.

For instance, there’s always a perpetually effervescent company cheerleader like Debbie Dovetonsils, who encourages co-workers to give until it HURTS. (“But just walk off the pain, because an increase in medical expenses would cut into Mr. Bigdome’s year-end bonus, y’all.”)

Bless her heart, Debbie always makes it back from her annual tour of the boss’s gastrointestinal tract just in time for the fundraising drive.

On the other extreme, the clock-watching malcontents who are lucky to have a job are the ones most likely to grumble, “He sees me when I’m sleeping, he knows when I’m awake – can’t we just get the tyrant some milk and cookies?”

Bosses get different amounts of respect and generosity according to how they arrived at their position. There are the single proprietors who have built the business from the ground up. There are go-getters who have climbed the corporate ladder. And then there are the bosses who survive solely on the basis of nepotism. (“I WOULD chase all you loafers away from the water cooler, but I seem to have stapled my necktie to the desk. Mommyyyyy… .”)

Engraved gifts can really open up a can of worms with employees’ passive-aggressive tendencies. (“Thanks for everything, Koss… er, Moss, um, Loss… Boss. How do you like it when I can’t remember YOUR name?”)

Yeah, I’m talking about the boss who always blows you off with, “Take that up with Numbers Resources… er, I mean HUMAN Resources.”

Old stand-by gifts such as “World’s Greatest Boss” plaques and coffee mugs can leave the more clueless bosses shaken. (“I was visiting our biggest competitor the other day and you’ll never guess what HIS coffee mug said! I must’ve entered an alternate reality or something.”)

Some bosses react to the “surprise” gift with a display of humility, such as “Aw, you shouldn’t have.” (They learn the hard way not to be so meek. In the new year, everyone will forget “Unplug that skill saw before you clean it” and “Do not under any circumstances call attention to our biggest client’s unibrow” but remember the “Aw, you shouldn’t have.”)

More narcissistic bosses really push their God’s Gift To Mankind delusion. (“Oh… a collectible pencil sharpener. I was sort of hoping for the Bottomless Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh gift card… “)

Some bosses are right in the middle, gushing “I couldn’t have done it without you. There is no ‘I’ in team,” before switching over to “But there is an ‘I’ in GIMME! Fork it over!”

Whatever your unique situation, make the most of it. Try not to get run over by reindeer – or by that fireball Debbie Dovetonsils.

“Clean as a whistle, Mr. Bigdome. You won’t need that colonoscopy this year, either. More money for your bonus. A spritz of hand sanitizer and I’ll be ready to sell cookies for your landscaper’s granddaughter… ”

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Copyright 2018 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.

When I was a tyke, I always freaked out over the possible presence of “cat hairs and goims.” (Why a Tennessee farmboy pronounced “germs” like a hooligan in a 1930s movie set in Brooklyn, I’ll never know.)

As time passed and life’s more pressing issues accumulated, I became complacent about cats shedding, cats leaving their muddy pawprints on the car hood, cats using my credit card to order pizza delivery, etc.

And, like most people, I became lackadaisical about bacteria.

National Public Radio reports that the Democratic Republic of the Congo has released a new video in its fight to end an Ebola outbreak.

Chillingly, the six-step handwashing routine (eight steps, if you count abundantly wetting your hands with water and lathering up) advocated by the video is pretty much the same regimen the World Health Organization has been recommending for ALL of us numbskulls to use in everyday life!

According to NPR, about 30 percent of the world’s population NEVER bothers with handwashing. Even in America, only half of us wash our hands after using the restroom. And we absent-mindedly touch our faces (eyes, nose, mouth) about 200 times a day!

Yes, we Americans are quite good with TWO steps (“Darlin’, grab some extra beers and we’ll two-step on out to the back of my pickup truck and push the deer carcass aside… “) and TWELVE steps (“Hi, my name is Bill and I am… a person who gives you a hearty handshake immediately after cleaning out the septic tank”), but the SIX steps are seen as an unreasonable burden.

Partly, it’s a matter of ignorance. No one has EVER in a million years mentioned to us attentive Americans complicated concepts such as “Wash your hands,” “The turn signal is not just for decoration” and “Research the issues first, THEN protest.” On the other hand, we’ve memorized a minute-by-minute timeline of Natalie Wood’s last night alive.

Our poor hygiene is also a rebellion against parental overprotectiveness, the old “Don’t touch that! You don’t know where it has been!” mantra. Some enterprising techie could make a billion dollars developing an app that can trace the history of Where An Object Has Been. (“Ma, here’s a detailed report of where that cow patty came from. I pretty much had it nailed.”)

Pride and overconfidence play a role. (“Lye soap? My family couldn’t even afford RAINWATER when I was growing up. And the 30 percent of us who made it to adulthood turned out — *cough cough* — pretty doggone well.”)

Science says that a minimum of 20 seconds of handwashing is required; but among the folks who do bother to wash, we are more likely to scrub for a mere 8 to 10 seconds – just long enough to get the microbes riled up. It has the makings of a good horror movie: “The germs never even LEFT – and this time it’s personal!”

Perhaps we’ll wake up to the fact that good hygiene can greatly reduce zits, colds and far worse ailments. I mean, people are already wary of STDs, and those at least offer a modicum more fun than EHTDs (Escalator Handrail Transmitted Diseases).

I did see an encouraging sign posted in a diner window. (“Corn muffins so good they’ll make you slap your momma – but be sure to use an alcohol-based gel sanitizer both before and after the transaction.”)

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2018 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.

Editor Note: A prior version of this column was distributed by Cagle Cartoons in 2011.

This year I can’t think of Thanksgiving without thinking of Barry Manilow’s melancholy song “Tryin’ To Get The Feeling Again.”

Google news items about “Thanksgiving,” and amidst the tofu turkey recipes and 2017 versus 2018 price comparisons, you’ll find a growing number of stories about (a) Christmas decorations popping up before Halloween, (b) Thanksgiving getting lost in the holiday shuffle and (c) traditionalists denouncing the encroachment of “Black Friday” sales onto Thanksgiving Day.

As both a Christian and someone who knows which side his bread is buttered on (retailers DO pay the bills at the newspapers carrying my column, of course), I can see both sides of the holiday desecration issue.

I believe the merchants when they insist that they take pains not to intrude upon the family time or spiritual activities of their employees. I try to ignore the scurrilous rumors that the retailers have asked thatthe Rapture be abbreviated to allow more time for showcasing housewares and linens.

I sort of pity the “big box” stores that try to obtain a competitive edge by rushing the Christmas selling season. It’s just a Band-Aid. Once we eventually reach the cherished goal of promoting Christmas 365 days a year, they’ll have nowhere else to expand. They’ll finally have to compete by having the best products and service, or settle for being Number 2 (or lower).

Traditionalists, let’s not pretend that commercialism is something new. The Pilgrims represented a minority of the passengers aboard the Mayflower; most of the passengers were just out to exploit the New World. Currier & Ives did not produce their prints on a pro bono basis. The “traditional” Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade obviously has ulterior motives. Thanksgiving hosts have never been shy about showing off their material wealth to poorer relations.

I am glad that Abraham Lincoln instituted a national day of thanks, even though the United States somehow got by without one for the first 88 years of its existence. And let’s step back for a moment and put some perspective on the things we do on Thanksgiving. After a perfunctory prayer, we eat the bird that Benjamin Franklin championed as the national symbol, we talk behind the backs of the cousins who chose to spend the day with their in-laws instead of blood kin and we watch millionaires playing football.

I can empathize with those who have to work on Thanksgiving. My high school job in a convenience market required me to work every Saturday, Sunday, and holiday. Yes, I ate a lot of leftovers and missed a few hugs from my grandmother, but there were pluses. I came to the rescue of absent-minded shoppers who needed last-minute items, I saved money for my college education and I learned to appreciate the time I do have with family.

As in the days of the Plymouth celebration and the Civil War, Thanksgiving is not about a picture-perfect world. It’s about taking life warts and all and still finding enough of the positive to offer heartfelt gratitude to the Creator (or whomever you credit with the good things in your life).

This Thanksgiving roll with the punches, make new traditions, forge new bonds and savor every second you DO get to spend with the ones you love.

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Copyright 2018 Danny Tyree. Danny welcomes reader e-mail 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.

My lunch got off to a bad start on November 12 because of the news bulletin that rattled my phone.

“Marvel Comics legend Stan Lee dead at 95.”

Back when I was a columnist for the late, lamented “Comics Buyer’s Guide” magazine, I had the privilege of contributing to a special issue commemorating the 75th birthday of “Smilin’ Stan.”

I don’t remember what I scribbled; but it was surely inadequate praise for the force of nature who had co-created The Incredible Hulk, The Avengers, The X-Men, Dr. Strange, The Black Panther, Ant-Man, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and so many other concepts.

At the time, Stan “The Man” had already been a part of my life for more than 30 years. I may or may not have encountered Marvel Comics earlier, but I definitely remember buying “Amazing Spider-Man” issue 37 and “Fantastic Four” issue 51 (both cover-dated June 1966). A couple of months later, Grandmother Adams bought me the 25-cent double-sized “Marvel Collectors’ Item Classics” issue 4 at Puckett’s Grocery in Eagleville, TN and I was hooked for life.

I doodled Marvel characters with abandon, took comfort from “Daredevil” issue 32 when I broke my arm in the summer of 1967 and wore a Dr. Doom costume from Kuhn’s Variety Store for Halloween. A decade later, I was clipping the Spider-Man comic strip in the “Nashville Banner.”Via newspaper syndication, I’ve had my own pale version of Stan’s “soapbox.” I’m delighted that my son displays two stuffed Spider-Man toys in his bedroom.

In the two decades since I wrote about Stan’s birthday, he had been a tireless elder statesman and goodwill ambassador for the comics medium.

Stan’s death was a special blow for my fellow diehard comic book fans (those who can recount every origin story, debate every match-up and hyperventilate over every continuity glitch), but we did not own him. He belonged to the world – casual readers/moviegoers as well as the geeks.

Comics collectors are supposed to treasure “mint” condition comics, but it does my heart good to see a battered vintage comic. I like to imagine that once upon a time, it brought momentary joy to a youngster dreading the dentist’s chair or a homesick soldier waiting for a bus or a “new kid in town” struggling to make new friends.

Most likely, that battered comic wound up in a garage sale or flea market precisely because its previous owner (blasphemy alert!) “outgrew” comics. But for one magical moment (or for a few precious years), the thousands of stories produced by Stan Lee and his contemporaries made life a little more bearable.

The news of Stan’s death can be a teachable moment.

You don’t always have to be a doting aunt or a dedicated mentor or a neighbor of 50 years in order to impact someone’s life.

You can make or break someone’s day with the way you respond to that young entrepreneur selling lemonade, that frail senior struggling with an armload of groceries or that police officer who feels he has a thankless job.

Stan’s message of “With great power comes great responsibility” doesn’t apply just to those who possess awesome mutant abilities, a magical hammer or strength enhanced by gamma radiation exposure.

Our slightest gestures of kindness or selfishness can wield great power. That gives us the responsibility of choosing to make the world better.

Thanks, Stan. ‘Nuff said.

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Copyright 2018 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.

Did you realize that November 24 marks the 100th birthday of the venerable (and still-published) comic strip “Gasoline Alley”?

Besides presenting wholesome depictions of small-town life, “Gasoline Alley” has reveled in the distinction of being the first comic strip to let characters age normally. The clock started ticking on Valentine’s Day, 1921 when bachelor Walt Wallet found an abandoned baby (eventually nicknamed “Skeezix”) on his doorstep.

For the past half-century, I myself have enjoyed learning more about the Wallet family tree (even though I wish Sen. Elizabeth Warren would quit insisting, “Well, I was always told that I was part of the Wallet family – or Michael Doonesbury’s third cousin twice removed or SOMETHING”).

On the other hand, I am relieved that only a handful of other strips (such as “Funky Winkerbean”) have tried letting their cast grow older. What would it be like if all cartoonists started letting the calendar guide the destiny of their characters? A few possibilities spring to mind:

– “Garfield”: Years of neglected dental care leave the fundamentally flawed feline consuming his lasagna intravenously.

– “Blondie”: Mr. Dithers dies from a broken foot after kicking a goofing-off-past-retirement-age Dagwood in the titanium posterior.

– “Hi and Lois”: Baby Trixie, all grown up, joins a class-action lawsuit concerning the skin damage caused by Mr. Sunbeam.

– “B.C.”: Our heretofore urbane cavemen get stuck in the crotchety rut of ranting to their descendants about having to walk to school in an Ice Age, uphill both ways.

– “Hagar the Horrible”: everyone’s favorite Viking forgets why he entered Greenland.

– “Popeye”: The salty sailor, Wimpy and Bluto all get conked in the head with a can of spinach after Olive Oyl laments that gravity is taking its toll and no one can tell the difference.

– “Peanuts”: Aging characters get loaned out for the animated TV special “It’s The Fiber-Rich Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.”

– “Mutts”: A little pink sock is no longer good enough for Mooch the cat. Now it has to be a prescription orthopedic pink sock.

– “Zits” and “Baby Blues”: They get renamed “Age Spots” and “Cataracts R Us,” respectively.

– “Big Nate”: Spirited sixth-grader Nate actually outlives his Permanent Record.

– “Prince Valiant”: Val’s trademark bowl-cut hairdo sort of migrates from his dome to his ears, and only the fabled Singing Sword can keep them trimmed.

– “Andy Capp”: that irrepressible English ne’er-do-well introduces the Lexit movement,’ as his liver exits his body when he is tossed from the pub. High jinks ensue.

– “Marmaduke”: the owners of the boisterous Great Dane’s great-great grandson must use a hoist to lift him onto unsuspecting visitors.

– “Dilbert”: the hapless engineer suddenly realizes that he has spent the past 15 years in a casket instead of a cubicle. Potato, po-tahto.

– “The Family Circus”: the only dotted lines Billy, Dolly, Jeffy and P.J. must worry about are the ones on the document giving medical power of attorney to their own children. (“Which one of you is itching to pull the plug on me?” “Ida know.” “Not me.”)

– “Dick Tracy”: the chisel-chinned cop doggedly pursues his rogues gallery of grotesque villains, but only if he can drive 30 miles per hour in the passing lane.

Don’t even get me started on “Ziggy!” He already forgets to wear pants! Can you imagine…

See you in the funny papers!

–

Copyright 2018 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.

Editor Note: A prior version of this column was distributed by Cagle Cartoons in 2011.

“What have you done for us lately?”

I don’t think the average American military veteran has the time or the temperament to spend 51 weeks a year asking such a question, but a reasonable person could hardly blame him if he did.

Veterans Day can be like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day – an occasion to heap praise upon individuals whom we spend the rest of the year ignoring, tolerating or circumventing. A week’s worth of bumper stickers, newspaper interviews, special discounts and grade school essays soon give way to the daily grind.

I don’t think our veterans are expecting a “We’re not worthy!” routine from civilians (as in Wayne and Garth kowtowing to Alice Cooper in the “Wayne’s World” movie), but there are lots of little ways to show appreciation during the year.

Are you glad for the religious freedom we enjoy in this country? Don’t take it for granted. Go out and be the most gung ho (insert your religious affiliation or non-affiliation here) you can be!

Are you grateful for freedom of speech and freedom of the press? Exercise those rights. Stay informed, and not just by surrounding yourself with “yes men” radio/TV commentators, bloggers and columnists. Military service has opened up new horizons for millions of insulated kids over the years, and there’s no reason for civilians to box themselves in with dogma.

Glad you can vote? Be sure you register and actually show up on election day. (No excuses, such as TV’s Edith Bunker trying to defend husband Archie’s non-voting with the lame “I think he had to mail a letter once.”) Educate yourself and vote for solid, non-frivolous reasons.

Glad the nation as a whole isn’t speaking German or Japanese? Try speaking and writing English correctly.

Take five minutes to learn flag etiquette before displaying Old Glory.

Let the veterans in your family, workplace or neighborhood know that they are always welcome to relate their wartime experiences – or NOT, depending on their situation.

Don’t practice knee-jerk reactions of any political stripe. Don’t callously advocate sending service people into harm’s way just because some foreign bureaucrat ticked you off. But neither should you cost us valuable time by unrealistically insisting that “Diplomacy ALWAYS works.”

Hold your government’s feet to the fire when military personnel’s lives are on the line. Make sure our military has a clear mission, proper equipment and a reasonable exit strategy.

Help the veterans in your life with a year-round project of scrapbooking, journaling or connecting with old comrades.

Visit a Veterans Administration hospital and see what you can do to uplift the spirits of those who have sacrificed so much for their country.

If you see your children or grandchildren (or yourself) getting too wrapped up in desensitizing, violence-glorifying video games, ask a combat veteran to intervene and bring them down to earth.

Be wild and crazy and use Arbor Day or the Ides of March as an excuse to donate a veterans-oriented book to the public library.

In the coming year, I hope we will be able to break the cycle of “feast or famine” for attention to veterans. I hope that the nation’s veterans can say of civilians, “All gave some.”

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Copyright 2018 Danny Tyree. Danny, son of WW II veteran Lewis Tyree, welcomes reader e-mail 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.

Computer crashes, power outages, Y2K, prostate surgery, parenting crises … I laugh in your faces!

Despite these obstacles, I have now reached the milestone of writing a (published) “Tyree’s Tyrades” newspaper column each and every week for 20 years.

(If your newspaper carries this column LESS than weekly, a letter or phone call singing my praises would be sincerely appreciated.)

I couldn’t have accomplished all this without my long-suffering wife Melissa, who still schedules her Tuesday nights around my writing.

I am also eternally grateful to “Pulaski (TN) Citizen” publisher Scott Stewart, who took a chance on me back in ’98 and gave me a platform for gradually working my way into a handful of other Tennessee newspapers, before I finally achieved national distribution via Cagle Cartoons syndicate in 2010.

And let’s not forget the other writers who have inspired me, including Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck, Art Buchwald and George Carlin. Yes, I stand on the shoulders of giants. (You wouldn’t believe how much dandruff a bellow of “Fee fi fo fum” stirs up!)

What questions have I been asked the most over the years? First is, “Where do you get your ideas?” Well, I spend countless hours skimming umpteen newspapers and apps for topics (preferably non-political) that resonate with me. Also, God inspires me. Unfortunately, that assignment of blame for Tyrades ranks right behind “Sunday is my only day to sleep late” and “Why did you take my 110-year-old grandmother, God? Why? Why?” as Reasons For The Decline of Western Religion.

The second-most frequent question is the disturbingly personal “You’re a columnist? Cool. How much does it PAY?” Why are writers singled out as oddities who provoke the blurting out of such uncomfortable interrogations? Even in these cynical times, citizens are more likely to ask firefighters, “Can I ring the bell?” or “Does your firehouse have a Dalmatian?” than “Are you on food stamps?”

My GREATEST regret is that my father didn’t live to see me reach hundreds of newspapers, sometimes even getting picked up by the Associated Press or USA TODAY Network; but there are OTHER things that bug me.

I can handle constructive criticism, but some people have no conception of how difficult it is to cram Something To Please Everyone into a 600-word essay. It’s like telling a Chinese restaurant vendor, “Well, your fortune cookie message made a salient point about perseverance; but it did very little to compare and contrast the War of 1812 and the Franco-Prussian War.”

I’m a people pleaser, so it disturbs me that some folks (including my mother) just don’t “get” my sense of humor. It’s not like I’m the first person to plant tongue firmly in cheek, lampoon a ridiculous trend or ford a stream of consciousness. But I know somewhere out there a casual newspaper reader will bolt upright in bed and declare, “Maw, I’ll bet that Tyree feller was just joshing us about the undersecretary of HUD having a talking dog!”

If God (who has suddenly, mysteriously unfriended me on Facebook) grants me another 20 years, I promise to continue pouring my heart and soul into the weekly tomfoolery.

Just don’t expect me to be anyone other than myself.

“But… but… you don’t use the exact same grammar and sentence structure as Mr. Strudelmeyer, my sophomore English teacher. And I’ll bet your wife’s name isn’t even MRS. Strudelmeyer… ”

*Sigh*

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Copyright 2018 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.