Cagle World

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Long ago, I learned speed-eating to fit junior high yearbook editing into my lunch break. My first two dates with my wife featured the Bonanza Steakhouse buffet. I’ve gone “plague of locusts” on deviled eggs and pimento cheese sandwiches at countless church potluck dinners.

So I couldn’t just sit on my buns and pass up writing about Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest (and the world of competitive eating in general).

Every July 4, ESPN makes a coast-to-coast event of the Coney Island gastronomic tradition. (I’ll leave it to others to analyze the irony of ESPN’s audience being gobbled up by streaming.)

If you remember GM’s 1974 jingle “Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet,” you’ll understand the perfect patriotic timing of the contest. It’s a bonus that the pig-out session leads into The Flush Heard ‘Round the World.

The televised contest goes beyond stirring up warm, fuzzy feelings for the Founding Fathers. It also shows how far our species has progressed from caveman days. We’ve advanced from hunter-gatherers to a gorger-voyeur society. And we’ll have the best of both worlds when scientists start cranking out those 100 percent wooly-mammoth frankfurters!

(I’m supposed to keep this hush-hush, but I’ve heard rumors that the contest may become part of an Olympic event. Synchronized Heimlich Maneuver, anyone?)

You might wonder why anyone gets into the crazy world of competitive eating. (And it’s not for everyone. Math whizzes tend to freak out when their mind wanders to “x parts of permissible insect parts per million times 50-plus wieners…”) It might be a quest for the “cool” factor, the allure of an offbeat challenge or the sharing of a genuine talent.

Or it can be the result of years of indoctrination by Grandma. (“You’re skin and bones! Eat! Eat!”) Thank goodness other grandmotherly advice has enjoyed less impact, or we’d have Nathan’s Famous International You’re So Handsome You’ll Be Beating the Girls Off With a Stick Someday Contest.

Beyond the world of Nathan’s and less well-known destinations on the competitive circuit are the one-off opportunities for amateurs at small-town fairs and festivals. It’s good, clean fun when local lawyers, teachers and insurance agents race against each other to chow down on pie or some other homemade delicacy.

Stressful scandals may ensnare politicians, however. (“I wish I hadn’t vetoed the ordinance to zone the festival grounds for barfing! There goes my re-election!”)

Some people view competitive eating with bemusement and passing interest. Some are rabid fans. And others relish lecturing about risks such as aspiration, perforation of the stomach and chronic indigestion.

Even some retired competitive eaters bemoan their ailments. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you! (I’m lookin’ at YOU, buddy. I know fingers are shaped like “tube steaks,” but that’s no reason to…)

Let’s not forget the crusaders who preach that glamorizing gluttony can be a bad influence on impressionable youngsters. Listen, the bike-crashing kids who idolized Evel Knievel back in the Seventies turned out just fine – or at least they will if they win $10,000 and the Mustard Belt and can finally finish paying off their medical bills.

Whatever your stance on the competitive-eating spectrum, I hope you have a happy Independence Day. Me? I’ll be putting on my old junior high pants the same as everyone else – one can of WD-40 (and one crowbar) at a time. *Sigh*

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Rescue me/ Ah, take me in your arms…” – as performed by Fontella Bass.

As luck would have it, exactly two months after seven-year-old Moggie cat had to be euthanized (incurable tick-borne cytauxzoonosis), the Tyree family discovered three flea-ridden, emaciated kittens outside the church building.

A teenage girl adopted the largest one. My family rescued the other two, probably because we misheard a hymn as “There Is Power in the Big Cute Eyes.”

(By the way, I guess you trivia buffs know there is no mention of domesticated cats in the entire Bible. Too bad we don’t get to read about Tiger telling Noah, “I wanna go out. I wanna come in. Dry me off. I wanna go out…”)

Based on their personalities, we eventually named the kittens Dora the Explorer and Tsunami. Humans should be grateful to be named for celebrities or dead relatives, instead of their personalities. (“Do you have a reservation for Pompous Jackass Smith?”)

It brought a lump to my throat to tell the girls, “This is your forever home. Unless the cost of vaccines, de-worming and spaying goes up again; then our forever home will be a van down by the river.”

Our senior cats Porky and Cindy (who showed up outside the church building 10 years ago) have forgotten their roots and hiss at the young interlopers. They try hard to maintain their relevance and superiority. I am not making this up: I had the word “napping” in my notes and when Cindy walked across the keyboard, she left a line of Z’s! (That’s usually the sort of catty comment I get from my readers!)

Some people would label me a sucker for taking on the responsibility of two more mouths to feed, but I’m accustomed to navigating the four different perspectives regarding felines.

Some people love cats and have lots of them. Some people hate cats. Some people love cats but can’t keep any because of allergies or landlord restrictions. And the rest of the people can’t concentrate long enough to form an opinion because of the stabbing pain from a kitten “rappelling” up their bare leg!!!

At first, it’s fascinating to watch kittens instinctively covering up after doing their “business.” (“Kittens: doing the jobs that Pet Rocks just won’t do.”) But after you reach a certain age, you start juggling the numbers and thinking, “If they live to be 20, I wonder if they’ll someday be covering ME up. Cremation or kittie litter, that is the question.”)

Kittens are skilled at finding a place in your heart. Apparently it’s easier than finding what’s right under their nose. (“There! Eat the gourmet food. No, it’s right in front of you! No, Fancy Feast doesn’t make rubber bands. And stop eating that bug! Are you on Bill Gates’s mailing list or something?”)

Yes, kittens (and pets in general) ask for so little. Granted, they ask for it repeatedly and in an annoying manner and at the most inopportune times. (“Okay, here’s another tummy rub. Now, please let me use my EpiPen, okay?”)

And they give so much. And hopefully it’s not still in its death throes when they give it to you.

I’ll write more about Dora and Tsu someday. By then they’ll be heavy enough for a proper dose of insect treatment. I’ve had it up to here with “We shall come rejoicing/Bringing in the fleas.”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“All day I’ve faced a barren waste/ Without the taste of water/ Cool but over-priced water…” – Apologies to the Sons of the Pioneers.

According to the New York Times, “fine water” is starting to give fine wine a good stomping.

Yes, natural mineral water is attracting the attention of alcohol-leery consumers. It also offers competition to mass-produced purified bottled water, which supposedly has been stripped of its “character.” (In the Forties we lobotomized humans. Now we lobotomize hydrogen and oxygen! When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?)

Many brands of natural mineral water are only a few bucks more expensive than purified water; but some premium offerings sell for thousands of dollars! (“Hey! My money and I were soon parted! What’s up with that???”)

We’re entering an era in which — if you’re not keenly aware of hotel water bars, home water cellars, water sommelier programs and social-media water influencers — you’re…well, all wet.

I am in awe of the connoisseurs who can genuinely distinguish between the thousands of brands of premium water. Each sip tells them a narrative of Mother Nature’s magnificence. Each sip tells them of millennia of meteorological and geological collaboration. Each sip, if it’s really being honest, tells them, “Putting ‘I could swish and spit water all night long’ on your dating profile is not the winning formula you think, dude.”

On the other hand, other consumers just convince themselves that they’re getting their money’s worth from glorified whistle-wetters. I still remember Aunt Addie Lee visiting my parents’ weekend farmhouse and gushing about the flavor and crispness of their spring water, which was obviously superior to (ugh!) municipal water.

Dad didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had grown disgusted with maintaining the springhouse pump and had connected to the county water supply. It was probably enough of a shock for her not to find any Sears Roebuck catalogs in the bathroom. (“Is Mr. Whipple holding you hostage? Blink twice for ‘yes.’”)

Some health-conscious water enthusiasts declare “the more the merrier” when it comes to the myriad minerals contained in water from far-flung locales. I would advise studying your unique deficiencies and allergies before taking the plunge. With my luck, I could erect a new Stonehenge with my kidney stones.

Some fans want local mineral water to become part of the hyperlocal farm-to-table ethos. They want people to sit down to a meal and contemplate “the journey of the water.” Sure, I like a good travelogue; but I’d rather watch a VHS of “The Water Boy” than listen to a lecture about the water residing in the bladder of a virgin alpaca or seeping through the fossilized remains of a Neanderthal named Gorak Shouldapatentedfire.

I hope we’re not setting ourselves up for long-term trouble as we encourage people to become addicted to exotic water. I mean, if some foreign enemy knocks out our electric/communications grid and civilization collapses, I’m not seeking help from an effete snob who craves effervescent water that bubbled up from Shangri-La. I’m hanging with the redneck who grew up drinking from a hot garden hose, if you know what I mean.

One of my friends said everyone should decide their own appropriate thirst-quencher. I’ll drink to that — if I can get loan approval for the water.

“References? How about Mr. Whipple? The Ty-D-Bol Man? Natural Artesian Kool-Aid Man?”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

Some would say that I’m in a “sweet spot” this Father’s Day. Others would deem it a “bittersweet spot.”

I’m in that transitional phase wherein I am not yet a father-in-law or a grandfather, but I have watched my youngest (only) child transform from a bright-eyed kindergartner into a burning-the-midnight-oil young adult.

(I remember when “young adult” was a literary category, not “someone you can’t claim as a dependent on your income tax much longer.” *Sigh*)

Yes, the future is an alluring blank slate for the earnest Gideon Tyree; but I look up at him and experience the stereotypical fatherly wistfulness of wondering, “Where did the years go?” (Gideon would probably chime in, “I think they’re out cavorting somewhere with your hair.”)

Fathers, I know those diaper changes seem never-ending at the time; but couldn’t Mother Nature put the DMV in charge of slowing down those precious childhood years just a wee bit? (“Your number has come up, sir. Bring your documentation to Window One. Then the Tooth Fairy will put a five-dollar bill under Junior’s pillow AND swing by YOUR room to leave a few bucks for the knee you replaced.”)

My wife (with a mixture of optimism and realism) recently informed me that I need to ease up on the helicopter parenting. She and I have had our shot at instilling our values in Gideon, passing along some practical skills and sharing lessons from the school of hard knocks.

For instance, I have done my part in combating raging hormones by letting him know that fatherhood is not for the faint of heart. For that matter, it’s not a picnic for people with a deviated septum, spastic colon, plantar fasciitis or the heartbreak of psoriasis, either. But the cardiac patients get all the glory! What’s up with that?

Where was I? Now it’s time to cross our fingers and let Gideon stand on his own two feet.

Speaking of standing on his own two feet (and not being able to sit down), that reminds me of another transitional period. Years ago, Gideon had committed some punishable offense and I confronted him in his bedroom. I had long wanted to move beyond my (infrequent) application of corporal punishment — and suddenly inspiration hit me.

As did the palm of my hand. I began whacking my own buttocks and coaching Gideon to shout, “Ouch! Ouch!” at the top of his lungs.

Within a matter of seconds, my wife came barreling into the room, demanding to know, “What are you doing to that child????”

It was a priceless bonding moment and a transition into a more enlightened method of communicating disapproval. And two of us thought it was hilarious.

Unfortunately, I was not able to stand on my own two feet for several nights. If I did, my head would bump the ceiling of the dog house. Ahhh… good times.

I’ll take things one day at a time as Gideon’s future unfolds. When he was eight years old, he promised me that someday he would bring his children and grandchildren to visit me and give me a big bear hug.

No rush, but I look forward to bouncing them on my knee — unless a rookie Tooth Fairy messes things up.

“No, not THIS knee! The one under my pillow! Ooo…I hope your supervisor still believes in corporal punishment!”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

No, I won’t make it to the Grand Military Parade in Washington, D.C. on June 14, but…

… I’ll definitely be poring over my late father’s Army memorabilia, including the mimeographed bulletin from October 7, 1946 when the young draftee was appointed as a temporary Tech Fifth Grade in the 368th station hospital at Fort Gulick in the Panama Canal Zone.

Yes, the United States Army is celebrating its 250th birthday on June 14, and I am proud that so many of my forefathers served their country in that branch, the oldest and largest of the six armed forces. (Being the oldest and largest, it must constantly resist the urge to ask the others, “Why do you keep hitting yourself? Why do you keep hitting yourself?”)

At least one direct ancestor served during the Revolutionary War. At least two fought in the War of 1812. True, two great-great grandfathers fought against the U.S. Army during the War Between the States; but I’m sticking to the story that hallucinogenic goober peas had something to do with the squabble.

Technically, the U.S. Army was created in 1784, but the service considers itself a continuation of the Continental Army. (I think the Continental Army was the one that served pastries and fruit instead of chipped beef on toast.)

Unfortunately, day-to-day appreciation of the Army has waxed and waned with periods of war and peace. And the creation of the all-volunteer military renders the Army “out of sight, out of mind” for all but the affected families. But the Army is still (rightfully) deeply ingrained in the American consciousness.

Song lyrics such as the World War I-era “You’re in the army now/You’re not behind a plow” and Irving Berlin’s 1942 “This is the army, Mr. Jones/No private rooms or telephones…” softened enlistees’ love-hate relationship with the military. Sgt. Barry Sadler’s “The Ballad of the Green Berets” (1966) upped the ante on duty, honor and sacrifice.

Hollywood has lampooned the military mindset with TV shows such as “Sgt. Bilko” and “M*A*S*H,” as well as films including “At War With the Army” (Martin and Lewis) and“No Time For Sergeants” (Andy Griffith). George C. Scott’s Oscar-winning portrayal of General George S. Patton delivered a more somber examination of combat.

And we mustn’t forget Abbott and Costello in 1941’s “Buck Privates.” Sure, in light of recent controversial military policies, it would be renamed “Surgically Removed Privates” if produced today; but I got a kick out of Bud and Lou, anyway.

As far as the comics are concerned, Snoopy regularly paid tribute to editorial cartoonist Bill Mauldin, creator of the bedraggled infantry troopers Willie and Joe. “Beetle Bailey” has been in the Army since 1951. “Sad Sack” comic books proliferated like rabbits in the Sixties and Seventies. Sgt. Rock and Sgt. Fury are important parts of the history of DC Comics and Marvel Comics, respectively.

And who could forget those soul-stirring Army recruitment messages, like the recently-revived Eighties “Be all you can be” campaign?

Or James Montgomery Flagg’s iconic 1917 poster featuring Uncle Sam insisting, “I want YOU for U.S. Army.” (I understand it was more effective than 1976’s poster of Peter Frampton insisting, “I want yoouuu to show me the way…”)

I know I’ve been irreverent enough to warrant latrine duty, but God bless the U.S. Army for playing a part in protecting that precious freedom!

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

I’m glad most people have abandoned chirping, “See ya in the funny papers.”

Because that quaint farewell would reopen old wounds, since folks will definitely NOT be seeing me in the funny papers.

You see, 2025 marks the 50th anniversary of my ill-fated attempt to become a professional cartoonist.

Most kids “grow out of” drawing soon after the mandatory “trace around your hand to create a turkey” illustrations, but I had stuck with it. Granted, some of my drawings looked like I had traced around a live, flailing turkey; but my dream of landing in the comics section persisted into my teen years.

With too much time on my hands (as I recall, my questionable luck with girls elicited schoolyard chants of “Danny and (fill in the blank) sittin’ in a tree…until she pushed him out!”), I had created a mustachioed character named Tat McGrat – an amiable bachelor, self-employed tattoo artist and resident of a small town populated by the obligatory Colorful Characters.

Armed with bristol board and an antique fountain pen, I crafted a generous batch of samples and hired a local printer to collect them in a black-and-white comic book. My father’s boss – admiring such initiative by a teenager – contributed much of the funding.

I had planned on mailing my samples to individual newspapers, but then I found a list of syndicate addresses and needed only a small portion of the print run.

As a lifelong comics fan, I wanted the chance to stand on the shoulders of giants (such as Al Capp and Milton Caniff) and share my humor with the world. I also lusted after the potential merchandising money if Tat caught on.

Considering how little I actually researched the art of tattooing, the first merchandising project would probably have been a Tat McGrat version of Milton Bradley’s Operation game. (“Remove gangrenous arm. Hide from Chamber of Commerce.”)

Alas, the rejection letters (mostly polite form letters) started arriving. One or two editors did take the time to be brutally honest about my shortcomings.

I hadn’t constructed enough backstory for my characters. My style was all over the place – from character-driven gags to “Far Side”-esque surrealism to a 15-year-old’s version of Watergate satire.

Very unprofessionally, I tried cramming the names of classmates in between panels. Some of my ink smears made Tat McGrat seem more like a Rorschach test than a competitor for “Beetle Bailey.”

The rejection letters didn’t single-handedly clobber my cartooning career (I served as art co-editor of the high school newspaper one year, and many dusty yearbooks still house personalized sketches); but combined with homework, an after-school job, family commitments and other obstacles, they made me transition toward writing.

I experience my wistful “What if?” moments, but I don’t regret in the slightest that I attempted becoming a professional cartoonist. Cartooning was my shot at notoriety, attention, popularity and coolness.

Some of my peers had their own claims to high school fame – and their skills have aged just as poorly as my own.(“I can’t cruise downtown after sundown anymore, and arthritis makes it hard to produce the fake IDs now. But, hey, I still have the key to my parents’ liquor cabinet! Okay, the liquor cabinet sold at auction when my folks died, but…”)

Until next time, see ya in…well, wherever the editor of this fine publication decides to place me!

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

“Maybe it’s time we got back to the basics of love…of tourism.” (Apologies to Waylon Jennings.)

Technically, the phrase “second honeymoon” has not crossed my wife’s lips; but I choose to think of our recent vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama as a second honeymoon, since that was the site of our original honeymoon 34 years ago.

My research shows that quite a few people do unabashedly employ the “second honeymoon” designation for excursions geared toward rekindling the romance.

Sometimes the trip is the totality of the celebration, but many couples combine travel with a public renewal of their wedding vows.

I cringe a little when these “do over” ceremonies attempt to outdo the original for grandeur, but I guess that’s better than the succinctness of completely laid-back vows like “Whatever,” “As if” or “Reverend, you really haven’t read the prenup, have you?”

Some folks are better than others at handling their guests with tact. (“I feel so privileged that I have had 30 years to spend with my soulmate. As for those of you who have experienced your third divorce or had your life partner clobbered by a bus or been so butt-ugly that your dog wouldn’t play with you if you didn’t have a porkchop tied around your neck…well, you do you.”)

Maybe this is just an innocent attempt to share their joy with loved ones, but I suspect for some it’s a display of narcissism and ego fortification. (“I take this woman as my wife again. And I can still drive a stick! And the periodic table of elements…well, two out of three ain’t bad.”)

There’s something a little sad about the accessories for a vow renewal. Having things that are old, new and blue aren’t such a big deal; but the something borrowed is often an accumulation of student loans, mortgages and credit card debt.

Many couples with hazy memories of their hormone-infused initial honeymoon labor under the illusion that they can replicate the passion on subsequent trips. Granted, many of them do behave like teenagers. (“My hours of scrolling my cellphone have revealed all the vape shops in the area. Put some pajamas over that see-thru nightie and let’s go!”)

I quickly surmised that I am not part of the target audience of most of the travel articles I encountered. Subtle clues included phrases such as “Make sure the staff has fumigated the room after Harry and Meghan’s departure” and “Egad! Don’t forget to pack a spare yacht.”

In some ways, it’s probably best to plow new territory instead of returning to the site of past glories. Some people tend to be needy about their exploits being legendary. (“Um, the hottest mama and the manliest stud ever? Doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe the night clerk will remember…”)

“The sooner the better” is probably good advice for second honeymoons. Tie the trip to a big promotion, your 20th anniversary or the achievement of “empty nest” status. Wait too long and you could be wandering around muttering, “Now why did I come to this exotic locale? Was it to experience a once-in-a-lifetime adventure, or was it to fix a sandwich? I hate it when this happens.”

I would share some more observations, but the words that officially pass my wife’s lips are “Finish that column and get to bed or your next getaway will be to a second doghouse…”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My son recently interviewed for an internship as part of his master’s degree program in engineering management.

We’re still waiting for news, but it started me thinking about the whole phenomenon of job interviews.

Back in the late Fifties, when my father was manager of a farmers cooperative, a young man showed up to interview for a job. Unfortunately, it was an overwhelmingly busy day.

Dad informed him the customers always came first and that any interviews would have to wait until he was caught up.

Rather than stand around, the young man worked up a sweat “shadowing” Dad around the warehouse and loading dock – grabbing 100-pound sacks of fescue seed here, 100-pound sacks of dairy feed there, and don’t forget the 100-pound sacks of ammonium nitrate fertilizer…

Once they were finally caught up, the young man meekly inquired again about the interview.

Dad (operating less in a “Where do you see yourself in five years?” mode than a “How the @#$%^ do I see myself surviving that next swarm of farmers?” mode) replied, “You’ve already had your interview. You’re hired.”

Not all job interviews are so physically demanding, but they are mentally stressful enough that numerous websites offer “disregard this at your own peril” pointers.

Job candidates in a competitive market need every advantage, but many applicants torpedo themselves with tardiness, poor hygiene or inappropriate clothing. Some hit the trifecta. (“Sorry I’m late, but I finally had to give up on brushing my teeth after I dislocated my shoulder wrestling this ‘Party Naked’ shirt away from that homeless guy.”)

Another big mistake: failing to do any research at all about the company for which you allegedly want to work.

Yes, this “cold call” approach can lead to some embarrassing conversations. (“You manufacture what? Get outta here! You mean people still buy that crap???”)

Badmouthing past employers is another faux pas. (“All old man Wilson could do was blab about his stupid Rotary Club award. It wasn’t that much fancier than…the one on your…bookcase…”)

The unforced errors can keep on coming even after the interview concludes. Some people just can’t resist splashing premature announcements all over their social media account. (“I had her eating right out of my hand. Wait…they check every applicant’s online profile? Guess I’ll be eating right out of my parents’ basement fridge for a while longer.”)

Some applicants forget the cardinal rule that you’re supposed to send your interviewer a thank-you note after the meeting. Sometimes the effects of this ingratitude mushroom. (“The plant manager kept his office door locked when I went to hound him. And when I got back to my car, my grandmother had repossessed all the seat cushions and air fresheners I never thanked her for!”)

In closing, I should point out that the young man my father hired on the spot would – some 25 years later, at a different business — be the executive who got me transferred from the factory floor to be part of his data-processing team.

Yes, it’s a small world.

Luckily, it’s just big enough that there are still places you can go where you’re NOT bombarded with questions like “What are your biggest strengths and weaknesses?,” “Why do you want to work here?,” “Why should we hire you?,” “What do you consider your greatest failure?” and “How many 100-pound bags of HR reprimands can you bench-press?”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

For the sake of full disclosure, I helped pay for my college education by working summers at a local cosmetics factory. My wife later served as microbiologist at that same factory.

(For the sake of even fuller disclosure, my college diploma has, alas, been moisturized by cascades of “Hey, where did the high-paying job offers go?” tears. Pardon the digression.)

But, as Mother’s Day approaches…I’m intrigued by a trend recognized in a recent “New York Post” story.

According to the Post, many moms are rebelling. They’re rebelling against generation after generation of mothers who felt like failures if their daughters didn’t copy their every primping move in front of the vanity mirror. They’re rebelling against social media influencers who bombard youngsters with unrealistic, unhealthy standards of beauty.

They’re rebelling by teaching their daughters the joy of natural beauty.

That’s right: glitz and “good looks” don’t have to be synonymous.

These moms encourage their daughters to find the right path in life, not look like they’re walking the most profitable street in life.

And concerned mothers can never start too early countering the time-consuming, budget-busting status quo. I’m hearing more and more reports of unborn baby girls who refuse to show up for their sonograms unless they get a glamour filter that takes off at least 15 pounds.

Yes, genuinely healthy skin is more important than sporting a “faux glow” or some other chemically induced embellishment. (“My foundation used to be a $280-a-bottle designer luxury. Now my foundation is the Help Judy Pay Her &%$# Emergency Dermatology Co-Pay Foundation.”)

Oh, the moms in the “Get Un-ready With Me” movement acknowledge that a little “gussying up” is good on special occasions (especially if the gussying up involves pitching woo in a surrey with the fringe on top); but they offer their offspring an alternative to society’s obsession with trendy lipstick, rouge and eyeshadow.

(We can talk later about cosmetics industry employees’ obsession with food, a roof and utilities.)

They want their daughters to soar – because they have ambitious dreams, not because a stiff updraft caught their overly long fake eyelashes and whisked them away.

They want their daughters to be able to express themselves without carrying a “Speaking artificiality to power!” sign.

They want their daughters to realize that what’s important is what’s inside them, not what’s inside L’Oreal’s money vault.

Layers and layers of goop have given the phrase “Maybe it’s Maybelline” a whole new meaning. (“Maybelline, that is you under there, isn’t it? Nod twice if I’ve picked up the wrong child from dance class again.”)

Now that moms are throwing off the chains of tradition concerning cosmetics, I’m giddy to imagine what other maternal protocols may fall.

“Stop pulling your sister’s hair or I swear I’m driving this car straight to the bouncy house.”

“I’ve sworn all the EMTs to secrecy, so wear all the raggedy underwear you want.”

“Actually, as one of my ‘pay it forward’ goals, I do want to air condition the whole neighborhood.”

Whoa. Too much too fast. Getting back to the daughters and their cosmetics, I just hope the youngsters don’t get carried away with the maternal advice they’re receiving.

“Happy Mother’s Day. I got you a new apron. I think you’ll appreciate its simplicity – once you get the cotton out of the bolls and smash up the mollusks for the dye and…”

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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

Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

When President Lyndon B. Johnson signed Medicare into law on July 30, 1965, did my five-year-old self truly comprehend the personal milestone that I would someday reach?

Nah. My five-year-old self couldn’t comprehend that Christmas 1965 would ever arrive, let alone that I would someday have my own brand spanking new Medicare card.

It’s right here in my wallet. I really should have it laminated. The same probably goes for my rotator cuff and prostate.

It’s sobering to think of all the people who didn’t live long enough to receive Medicare coverage, including Elvis, Michael Jackson and my beloved Granny Tyree.

Likewise, pause to realize that every single person who was in the initial batch of Medicare enrollees is now deceased. Before Medicare, 40 percent of seniors had no health insurance. And now you can’t interview any of them about how life-changing Medicare was. (Although, if you have a top-notch Ouija board, they just might reveal who they voted for in the last primary.)

Speaking of Medicare’s launch, the program’s first recipients were former president Harry S Truman and his wife Bess. In honor of the plain-spoken chief executive from Missouri, I now tell my wife, “If you can’t stand the heat…don’t crank up the AC, because the money has to go for Medicare premiums!”

Sure, some Americans are dismissive of Medicare’s value. This includes the codgers whose daily routine includes smoking four cartons of unfiltered, deep-fried Lucky Strike cigarettes and doing 100 one-handed push-ups until the day that they die peacefully in their sleep. Too bad the peace doesn’t always last. (“Is that as fast as you can make this hearse go? Let me get out and push.”)

Some people fuss about the deductibles and co-pays, but it’s good to have some skin in the game (even if that skin is flopping in the breeze and dotted with age spots).

I know I derived peace of mind from years of simply filing away my late mother’s explanation of benefits (EOB) paperwork. Between Medicare and a medi-gap supplement, her mastectomy, hip surgeries and other expenses were pretty well paid for.

On the negative side, I felt like an eavesdropper as I read between the lines of what the cost-conscious Medicare program was telling healthcare providers through the EOBs. (“You knave! You scoundrel! You want how much for gauze pads? What are they made of –fabric? I say thee nay! Take this pittance and be happy with it. How can you live with yourself? How can you sleep at night? Uh, how can you walk away from a fun job like this? Wait, don’t go!”)

I am not entering the world of Medicare with any particular wish list, but some folks with inadequate/nonexistent medical coverage do save up problems for when they qualify. (“Congratulations. We removed that sack of marbles that has been in your nasal cavity since Stinky McGuire’s birthday party. Did you know Stinky’s great-granddaughter works in our billing office?”)

I pray that various tweaks and innovations can keep Medicare solvent. Some seniors are getting freaked out over dire forecasts, fearing that any cuts may be retroactive. (“Please don’t send the repo man for my knee replacement! You’ll get it when you pry it from my cold, lifeless fingers. What? The fingers are being repossessed, too? Noooo…don’t reinstall the cataracts!”)

I’d love to say more, but…the column stops here. Thanks, Harry.

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

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