Cagle World

2025 was one heck of a year (and that’s the clean version). It was a year defined by devastating departures, including what was left of my youthful good looks.

First, as you may have read about in a previous column, last summer, my wife and I moved our eldest and most expensive daughter from East Texas to the outer reaches of Colorado on a hapless journey that should have starred John Candy and Steve Martin. In fact, I think a couple of my lumbar vertebrae are still wandering around lost somewhere in New Mexico. We miss our daughter terribly, and I can still hardly bear to go into her empty bedroom at home to take measurements for my new man cave.

In December of last year, our beloved family cat, a fifteen-year-old Siamese mix, Missy Starbright (named by our three daughters, of course), crossed the rainbow bridge – paved with hundreds of Fancy Feast cans and more than a decade’s worth of vet bill receipts. I always got the feeling Missy could do with or without me, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because I always greeted her with a snide comment about her bad breath and by making loud fat-jiggling noises while I wobbled her primordial pouch. My wife still insists that ladies don’t like that.

But most tragically, we also lost my precious mother-in-law, a saintly woman who managed to look past my general uselessness and even had the grace to feed me the kind of home-cooked meals that would make a grown man cry into his third serving of pineapple nut pie. I’ve always said that, in addition to my wife’s inner and outer beauty, the promise of her mother’s cooking was a key factor in my matrimonial intentions. I don’t know what we are going to do without her, but I know I’ll be a lot hungrier. I wasn’t sure I could (or should) write about her in a humor column, but she dearly loved to laugh, so I think she’d be ok with it.

After experiencing these tremendous losses and with the promise of a new year, I decided to do what any normal person would. I purchased and installed a bidet.

The first time I heard the word “bidet,” I thought it was some kind of French pastry. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My first encounter with a bidet was at a Washington, Texas, bed and breakfast, where I accidentally pressure-washed the bathroom wall opposite the bidet while meddling with some mysterious buttons and knobs attached to the toilet.

I was convinced to “go bidet” myself after a recent conversation with a friend who had installed a Cadillac model with heated water and a drying fan. He said that once you try it, you’ll be sold. And he was right on target – if you know what I mean.

I decided to go basic with my bidet since I’m still a novice and don’t like the idea of electricity that close to my valves and flapper.

After carefully following some over-simplified instructions and minimal cursing, I finally got the bidet installed, and it has really hit the spot – if you know what I mean.

So here’s to a new year with sweet memories of those who are gone and moving ahead into new experiences full force – if you know what I mean. And if I change my mind about the bidet, I can always use it as a pressure-washer.

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Copyright 2026 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Goldman Sachs predicts artificial intelligence may displace up to 300 million jobs by 2027. Of course, I acquired that information from AI, so I have no idea if it’s true or if AI is just trying to bully me into making friends with it so it won’t render me as obsolete at work as I am at home.

And although AI is already doing amazing things, like making teachers all over the country wish (even more) that they had an IV drip of margaritas when they grade essays, there are, unfortunately, plenty of practical tasks that AI still can’t perform.

For example, on a recent Saturday, instead of relaxing in my recliner and allowing college football to determine my mood for the next week, I found myself installing a new toilet seat – long before the previous toilet seat had reached its “best if used by” date. This happens to be the seat for the toilet in my youngest and quietest daughter’s bathroom, and I have to replace it about as often as I change the oil in my car.

This time, the seat was practically ripped off its hinges, which might be understandable if it were in the Texas Aggie football team’s locker room. But this is the bathroom of an average-sized teenage girl who only gets violent when I make jokes about replacing her bra pad thingies with live rodents if she doesn’t stop leaving her dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor.

Luckily, replacing a toilet seat is a job that even an unusually incompetent chimpanzee could do, so I managed to handle it with only a few ruptured disks. Thanks a lot, AI!

On that same Saturday, I also cleaned out the washing machine filter and had the audacity to shift the adjacent dryer about a half inch, which naturally caused the rear dryer vent hose to come loose. Then, I had to perform advanced parkour moves to squeeze between the washer and dryer to reattach the unwieldy hose, which was clearly invented by Vladimir Putin.

I soon found myself lodged between the back of the dryer and the back wall of the laundry room, underneath a set of built-in cabinets. I’m convinced that this cramped space was designed as a trap for mechanically disinclined dads. While I was incarcerated back there, I decided to clean out the exhaust hose and dragged out enough lint for a lifetime of bellybutton excavations.

For a few minutes, I considered just staying there permanently to avoid going to work on Monday morning, but I figured I’d miss going out to eat Mexican food too much.

Eventually, I found my way out of the dad trap, sweating like that last gas station hot dog wiener on a roller grill and covered in underwear dust. Thanks a lot, AI!

Although a few jobs may, indeed, go away someday, I’ll bet dads and husbands will still be installing toilet seats and loitering behind appliances far into the future, continuing to be unsung household heroes in the rolling eyes of their wives and children – no thanks to AI.

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Copyright 2025 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

(Warning: unfair, but hilarious, Colorado stereotypes ahead!)

Well, it finally happened. My eldest and most expensive daughter truly left the nest this time. We recently schlepped her from glorious Texas to a mysterious and unaffordable land known as Colorado, where she’ll start a life of her own dodging blizzards, patrons stumbling out of brewhouses, and billowing clouds of smoke from the devil’s lettuce.

But not only have we lost our first baby to semi-grown adult-ish-hood roughly a zillion miles away, getting her there was pure “H-E-double hockey sticks” covered in blood from knocking my teeth out.

The trouble began when we arrived at her former apartment to load up her belongings–and what appeared to be the belongings of twenty other recent college graduates with compulsive hoarding disorders. My wife and I foolishly thought that a small U-Haul trailer and a large SUV would provide plenty of moving storage for a destitute twenty-two-year-old. Instead, we packed the U-Haul so tightly that I worried about shrapnel if it exploded on the highway–littering the roads with vinyl records, fleece blankets, and designer cosmetics.

Our SUV resembled an overpacked Central American mountain bus. All we needed was a crate of chickens strapped to the luggage rack. My daughter’s car was so loaded down it should’ve been blasting “Low Rider” from the stereo on a constant loop.

We decided to take the scenic route, and once our suburban gypsy caravan was well on its way, my wife and I received a frantic phone call from our daughter telling us she had just been rear-ended at a stop sign. Of course, we were in a ruggedly beautiful Texas Panhandle area known as Tascosa–a Spanish word meaning, “the flipping middle of nowhere.”

Fortunately, no one was injured, the cars were drivable, and the owners of the offending vehicle–a Baptist preacher and his wife–were gracious folks who, like us, were East Texans headed to craft beer-drenched Colorado. Despite their religious credentials, though, I didn’t find the experience particularly spiritual–other than my sudden urge to speak in tongues.

Our next bit of fun occurred in remote New Mexico, amid stunning mesas and the Capulin Volcano National Monument, where we suddenly found ourselves on the side of the road in a hailstorm that would make Moses jealous. Once the hail let up, we slowly inched ahead until, you guessed it, we got another phone call from Little Miss Fiasco, whose highway hugger had slid off the road and was now stuck in the median.

This was one of those big “Dad moments” where I was supposed to know what to do, other than call someone more capable. So as I stood in the median, repeatedly splattered with slush from passing semis, I prayed that God would relieve me of my usual ineptitude, and, Hallelujah! I was able to push the car out with my vast expertise from watching it done once on Sesame Street.

We eventually arrived in the land of skunk smoke, suds, and John Denver. After getting our daughter settled and saying our goodbyes, I told my wife to lean back and rest because I was driving home–all the way home–without stopping. We pulled into our driveway just before noon the next day, having toured some of the finest gas station restrooms in Kansas and Oklahoma.

We miss our daughter terribly, but we know we’ll see her again soon–as long as it doesn’t involve a U-Haul or the scenic route.

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Copyright 2025 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Recently, my wife and I took one of our semi-grown daughters and her friend to the American Rodeo Championship Weekend at Globe Life Field in Arlington, Texas. But we weren’t there to see the adult, full-contact petting zoo that is a championship rodeo.

Instead, for around the cost of the latest iPhone, we bought four tickets to see country music heartthrob (and darn good singer) Riley Green and the almost-as-lovely-as-my-wife (in case she reads this) Ella Langley perform mid-rodeo.

Because the concert was sandwiched between the final and championship rounds of the rodeo, and no specific time was given for when the cow patties would stop flying and the music would start playing, Calvin Klein cowboys like us were forced to watch some rodeo action before we could get to what we came for. Heck, I even wore boots and a pair of “cowboy-tinted” jeans, meaning they were dyed to look as though I’ve done some actual work outdoors­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­-in the dirt, even.

The first rodeo event was the most important, namely finding something to eat.

My wife and I “ambled” all the way around the stadium concourse, trying to decide how best to victimize our credit cards on overpriced gas-station food. My wife settled on the Jumbo Dog, and since I was feeling fancy, I chose the grilled onion and bratwurst sandwich, which is really just a hot dog with rizz, designed to make you (and whoever is sitting in your general vicinity) regret it later.

When we returned to our seats, the rodeo fun began with events involving horses and cattle who seemed to be having a lot more fun than the ones I usually see standing out in pastures looking like they’re attending a time-share seminar.

Some folks consider rodeos cruel and abusive, but the saddle bronc riding, bareback riding and bull riding events all included animals who seemed to enjoy themselves thoroughly as they thrashed around like they were experiencing an acutely charismatic encounter with the Holy Spirit.

The tie-down roping and steer wrestling event, however, reminded me of what I go through when I try to give one of our pets a pill.

My wife and I also got a kick out of listening to the announcers call out the ostentatiously western-sounding names of competitors like “Dakota Eldridge,” “Stetson Wright,” Cash Robb” and “Dusky Hall.”

With a name like “Jase Graves,” I figured that I could fit in great with these rodeo athletes. The only qualities I lack are talent, athleticism, and an affinity for sitting astride an enormous, hyperactive farm animal gyrating to “Uptown Funk.”

Once the final round ended, and I’d had my fill of bratwurst and was feeling like a completely inadequate human being when it comes to the cowpoke arts, the concert began.

Although the music and performances by Riley Green (with his conquistador mustache/soul patch combo) and the gorgeously talented Ella Langley were great, my feelings of inadequacy were only intensified by memories of my mother unsuccessfully urging me to stay in the school choir and suggesting that I might look good with some facial hair.

Still, we had a lot of fun, and although I know I’ll never be a rodeo champion (or even a manure valet), I can always wear my boots and cowboy-tinted jeans when I order bratwurst.

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Copyright 2025 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

In the current climate of political animosity, I should have known better than to write about Worcestershire sauce.

Sure enough, after my most recent column, when I dared to mention that some Americans keep decades-old bottles of Worcestershire sauce in their refrigerators, I was roundly excoriated by a few scandalized readers who sought to educate me on the waste of time, energy and perfectly good greenhouse gasses it is to refrigerate that immortal condiment.

One outraged reader even speculated, “I’ll bet you keep your ketchup and mustard in there, too!” followed by an eye-roll emoji.

My only recourse was to admit, “Yes, but that’s how I was raised.”

Besides, I think ketchup and mustard taste better cold. I can’t remember my temperature preference for Worcestershire sauce since I haven’t used it since the first Obama administration.

I recently heard someone say that eggs don’t need to be refrigerated, either. Incredulous, I googled the issue and discovered that refrigerating eggs is mainly an American phenomenon – probably because that’s what God intended.

This whole business about refrigerating condiments got me thinking about other pointless things I do, and I wound up with a list so long that I needed a dose of Extra-Strength Tylenol about halfway through.

For example, I spend an inordinate amount of time brushing our two doglets, hoping they’ll be slightly cleaner and look less like disheveled lab rodents. They both loathe the process, and I’m not crazy about it, either. When I call them to be brushed, they take the most circuitous route possible to reach me and then give me forlorn looks like I’m about to execute them one at a time, Old Yeller style. When we’re done, their coats actually look sleek and supple-for about 5.8 seconds – until they traumatize the couch cushions or go outside and find something dead to wallow in.

As for my personal grooming, a friend recently convinced me that I needed to apply a daily face lotion containing some kind of acid I can’t pronounce. The lotion supposedly nourishes my skin and makes it look more youthful. So far, though, I’m looking more and more like the love child of Keith Richards and that “Muppet Show” character, Gonzo – the purple one who dated chickens.

Another huge time waster is my insistence on washing my silver-ish 2013 Ford Expedition regularly. I even have one of those car wash memberships, which means I can have a depressed teenager slosh some dirty mop water on it with a giant toothbrush and run it through the tunnel of exotic suds as many times as I please. Unfortunately, the result is that the vehicle still looks like a dilapidated welding shed on wheels. But at least my curb rash, door dings and bumper dents are spot-free.

Finally, I spend too much time worrying about my three semi-grown daughters. Specifically, I worry about their safety, their happiness, and whether or not they’re dating insufferable goobers.

From now on, though, I plan to give those worries to God and focus on things I can control, like finding the best spot in the refrigerator to store the Worcestershire sauce.

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Copyright 2025 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

On my birthday this year, I’ll turn 55 years old. I’m not sure that’s an impressive milestone, but I do believe it’s the average shelf life of the bottle of Worcestershire sauce in the back of most American refrigerators.

The other day, I was talking to a young person – meaning someone who never utilized a dial telephone to determine the exact time and temperature – who told me they hope they look as good as I do when they turn 55. Naturally, I took that as a compliment, and then started wondering what, exactly, a 55-year-old male-type-person should look like. Apparently, I should bear a striking resemblance to Gollum from “The Lord of the Rings.”

I guess I have made it a point in the past few years to hang on to whatever youthfulness of mine hasn’t already disappeared into the same unreachable dimension where my lost socks and my three semi-grown daughters’ missing bra pad thingies go.

For instance, I still try to work out several times a week­ – though not with the same intensity as I did in my lavishly-mulleted days in the 1980s. Back then, the weight room was my second home, and I blew most of my allowance on Dynamic Muscle Builder Protein Powder and Panama Jack #6 Dark Tanning Oil. Ah, I can still smell that rich aroma of artificial coconut mixed with UV rays and freshly caramelized epidermis!

Nowadays, when I go to the gym, I mostly take turns with elderly women on the machine weights. And sometimes they give me tips on how to get properly swole.

I’ve also managed, so far, to hang on to my dark, thick hair, which I inherited from my mother. I used to feel a bit insulted and emasculated when people told me I looked like Mom, but now I’m relieved that at least they don’t tell me I look like a decomposing iguana. As far as my secret to maintaining gray-free hair is concerned, that’s between me, God, and the lady who cuts and may or may not do other highly-classified things to it.

In addition to my efforts to stave off bodily putrefaction, I strive to stay current with the latest fashion trends. For example, I sometimes ask my daughters what shoes the “cool guys” are wearing these days so I’ll know what to buy. Once they’ve caught their breath from acute fits of laughter, they continue to snort and sputter as they direct me to websites featuring footwear that costs roughly the same as a semester of college tuition.

Finally, I do my best to keep up with the modern music scene. Although I maintain my love for tunes from the 1980s, back when making music required actual talent (along with a generous supply of Aqua Net hairspray and synthesizers), I’ve learned to appreciate modern artists like Benson Boone, Del Water Gap, Noah Kahn, and lots of other current singers that my daughters enjoyed until I started adding them to my Spotify playlist. Nothing ruins budding pop musicians’ careers like a 50-something-year-old geezer jamming to their songs with the car windows down on the way to a regularly-scheduled colonoscopy.

Of course, I realize that aging is inevitable, and that, probably sooner than later, what’s left of my muscles, hair, sense of fashion, and musical taste will descend into irredeemable fossilhood. Until then, though, I’m determined to stay as young at heart as possible, even if it means re-growing my mullet.

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Copyright 2025 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Now that I’ve recovered from my yearly disappointment in not having a white Christmas in East Texas (unless you count the massive accumulation of almond bark I ate), the time of year has finally arrived when we Texans occasionally have our winter-precip sensitivities triggered by the National Weather Service.

Over the course of one recent day, we were notified of a Winter Storm Warning, a Winter Weather Advisory, a Winter Storm Watch and an It’s-Not-Going-To-Do-Anything-You-Bunch-Of-Rednecks Alert.

This meant that we immediately inflicted shock and awe on Walmart’s bread and milk shelves, frantically prepping to binge on carbs and lactose, which provided us with the energy needed to drag our shorts and tank tops back out of storage the next day.

You see, here in East Texas, and in much of the South, we don’t really have “winter” in the traditional sense of sustained temperatures below the armpit-sweating point. In fact, witnessing snow here is about as rare as finding a bottle of water that isn’t half empty and three days stale in one of my three semi-grown daughters’ bedrooms.

But when it does happen, East Texans tend to fall into one of two camps (or RV parks). There are those of us who get excited about the prospect of a mild disruption to the daily grind of work and school–replaced with a day or two lounging by the fireplace (or the burn pile), enjoying the transformed landscape and laughing at our pets as they try to navigate their outdoor potty time without freezing off something important. Then there are those with utter disdain for any weather event that doesn’t require sunscreen, extra deodorant and the potential for chafing.

I align with those who enjoy a few fleeting days of winter weather. I’ve always said that I’d rather be cold than hot–because I can always put on more clothes, but I can only take off so many before I run the risk of inflicting psychological damage on my family and neighbors.

And speaking of clothes, I think winter apparel is more fun to wear–mainly because it effectively disguises my love handles. When I’m sporting my imitation flannel shirt and my imitation Carhartt jacket with imitation sheepskin trim, I can imagine I’m on a ranch in Montana like one of the wranglers from the “Yellowstone” television series–minus the manual labor and manure. Summer clothes, on the other hand, mainly make me look like I just ran from a burning building in the middle of the night and threw on what I could find on my way out–revealing that I’ve spent most of my life skipping “leg day” at the gym (but never Taco Tuesday).

Speaking of tacos, even a slight chance of winter weather inspires most Texans to make chili, chicken and dumplings, stew or other “comfort” foods that are most comforting to the bottom line of Ozempic. None of it is good for your health, but your love handles will appreciate it.

So I encourage you to enjoy the variety of a little East Texas winter weather if you can. And if you just can’t stand it, wait a few minutes. You’ll be chafing again in no time.

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Copyright 2025 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Yes, it’s that time you’ve been waiting for all year, when I reveal my list of New Year’s resolutions that I likely won’t be able to keep beyond Valentine’s Day, which, once again, I will probably spend demonstrating my love for my wife with Mexican food – mainly having her watch me eat it.

This year, though, I’m using my resolutions to focus on my mental health­­­­ – since I’ve been told that I can’t stay in bed until next January. Primarily, I’m resolving to stop allowing certain worries, concerns, questions and math problems to weigh on my mind and my digestive system.

First, I’m resolved to resist the acute feeling of dread every time my (or my wife’s) cell phone vibrates and we see that one of our three semi-grown daughters is calling. Now, don’t get me wrong. We love hearing from our girls, and we want to know that they are safe, healthy and fulfilled, but when they actually call us, it typically means that something is wrong, and that something often involves several hundred dollars – or a boy who has suddenly turned into a huge doofus.

Next is my resolution to stop allowing the check-engine light on my elderly SUV to burn a hole in my subconscious. I’m occasionally able to bribe it to turn off for a few weeks if I take it to the shop to have an exorbitantly expensive part I’ve never heard of replaced with a new one. But as soon as I ease in to the carefree routine of driving a vehicle that isn’t about to explode, that piercing, yellow-orange glow returns to torment me like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe short story. Sometimes I think I see it when it isn’t even there . . . or maybe it is!

Another anxiety I intend to alleviate involves my youngest daughter’s little white doglet, Biscuit, who has developed a habit of ingesting items not meant to be processed by the canine gizzard. Biscuit seems partial to human hair, carpet fibers and miniscule particles of my daughter’s pillowcase that she nibbles while my daughter is asleep or engrossed in YouTube videos on her cell phone. My main concern, of course, is the dog’s health, which, at any moment, could require medical treatment that will result in a new set of tires on our vet’s pickup. Another worry, though, is wondering where the dog will throw up next. Will it be the carpet, the couch, my desk chair or somewhere I don’t see . . . . but feel . . . between my toes? Nowadays, anytime Biscuit coughs, hacks or breathes funny, we frantically scoop her up like a live hand grenade and rush her outside – where she usually just stands there and looks at us like we need medication, which we probably do.

Finally, I have promised myself to stop worrying about the lumps, bumps, aches, pains and errant sprouts of body hair (usually in embarrassing locations) that come with getting older. I used to panic every time one of our children asked me why my legs sound like microwave popcorn cooking when I walk, or why my nostrils have bangs, but I’ve now determined just to do my best to stay healthy, reasonably presentable in public – according to most city ordinances–and let God take care of the rest. (He’s got His work cut out for Him there.)

So there you have it, my list of New Year’s resolutions. I feel better already just getting that off my chest. Wait, was that my phone buzzing or the dog breathing funny again . . . ?

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Every year a few weeks before Christmas, my sweet wife asks me what I’d like for Christmas. And every year, I tell her, “Nothing! I’d rather spend our money on the kids,” meaning our three now semi-grown (but fully-spoiled) daughters.

Of course, my noble answer is a huge lie meant to make me seem less Grinchy than I really am. There are lots of things I’d like to have for Christmas, but until our daughters graduate from college, or Elon Musk makes me his personal charity project, I may as well not ask. Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m on Santa’s permanent “Grouchy-Dad-Who-Doesn’t-Even-Deserve-Coal, Switches, or Justin Bieber’s Christmas Album” list.

If, though, I were to be honest and present my actual Christmas list to my wife, it would surely elicit an eye roll so acute it might require surgery.

At any rate, below are a few items that any of my dear readers with a bottomless bank account could consider sending me.

First, I’d like a brand new Ford Expedition as a replacement for my decrepit 2013 model, which is basically being held together with repurposed paperclips and probably houses some fugitive gummi bears purchased during the Obama administration. The vehicle works fine, as long as I take it to a repair shop regularly for a lifesaving transplant of some kind. And since new Ford Expeditions cost roughly the same as the gross domestic product of Guam, I’ll probably continue with palliative care until we finally have to pull the plug.

Next on my list is a new kitchen with all the trimmings. We built our house almost 30 years ago – before appliances were disposable – so most of ours are older than my favorite pair of boxer briefs. In fact, they’ve become like family members–the unkempt ones who are still mostly functional but you probably wouldn’t claim in public.

Our stove, for example, works fine, but the door handle broke off in an emergency chicken nugget incident several years ago. So now we feel like we should be wearing one of those aluminum volcano-exploration suits every time we try to open it.

Our vintage refrigerator is also fairly reliable, but it makes creaking and popping noises like my joints do when I get up in the night to go to the bathroom. The ice maker even works if I occasionally wiggle the water line tubing to the beat of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”

I’ve written about our temperamental dishwasher before, so let’s just say it works at the moment – but only if we promise it that we’ll limit ourselves to the “Normal” setting. When we try “Express Wash” or “Heavy Duty,” it files a hostile-working-environment complaint, goes on strike and flashes an error code from the Klingon alphabet.

Our microwave oven seems to operate normally, but some of the interior surfaces are cracked and peeling, which is probably exposing us to the same elements found at the Chernobyl nuclear site. The second head growing out of my belly button thinks it’s safe, though.

I’m sure that someday when our daughters are no longer dependent on us (Ha!), we’ll purchase these items on my hopeless Christmas list, and then I’ll drive around in my new SUV wishing I still had a back seat full of little girls spending all of my money, spilling their gummi bears and listening to the Justin Bieber Christmas album.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

It’s that time of year (while I’m still digesting Thanksgiving giblets and deviled eggs), that I unveil my yearly Christmas list of things that I really don’t want, but will probably get, anyway.

Receiving what you don’t want for Christmas is traditional for fathers like me. When I was a kid in the 1970s Christmas shopping for my dad, I’m pretty sure his list never included Brut Soap on Rope or the Smokeless Ashtray by Ronco. But it doesn’t hurt to wish – and then be plagued by disappointment.

First on my list is to go for one full month without discovering from my three semi-grown daughters that at least one of their vehicles has suffered some minor tragedy that will cost me at least $500 to repair or inflate my car insurance premium to levels that exceed the national debt. Such incidents include, but are not limited to, traumatizing curbs, running over those concrete thingies at the ends of parking spaces, and, speaking of parking, maneuvering way too close to brick mailboxes, privacy fences, or jacked-up redneck pickups with unreasonably large tires.

Number two on my list is to live one day without my lower back, shoulders, knees or earlobes feeling like they have recently been involved in a violent parking incident with one of my three daughters. To alleviate these aches, pains and sensations of general decomposition, my doctor has prescribed a series of elaborate daily stretches that require me to lie on the floor, repeatedly question my doctor’s credentials and contort my limbs into embarrassing positions that would probably get me arrested if I did them in public. I’m not sure the stretches are working at all, but my wife and pets seem to get a lot of enjoyment out of watching me do them.

And since we’re on the subject of my crumbling anatomical infrastructure, I would really love to wake up on Christmas morning to discover that my love handles have abandoned my lower abdomen in disgust over the country’s current political climate and moved to Canada. I’ve spent the last 40 or so years trying to get rid of them through silly activities like exercise and healthy eating (except for all the chips and salsa), only to have them continue to mock me when I try to buy clothes that don’t make me look like I’m packing a couple of spare Bundt cakes. If I can’t lose them altogether, I’d be good with shifting them a little lower and to the rear so I could sit longer while eating chips and salsa.

Finally, I’d like for Old Saint Nick to relieve me of the nagging longing I have for the past–when our daughters were younger and I had less hair in my ears. In those days, they would eagerly hold my hand, draw pictures for me and admit to others that we’re related.

I know kids (and I) have to grow up, and I’m incredibly proud of the young women mine have become. But I’d give just about anything for those three little girls to give me one more Christmas present – even Brut Soap on a Rope.

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Copyright 2024 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].