Cagle World

Austin, Texas, is a city of paradoxes. It’s the capital of one of the most conservative states in the country – a state where you’ll probably feel out of place in some localities if you don’t conceal a firearm in your undergarments, yet Austin is a city widely known for its ultra-liberal social mores that allow some folks to feel comfortable strolling (or staggering) around downtown wearing nothing BUT their undergarments­ – if that much.

Speaking of downtown Austin, I recently accompanied a friend of mine to the state capital, ostensibly to help him relocate the contents of an office, but it was really just an excuse for us to find new ways to commit acts of insurrection against our waistbands.

Our food tour started on Austin’s famous 6th street, known for its bars, clubs, restaurants, and various bodily fluids. In fact, this fair avenue has echoes (and aromas) of upper Bourbon Street in New Orleans, but with less professional nudity.

Due to the recent mass shooting there, I was somewhat reluctant to go traipsing around “Dirty 6th”  – even at 10:00 a.m. – but since my friend is a former Army medic with biceps as big around as my torso, I figured we’d be alright. Besides, our first objective was doughnuts, and no national crime wave was going to stand between us and the dear leader of fried carbohydrates.

Specifically, we were headed to Voodoo Doughnut, a mashup of a gourmet doughnut shop, a punk rock concert and a psychedelic cartoon. Sticking out like a sore thumb wearing bright pink nail polish, the Voodoo Doughnut storefront was partially obscured by the official 6th Street welcoming committee of several half-naked panhandlers (or possibly hungover University of Texas students). Either way, none of them accepted credit cards.

Since I had previously sampled the unconventional delights of the Voodoo Doughnut location on Colfax Avenue in Denver, Colorado, I knew exactly how to punish my pancreas in this place. I ordered the Grape Ape (a vanilla glazed doughnut with a dusting of what tastes like a purple Pixie Stick), the O Captain, My Captain (a vanilla glazed doughnut festooned with Crunch Berries cereal), and the Voodoo Doll (a humanoid-shaped chocolate glazed doughnut filled with raspberry “blood” and featuring a pretzel stick for a stake). In the spirit of Austin’s progressive attitude toward indecent exposure, I may or may not have taken a dare and also purchased an off-menu body-part-shaped doughnut that only a junior high delinquent (or two grown man-type persons) would find funny.

My friend is currently on a strict dieting program, so he limited his order to a Voodoo Doll and a Maple Bacon Bar (a maple-frosted bar topped with two massive strips of bacon). Our arteries still aren’t speaking to us.

After our office-moving job, we decided to identify as hungry again for lunch at the legendary Hula Hut on Lake Austin. This Hawaiian-themed Tex-Mex joint has several open-air dining areas offering us fantastic views of the water and lakeside homes that cost even more than a school-clothes shopping trip with my three teen daughters. I decided to eat light this time, so I had the Chicken and Guacamole Tubular Taco that was roughly the size of my right leg, served by a cordial but beleaguered bartender who appeared to have spent the previous evening on 6th street and may very well have had Voodoo Doughnut’s Maple Blazer Blunt for breakfast.

We spent the drive back to Northeast Texas vigorously (and loudly) digesting while rocking out to 1980’s hair bands. We made only one stop–at the world-renowned Round Rock Donuts for some of their unique and delectable orange/yellowy glazed donuts because . . . donuts.

When I arrived home, I needed a hot shower, a 50-gallon drum of Pepto Bismol, and a marathon prayer meeting. It was a good day with a great friend and some delicious, death-hastening cuisine.

If you get the chance, go down to Austin and sample the weirdness yourself. After an appointment with your gastroenterologist and your local pastor, you’ll be back to feeling normal in no time.

–

Copyright 2021 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 recent years, kayaking has become a true craze, ranking right up there with TikTok dances, government stimulus checks, and those glorified Lunchables on plywood I can’t pronounce called charcuterie boards. And speaking of unusual pronunciations, before my teenage daughters got involved with the pastime, I mainly associated the word “kayak” with a noise our cat makes right before she barfs on the throw rug.

I honestly don’t understand the point of kayaking, other than to get some rigorous exercise in a contraption guaranteed to give you soggy shorts. To me, paddling a boat is something you do in an emergency situation when the motor quits running. And if the lack of a propeller isn’t a warning sign, the life jacket and swimwear requirements should be.

Just a few weeks ago, we spent a Saturday with family at Lake Cherokee in East Texas, and my two older daughters effortlessly kayaked on their own across the lake, probably for the sake of some sweet action selfies–and to avoid answering embarrassing questions from relatives about their boyfriends’ hair styles.

Not to be outdone, and trying to prove that we’re still young, hip and semi-mobile, my wife and I decided to embark on a guided sunset kayaking excursion with our eldest and most expensive daughter the following week while vacationing in Orange Beach, Alabama. Since my wife and I are both novice kayakers, the guide suggested that we use a tandem kayak he called “the divorce maker.”

Although we were amused by the joke, I was immediately concerned about the narrow dimensions of the kayak. Since I tend to eat shameful quantities of seafood and key lime pie when I’m on a beach vacation, I thought I might require a more full-figured watercraft. Nevertheless, I took my seat in the rear with my wife in the front so that she could more efficiently sling sea water off her paddles and directly into my nostrils.

Because I was immediately distracted by the beauty of nature, including a great blue heron flying directly overhead that was possibly looking for the men’s room, I missed some of the instructions from the guide about how to steer the kayak properly. As a result, my wife and I became instant experts at paddling our kayak without actually moving it.

After a well-deserved “wife splaining,” I eventually got my bearings, and we frantically paddled out into Perdido Pass to catch up with our daughter, who was shaking her head and pretending that we were unknown life forms.

The rest of the excursion was exhilarating as our guide identified the diverse wildlife and dramatic landscapes around us. At one point, he drew our attention to a school of small pompano jumping out of the water right in front of our daughter’s kayak, although from our vantage point at the far rear of the group, he could have told us they were a herd of amphibious armadillos, and we would’ve been none the wiser.

I was so taken by the splendor of God’s creation that I almost didn’t notice the crippling pain radiating from every muscle below my eyebrows as I paddled. Luckily, my wife is in great shape, or I couldn’t have taken my frequent fake-paddle breaks with such discreet confidence.

As we glided toward the shore at the end of the day, our silhouettes tinted auburn by the sun reclining along the horizon, I reflected on our adventure and felt a deep contentment from the memories we made as a family. I was also hopeful that I would someday regain the ability to lift my arms high enough to scratch.

Although I’m glad I had the kayaking experience, I’ll probably leave it to the youngsters for now. But who knows? Maybe someday I’ll get one of those fancy kayaks with a motor–and a storage area for key lime pie.

–

Copyright 2021 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].

With the easing of COVID-19 restrictions over the past few months, Texas weather has been releasing its pent-up energy like a post-quarantine exhibitionist with multiple personality disorder.

This winter, we had not one, but two snowfalls in Northeast Texas – a region of the country where a snowflake is usually defined as a hipster with a phobia of full employment and brash ex-presidents with spray tans.

One of our snow events amounted to almost a foot of white powder that forced our doglets to re-evaluate their methods for destroying my lawn. Our Maltese mix even threatened to file cruelty-to-an-animal’s-undercarriage charges against us the first time we let her out to potty in the permafrost.

Then spring arrived with a pant-soaking vengeance. It rained almost daily at our house throughout the month of May and the first week of June, to the point that I wondered whether I should force my daughters to accessorize their crop tops with arm floaties when they made their daily runs to Target and Starbucks.

Seriously, though, the constant rain has had some significant economic consequences. Despite a regional surge in snorkel sales, the precipitation and overcast skies stunted the growth of locally-grown crops like watermelons, the taste of which is like a sweet herald to summer for me. I’ve been known to make a nutritious meal of a whole watermelon in one sitting–seeds and all–followed by a sleepover in the men’s room. I guess this year I might have to get my vitamins from one of those ridiculous fruit cups at Chick-fil-a, with a side of large waffle fries and a milkshake (for my veggies and calcium).

I’ve also taken a personal financial hit due to my generously supplying the nearest storm drain with landscaping topsoil and mulch from Lowe’s. Because my inundated yard has taken on the consistency of those makeup sponge thingies that my daughters leave strewn through the house, I’ve resorted to wearing tall black rubber boots for routine outdoor tasks like taking out the garbage or fetching my designer underwear orders from the mailbox. My daughters especially appreciate it when I pair the rubber boots with my bathrobe – just as their boyfriends arrive to pick them up.

And speaking of my daughters, the swimming pool we installed a few years ago to increase their tolerance of sharing oxygen with us became just plain redundant, acting as the neighborhood retention pond and often featuring water the color of those vegetable cleansing smoothies. I’ve had to apply so many chlorine shock treatments to the pool water that my youngest daughter and her friends recently received free hair highlighting treatments when they came to swim. Unfortunately, you can now see through their skin.

Although the rain has been a nuisance lately in East Texas, the current extended forecast shows conditions that promise to make us all feel like we’re wearing woolen long johns inside an active volcano. We’ll almost certainly be praying for rain come August – when our car interiors turn into air fryers, and the only moisture we get is the sweat dripping from our navels.

Until then, I think I’ll keep greeting my daughters’ boyfriends in my rubber boots, bathrobe and snorkel – just for fun.

–

Copyright 2021 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].

You may have heard the proverb, “Give a man a fish, and you’ll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you’ll feed him for a lifetime of crushing debt after he buys the boat, trailer, tackle, depth finder, trolling motor, etc.”

Seriously, though, despite my dad’s best efforts throughout my childhood and a few excursions of my own as an adult, I’d still rather someone just give me the fish – preferably deep fried with a side of coleslaw and hush puppies.

Don’t get me wrong, though, I do enjoy a few minutes of vigorous catching. I could just do without the fishing part.

One of my earliest memories of fishing with no hope of escape was the time my dad and some of his friends took me on an expedition to the Toledo Bend Reservoir on the border of Texas and Louisiana when I was around 11 years old. Along with the fishing, we planned to visit nearby Zwolle, Louisiana, for the Zwolle Tamale Fiesta (a festival honoring – you guessed it – tamales), which was to be the highlight of the trip for me because… tamales.

Unfortunately, I wound up in a boat with a marathon fisherman who refused to allow a few tortuous hours with not so much as a minnow toot to stop him from dragging me around the lake until I got so bored I resorted to assigning nicknames to the live bait. To top it off, we completely missed the tamale festival–an experience of childhood trauma that still haunts me when I eat Mexican food, so at least twice a week.

Just recently, I was cajoled by a few of my friend dudes into tromping out to a fully-stocked pond and making some casts from the bank – once they taught me how to operate an open-face reel without dislocating my fingernails. (I’m pretty sure they just took me for comic relief.)

After impaling a few earthworms, I actually hauled in several large bluegill and one unnecessarily belligerent channel catfish. I must admit that there’s nothing quite like the pop on the end of the line of a borrowed rod that reverberates all the way down to the hair on your toe knuckles. I kind of felt like that guy from the “River Monsters” television show – if he got his man card revoked and basically forgot everything he knew about fishing.

Things quickly took a turn, though, when I cast my bait too close to my friend’s bobber, hooked a fully jacked bream the size of a Pomeranian, and watched as our fishing lines performed some kind of monofilament mating ritual that resulted in a tangled mess of polyethylene worthy of a bipartisan congressional commission. We spent the next 10 minutes standing face-to-face in a slow-dance posture while we picked at the knot and trash-talked the Zebco corporation.

Despite the tangled line and a bloody thumb that the catfish mistook for an hors d’oeuvre, I had a great time, and I’m still hoping the lingering fish funk on my hands wears off sometime before next Christmas.

Most of my other fish tales prove that “the big one that got away” wasn’t just the theme of my teenage romances, and although I’m not terribly fond of fishing, I do love and appreciate God’s great outdoors. I’d just rather enjoy it within reach of a thermostat and TV remote.

I keep thinking that I’ll learn to love fishing someday when my three daughters are grown and gone, and my wife keeps me locked out of the house until after dark. Until then, I’ll be the weirdo who doesn’t like to fish, but always volunteers to bring the coleslaw.

–

Copyright 2021 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].

Dear eldest and most expensive daughter,

Well, the time has finally come for you to graduate from high school, spread your wings and discover exciting, new ways to spend my cash in college.

It seems like only yesterday that you were first hinting to your parents (especially me) that you were really the one in charge and that you just planned to humor us for the next 18 years.

Now that I look back, it was pretty clear that you always had me completely outmatched. I still remember one time when you had just finished your bottle, and I lifted you up over my head to make you giggle. It was such a precious moment for me as I laughed along with you, looked up into your beautiful eyes–and watched you spit up directly into my mouth. I’ll never forget that taste of partially digested Similac, and I’m so glad I could share it with you.

Then there was the time when you were around three years old and requested a doctor set for Christmas­­–not one of those inexpensive plastic ones made by Fisher-Price, but a REAL doctor set. (When I was that age, I was still trying to determine whether dirt was edible.) I spent a good part of early December that year browsing through the local medical supply shops looking for the perfect bedpan and learning that the kidney-shaped vomit bowl is really called an “emesis basin.” Good times!

Throughout your pre-teen years, I watched in amazement as you would happily get us up at 5:00 AM to attend horseback riding competitions, knowing even back then that I could scarcely perform basic bodily functions at that time of day. And throughout high school, you have been so admirably involved in National Honor Society, academic competitions, Zonta Club, and your dance and drill team. In contrast, I spent most of my high school years grooming my mullet and fruitlessly trying to convince a girl – any girl – to make out with me under the bleachers.

In a few short days, I’ll swell with pride when I watch you graduate with honors in the top ten percent of your high school class, remembering that I graduated with horrors at the thought of trying to calculate percentages.

I know I’m not quite the same dad I was when you were little as the years have taken their toll. My joints are constantly committing acts of insurrection against the rest of my carcass. The other day, I’m pretty sure I hyperextended my earlobe while shaving. And as I sit writing this column, I do so with searing pain radiating down my neck from reaching too far in the shower to shampoo my back hair. Heck, these days, a simple sneeze puts my entire musculoskeletal system at risk of collapse.

Along with my physical descent into fossilization, you have been so patient as you’ve grown up with my ongoing grouchiness, vanity, embarrassing dad jokes, and title as the Grand Master of Cringey “Boomers.”

No, I’m afraid you didn’t win the lottery when it came to dads. In fact, you barely won the dad version of a free squirt of hand sanitizer available at the entrance of Wal-Mart.

But I do love you more than life, and I can’t tell you how proud your mom and I are of your accomplishments. I thank the Lord every day that He gave you to us – our brave, determined girl – and I pray that as you and the other seniors in the class of 2021 take your journey through adulthood, you’ll remember to laugh a lot, love a lot, and keep your mouth closed when you lift your baby over your head someday.

Congratulations!

Love,

Dad/The Grand Master of Cringey “Boomers”

–

Copyright 2021 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 time for another installment of “Places you should go before you can’t tell a presidential executive order document from one of your White House German Shepherd’s training pads!” Yes, recently my wife and three teenage daughters took a week-long family trip to Charleston, SC – also known as “The city where every meal will cost you at least two C-notes.”

Because we enjoy turning our buns into geological formations, we drove the entire 14-hour trip from East Texas to downtown Charleston, stopping only occasionally to sample the delights of various southern powder rooms, usually in rural gas stations tempting us with boiled peanuts and pickles in a bag.

Similar to nearby Savannah, Ga., where we dislocated our credit on vacation a couple of years ago, we noticed that almost everything in Charleston is extremely historical, meaning it costs a lot of money to see, and it usually has a gift shop selling souvenir refrigerator magnets. In fact, upon our arrival, we immediately forked over a chunk of change to a tour company that hauled us around town in a historical-looking wagon behind a Belgian draft horse’s fragrant hind quarters as the guide showed us the historical sideways-facing single houses with their grand piazzas – and other historical stuff.

Because we still hadn’t had enough historicalness, we spent a couple of more hours (and another hundred bucks) on a guided walking tour down cobblestone side streets and through historical alleyways where the horse’s hind quarters don’t fit.

The historical highlight of our trip was a jaunt aboard the Spirit of the Lowcountry across Charleston Harbor to legendary Fort Sumter. For about the price of one of my daughters’ prom dresses, your family can cruise across the harbor and occasionally glance up from their cell phones to see the majestic Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge, Castle Pinckney, and finally, Fort Sumter – where the first shots of the Civil War were fired. Although the tour of the fort itself was educational and moving, the cruise back to Liberty Square included the bonus of a pod of dolphins racing within inches of where we were standing on the lower deck at the bow of the boat – and the dolphins didn’t even charge extra.

After each of these tours, we were feeling pretty darn historical ourselves – and hungry – even hungry enough to eat something like shrimp and grits. And to be honest, touring the historical aspects of Charleston was really just something for us to do between meals. Devouring vast quantities of Lowcountry fare took up the bulk of our itinerary.

We broke the bank (and our waistbands) at eateries like Poogan’s Porch, Millers All Day, Toast! All Day, Fleet Landing and Rodney Scott’s Whole Hog BBQ, where we enjoyed some of the most scrumptious carbohydrates and saturated fats that we’d had since we left home. And, yes, Charleston restaurants can even make a dish like shrimp and grits edible, and she-crab soup seem non-hazardous.

Our trip to Charleston was a truly wonderful experience, and I encourage you to plan a visit as soon as you get the chance (or win the lottery). Our three daughters even appreciated it, except for the walking, stair climbing, and other activities requiring physical movement.

In addition to thoroughly enjoying the food, we learned a lot of the history surrounding this charming city and its importance in shaping our country’s heritage – and we’ve got the refrigerator magnets to prove it.

–

Copyright 2021 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 wake of recent mass shootings, President Joe Biden managed to avoid being blown over by a gentle breeze in the White House Rose Garden to announce several marginal executive actions on gun control that were met with tepid applause from the left and bulging forehead veins on the right.

My intention here is not to wade into the brain-eating-amoeba-infested waters of the gun control debate, but, instead, share a few anecdotes related to my own embarrassing history with the second amendment.

My earliest memorable encounter with a “firearm” was in the 1970’s when I was creeping around in the backyard hunting birds and squirrels with my Daisy BB rifle- while strategically camouflaging myself in a pair of Sears Toughskins jeans and a Muppet Show t-shirt. The soil of the surrounding area is still contaminated by the thousands of BBs from my missed shots, but I did occasionally hit my mark and bring down a specimen of the fierce and deadly East Texas house sparrow. I may or may not have cried every time I killed one.

Speaking of hitting my mark, as a kid with crooked, Coke bottle glasses, I wasn’t exactly the Doc Holliday of pre-pubescent dweebs – more like a myopic Barney Fife. However, I did experience one surprising victory in the world of sharpshooting when my dad took me to a local hardware store that was holding an annual turkey shoot for youngsters. I remember being a little disappointed that there were no actual turkeys there to shoot (or pet), but I did somehow hit a paper target with the accuracy required to take home some Grade A frozen poultry. (I’m pretty sure I sneezed when I pulled the trigger.)

My feelings of triumph were cut short, however, when I confidently challenged my big brother to a backyard BB-gun duel. (What could possibly go wrong?) After we positioned ourselves behind a couple of small bales of hay, the contest lasted for exactly five seconds and consisted of one volley from my crack-shot brother that landed dead center on my partially exposed right love handle. My wails of anguish were only slightly eclipsed by my brother’s repeated desperate pleas that I “Don’t tell Mom!” Despite his appeals and my own fear of punishment, I did bravely confess the incident to our parents­ – shortly after I turned 30.

I didn’t have many experiences with firearms during my teen years, other than my parents (and my girlfriends’ parents) fantasizing about putting me out of their misery. But when I began dating my wife, my future father-in-law introduced me to the wonderful world of sitting out in the woods at dawn and trying to avoid ticks–otherwise known as deer hunting. It only took two outings of sleeping in a rickety aluminum lawn chair and being driven out into the wilderness on a four-wheeler at 5 AM to be left for dead for me to prove that I just wasn’t hunting (or fishing, or camping…) material, and that he’d have to find some other way to get rid of me.

Today, I possess two firearms, a .38 Special and a .22 rifle, both on loan from my dad-out of pity, I think. And I only get them out to brandish around my teenage daughters’ boyfriends, who usually ask why they’re so dusty. I should probably take the guns down to the firing range and see whether they still work – if I can figure out how to get the safety off.

Who knows where the American gun control debate will take us in the next few years? I tend to think that gun violence is as much a matter of the heart and soul as it is a matter of the law, but what do I know? For now, I’ll stick to watching “Tombstone” and reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

–

Copyright 2021 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].

As parents of three teenage daughters, my wife and I expend a lot of our leisure time managing other people’s laundry. Because our children are at an age when I can no longer differentiate their underwear according to their favorite colors or cartoon characters, I often beckon them to join in on the fun by collecting their own freshly-cleaned clothes from the laundry basket so that they can strew them randomly throughout their bedrooms.

Inevitably, my youngest daughter fails to heed my calls because she’s practicing YouTube self-hypnosis somewhere in the house while wearing a pair of expensive noise-cancelling headphones. When I finally find her and disconnect her Wi-Fi life-support, I usually ask her what she’s watching, to which she recently replied with a mischievous smile, “I’m watching Karen videos.”

For those of you who’ve managed to avoid the soul-sucking world of social media culture over the past year or so, “Karen” has become a generic label for anyone over the age of 18 (man, woman, or other) who throws an angry fit in public, usually because someone else isn’t following the rules as understood by the “Karen” in question. Unfortunately for Karens everywhere, these disputes are often recorded on cell phones (probably being financed by the recorders’ parents) and wind up on YouTube, SnapTok, or whatever those meddling kids are using these days.

Now don’t get me wrong here, some entitled Karens on these videos spout racist or abusive language, and they are worthy of their online ridicule.

Other times, though, they simply insist that people do the right thing – like wear a face mask, park legally, or keep their doglets from decorating someone else’s lawn with organic IEDs. And, yes, these Karens often “lose it” in spectacular fashion, delivering epic tongue lashings – the kind that my mom used to administer when I was a kid and left every cabinet door open in the kitchen after foraging for Ding Dongs. And, by golly, I deserved her wrath! I also knew better than to respond with anything other than a “Yes, Ma’am” if I wanted to retain the ability to sit on my sitter for the foreseeable future.

I must admit that I’ve had a few of my own YouTube-worthy Karen moments. For example, when a local hardware store clerk recently refused to accept my return of a “defective” weed eater, I asked to speak to the manager, gave him one of the few remaining pieces of my mind and informed him that I wouldn’t be darkening his door again. (I’m sure he was relieved – and so was I when I later realized I had just assembled the weed eater incorrectly because I refused to read the instructions.)

Another time, I mildly flipped out at a local restaurant when they forgot to cook my middle daughter’s order of Belgian Waffles. I furiously marched right to the kitchen counter area and demanded to know who was in charge of waffles and whether there were any Belgians I could speak to directly. Luckily, I’m pretty sure the chef only spoke Spanish – at least she pretended to.

My point is that we all reach our limits occasionally and have outbursts that could very well result in a televised interview with Oprah. So when you encounter various Karens, say a prayer for them. And if you’re the object of a Karen’s Karening, try diffusing the situation with a “Yes, Ma’am, Sir, or what have you. It won’t happen again.” You might be surprised at the Karen’s reaction – and how much better you’ll feel.

And if that doesn’t work, feel free to whip out your cell phone and start recording.

–

Copyright 2021 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].

Holidays are a big deal at my house.

While raising our three daughters, my wife and I have thoroughly enjoyed Halloween costumes, visits from the Easter Bunny, and Valentine’s Day parties – and we even let the kids join in most of the time. Seriously, though, now that our girls are teenagers, some of the holiday magic might be slightly diminished, but we still try our best to get them excited about celebrating, usually by involving cash.

I think I inherited my enthusiasm for holidays from my parents. Some of the best times of my childhood were the grand Easter celebrations with my mom, dad and big brother – when he wasn’t sitting on my head. There were always Easter baskets full of candy and small toys that we managed to destroy by noon. Then we attended church together in our chocolate-soiled finery, followed by an Easter lunch featuring a delicious baked ham – since turkey is apparently on the cancel culture hit list every spring. And I still can’t catch a whiff of vinegar without reminiscing about dyeing boiled eggs (and our fingers) with those little PAAS tablets that look like miniature SweeTARTS (Warning! They don’t taste so good!)

One year, Easter fell on my birthday, and my mom threw me a huge bunny-themed party complete with jelly bean cupcakes and rabbit ears for everyone to wear. I can’t remember whether I turned four or fourteen that year, but Mom has threatened to post the photos on Facebook if I don’t behave.

I’ve always tried to carry on these traditions with my own children, but maintaining a festive atmosphere was especially difficult at last year’s Easter celebration that came shortly after the COVID-19 pandemic started raging. The girls were so grouchy about missing their friends and extended family that I seriously considered swapping out their Easter baskets with brand new laundry bins full of their unwashed bras and underwear. But I was determined to have fun, so the Easter Bunny came after all, followed by a homebound egg hunt, a worship service livestreamed over YouTube, and an Easter brunch – all while we were sporting pajamas and acute cases of bed head.

Despite our best efforts, though, the pall of the pandemic was tangible as we missed out on dinner with grandparents (and the ham), egg hunts with cousins, and fellowship with our church congregation. We still had Easter, and we celebrated the Resurrection, but it just wasn’t the same.

Of course, I realize that I’ve been spoiled throughout my life by parents who wanted to make all major holidays special and fun. And I know I’m guilty of the same with my own children. Easter is, after all, primarily a religious observance, and believers like us should keep the Resurrection at the forefront of our celebrating­ – even if we have a mouthful of Whoppers Robin Eggs while doing it.

We’re not sure what Easter will hold this year. The pandemic seems to be waning, but like that licorice jellybean my big brother spit up on his new, baby blue Easter suit when we were toddlers, the virus still lingers, threatening to tarnish it – if we let it.

Regardless of what happens, I choose to focus on the hope that Easter brings. Hope for the vaccines. Hope for reunited families. Hope for a new beginning. And if I play my cards right, hope for a massive baked ham at Easter lunch.

–

Copyright 2021 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].

My home state of Texas has recently become a national punching bag for politicians and pundits after Mother Nature gave the Lone Star State a giant frozen wedgie in the form of a week-long record winter storm that caused widespread suffering from power outages, water shortages and the closure of most Mexican restaurants.

Speaking of Mexican food, much of the problem stemmed from the failure of electrical utilities managed by an organization known as ERCOT, which is also a noise I sometimes make after I’ve had the Burrito Supreme Combo meal from Taco Bell. Apparently, the power grid couldn’t find its rarely-used long underwear in time to avoid the embarrassing ravages of lingering frigid temperatures usually restricted to more arctic regions – like Oklahoma.

And as CNN has gleefully made sure you’ve heard by now, Senator Ted Cruz inadvertently provided more ammo to Texaphobics by making a politically-damaging escape to Cancun with his family during the crisis, presumably to keep from going completely Jack Nicholson-bonkers as the lone representative of the dude gender trapped in the house with his wife and two pre-teen daughters.

As a father of three teenage girls myself, I must admit that after a few days of witnessing their boyfriend withdrawal symptoms and acute TikTokaholism, I caught myself fantasizing about stowing away in Ted’s carry-on luggage.

On the coldest night in my part of the state, the temperature reached an unprecedented -5°F (that’s Fahrenheit to readers not familiar with the biblical temperature scale). And although the good Lord spared my family from any real harm, we did experience frozen water lines to two sinks and one commode in my daughters’ bathroom, which meant that my own private restroom time was constantly at risk of interruption by a mob of pets (as usual) and various adolescent girl children.

Since the roads were iced over, and I don’t own a vehicle designed for navigating harsh terrain to retrieve a deer carcass, we were relegated to domestic pursuits­­­ – namely eating. Fortunately, I had joined the frantic hoards at Walmart in the days leading up to the storm, stocking up on necessities laden with carbs, artificial flavors, nitrates and other deliciousness.

In defiance of the freezing weather, we shamelessly indulged in comfort foods like chicken n’ dumplings, Fettuccine Alfredo, biscuits and gravy, Belgian waffles, and cheese enchiladas. Then we sat around the roaring fireplace will full tummies, enjoying our family time together and listening to the gentle sound of our arteries hardening.

Because we eventually ran out of milk and eggs (and we wanted to see what frostbitten nostrils feel like), my wife and middle daughter joined me on a treacherous trudge across the East Texas tundra to a nearby grocery store. What began as a diverting adventure soon turned sour, though, when we found the shelves empty of just about everything other than almond milk, Coke Zero and those giant clear plastic jars of cheese balls. To make matters worse, our daughter suddenly realized that we also had to walk back home, and there’s nothing crankier than a teenager walking uphill in the snow and ice with a shopping bag full of imitation dairy beverages.

Hardly a week after the extraordinary winter storm began, the melt was on – sending temperatures flirting with a humid and armpit-ravaging 80°F. Texas definitely took a somewhat understandable black-eye over its response to this once-in-a-generation weather event, sending the political posturing and investigations in full swing. But maintaining their usual sense of resiliency and exceptionalism, Texans pulled together in countless ways to help one another survive.

I thank God that I live in the USA – and especially Texas. It ain’t perfect, and there’s always room to improve, but anybody who has vacationed in Cancun (or anywhere else beyond state lines) will tell you, “There’s no place like home – even when it’s -5°F.”

–

Copyright 2021 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].