Cagle World

After watching the daily COVID-19 coverage on CNN, I’ve found that the best way to overcome lingering thoughts of depression, hopelessness, and Chris Cuomo is by going on a brisk walk around our neighborhood with my wife.

Not only do we get some exercise, but it also gives us a chance to vent about the worries and frustrations of living with three teenage daughters during a pandemic, which makes us feel depressed and hopeless again, but at least we’re exhausted and sweaty.

Really, though, I’m not sure how much actual exercise we get on these power strolls – other than when we’re assaulted by one of those invisible ninja spider webs and have a synchronized full-body cardio freak-out in the middle of the street. We then pray that nobody saw us and that the spider hasn’t set up housekeeping in our underwear.

Because we usually walk late in the evening, I often carry an old broom handle, both for protection and so that I can pretend like I’m Gandalf from “The Lord of the Rings.” You never know when you might have to face an orc, goblin, or the neighbor’s flesh-eating Chihuahua mix.

On a few of our walks, we’ve seen actual wildlife, and I don’t mean children on those electric scooters. No, I mean real woodland creatures not normally found frolicking around yard art and garage sales.

Recently while walking at night, we stumbled upon a large copperhead snake rippling across the warm pavement. After we shared a special moment together admiring its natural beauty – we both rushed back home for a fresh pair of Nike shorts.

As we were passing by our house on another evening walk, my wife spotted what appeared to be an obese housecat in need of a substance-abuse intervention waddling underneath my eldest daughter’s car. When I squatted down to identify the creature, I came eye-to-eye with a corpulent opossum huddling directly under the drain plug – and I couldn’t even talk him into doing a quick oil change.

Speaking of untamed animals, we always invite our daughters to join us on our walks. Usually, they respond by looking up at us from their cell phones as if we just asked them to crawl over hot shards of broken glass using only their lips and eyeballs. Occasionally, though, our middle daughter accompanies us and uses it as an opportunity to demonstrate that no matter how little exercise she gets on a daily basis, she can still make both of her parents look and feel like disabled Galapagos tortoises as she sprints up hills and runs in circles around us.

Even so, it gives us an opportunity to have some quality time visiting with her – until she announces that she is going to jog the rest of the way home because I’ve started asking questions about her current boyfriend – like whether or not she approves of his deodorant.

Over the past few months, I’ve really come to depend on these daily walks with my wife, and I think she enjoys them, as well. Eventually, I’ll probably wind up like one of those elderly dudes taking laps around the local shopping mall concourse in my nylon training suit, listing ever so slightly toward the Victoria’s Secret store when I pass by.

Until then, I’ll continue to hit the streets of our neighborhood so I can try to forget about COVID-19 for a while, breathe some fresh air, and entertain the neighbors when I walk through a spider web.

–

Copyright 2020 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].

If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it more times than my math skills will allow, “This school year is going to be like no other.”

No kidding! Don’t we spend every year wondering if our children are going to be attacked by gigantic murder hornets that are high from feasting on Chinese mystery seeds and using their enormous wings to waft a deadly virus up the students’ unsuspecting nostrils – l, eft unprotected because we can’t afford to buy face coverings due to the national coin shortage?

Okay, so I’m exaggerating. Nobody uses coins anymore – other than to operate the claw machine at the entrance to Walmart. But those other worries are legit, especially the mystery seeds thing. What could be more terrifying than receiving a small packet of seeds in the mail? A teen auto insurance statement, maybe?

No, really, what we all are worried about is whether the school year will survive the COVID-19 pandemic. After carefully assessing the risks and rewards, my wife and I chose to send our three teenage daughters to in-person learning at our local school district – mainly because our pets and Wi-Fi router threatened to boycott us if we didn’t start leaving the house on a regular basis again. Also, our daughters desperately missed the excitement of dragging out of bed each morning to get ready, complaining about how tired they are and asking how long it is until their next holiday.

In an attempt at some normalcy, we even made our annual school-shopping trip to the mall this year. Well, actually several malls – because one mall simply doesn’t have enough stores with big-ticket clothing items and accessories that I’ll be paying for until I’m excavated by paleontologists.

Due to COVID-19 store capacity limits, I stood in line for half an hour with my eldest and most expensive daughter for the privilege of entering a Lululemon store for a pair of plain black leggings that cost more than my last electric bill. (And my mom thought my totally rad 1980’s threads from Chess King were expensive!) My middle daughter’s school supplies included enough designer bracelets, designer earrings and designer necklaces to match each pair of her designer jeans and designer tennis shoes. Luckily, my youngest daughter’s requirements were simpler. She just needed one oversized hoodie for each day of the week. Apparently, her fashion goal is to look like a Benedictine monk from the Middle Ages.

As usual, we had to place online orders with trendy outdoor sporting goods retailers for the girls’ backpacks, each large enough for an extended hiking expedition in the Himalayas. And I won’t even get into the matching water canisters and lunch totes. (Whatever happened to a brown paper sack and a can of Coke wrapped in tinfoil?)

The most obvious difference to this year’s back to school experience has been the face masks. Students at our daughters’ school are required to wear face masks at all times, except when eating, exercising, or when nobody’s looking. Face masks do offer at least one ancillary advantage for teachers – they aren’t able to smell their students. This is especially beneficial in the junior high setting. A consolation for students is that the mask can double as a sort of secret feed bag for snacks like Cheez-Its (or those mystery seeds their parents got in the mail).

Occasionally, students at my daughters’ school are allowed to socially distance outside for a brief mask break. This is the one time in the day when the students can escape their own Cheez-It breath, and the teachers can sit in their classrooms and scream bloody-murder in peace.

Seriously, though, I do want to thank all of the teachers out there on the front lines providing a quality education for our students in these difficult circumstances. Without them, I’d be reliving the horror of homeschooling my daughters like I did back in the Dark Ages of last spring. If that happens again, I might be tempted to eat some of those mystery seeds myself – if our pets don’t get to them first.

–

Copyright 2020 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].

One of the precious few escapes from the soul-sucking stress of the COVID-19 pandemic has been bonding with our couches and sweatpants while watching scores of movies.

Whether we’re streaming one of Robert De Niro’s talented portrayals of characters who enjoy shooting people in the face, or dusting off our fossilized VHS players so that we can see the original, untainted Star Wars trilogy – before George Lucas tried to turn it into a digital effects-laden pile of Ewok manure – movies have a way of transporting us to galaxies and murder scenes far, far away

I know you are all bubbling with interest about my film-viewing habits, so here are a few of my favorites:

“The Shawshank Redemption”

Anytime I’m tempted to turn to a life of crime, a thorough viewing of “Shawshank” sets me on the straight and narrow path that won’t lead to crawling through 500 yards of prison sewage pipe. Even the prospect of becoming best friends with Morgan Freeman and reuniting on the beaches of Zihuatanejo doesn’t entice me to risk having to face a firehose shower in “the hole.” Even so, the last thirty minutes of “Shawshank” are some of the most inspiring of any film I’ve ever seen. (I still wonder if Andy Dufresne remembered to pack deodorant.)

“True Grit”- 2010

Yes, my father and most of my male relatives born before 1970 have probably considered disowning me for (among other reasons) suggesting that the Coen Brothers’ version of “True Grit” is superior to the 1969 film featuring “The Duke.” I’ve always been a sucker for the savage quirkiness of the Coens’ films, and even though I’m about as country and western as Bernie Sanders in a rhinestone-bespangled Nudie suit, I could watch a paunchy, one-eyed Jeff Bridges face off with Lucky Ned Pepper’s gang a thousand times. Seeing that film always inspires me to dust off my only handgun – a trusty .38 Special I have on loan from my dad – if I could remember where I put it.

“Moonrise Kingdom”

Speaking of quirky, Wes Anderson’s ochre-tinted films never fail to bring on the whimsy. I’m not certain why a coming-of-age story about a nerdy kid with glasses who fails at scouting, but still gets the girl, would appeal to me. Sure, as an adolescent, I wore a series of spazoid spectacles, I was in a constant state of hormonal distraction, and the highlight of my brief scouting career was when my fellow Cub Scouts and I convinced our den mother to take us on a tour of the local sewage treatment plant. Other than that, I just don’t see the connection.

“Nebraska”

It’s also hard to explain why I’m repeatedly drawn to this understated road film. It was produced in black and white, most of the characters are not particularly pleasant, the setting features the desolate landscapes of the American Midwest, and the story focuses on the dysfunctional relationship between an aimless middle-aged son and his confused, elderly father – basically the feel-good movie of 2013. Part of the film’s charm is that the “old folks” drive the development (and the humor) of the plot, and they are forces with which to be reckoned and, ultimately, taken seriously by the younger characters, which, as a parent of three teen daughters, gives me a faint bit of hope.

“The Revenant”

Watching this punishing depiction of 19th-century wilderness survival satisfies my deeply embedded (practically smothered) need to experience the great outdoors. No, I don’t have to camp, fish, hunt, hike or anything else that lacks central heat and air to appreciate the splendor of God’s creation. In the comfort of my own bathrobe (or my wife’s), I can witness Leonardo DiCaprio being mauled by a grizzly bear, taking shelter inside a fresh horse carcass, and gagging on a raw bison liver, which pretty much does it for me.

These are only a few of the worthy-of-repeated-viewing films on my list, and I may share more some other time – if you’re lucky. In the meantime, grab your favorite soft pants and escape to the world of movies, where you don’t need a face mask – but you may want to bring deodorant.

–

Copyright 2020 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].

Due to my flexible work schedule, I often run errands that are traditionally associated with the matriarch of the family­ – in other words, the mother/wife/supervisor/figure of maturity and common sense. Whether I’m shopping for bras or perusing the feminine hygiene aisles at Walmart wearing sunglasses, a full-coverage mask, and a hoodie, I’m frequently complimented by female shoppers and cashiers on what a “good dad” I am, and how lucky my wife and daughters are to have a sucker… I mean, a man like me around.

My most recent foray into the world of domestic retail took place at our local and recently re-opened Bed Bath & Beyond store, where I was deployed to purchase new bath linens for our three daughters. Although I thought their previous towels and washcloths were just getting “broke in good,” my wife assured me that the girls could no longer bathe and dry themselves without risk of strangulation from the holes, snags, and dangling hems – besides the fact that you could see through the material. Who knew girls could be so picky about something used to wipe down their armpits?

I actually enjoy shopping in Bed Bath & Beyond because the store smells so clean and makes me feel like I’m in a giant bathroom – the one place in my house where I can get some privacy from everyone except my daughters’ two doglets, who think that I require their assistance with any activity involving the commode.

Speaking of the commode, after a brief detour through an elaborate display of Poo-Pourri toilet sprays, the fun ended when I finally reached the towel section­. The variety of colors, thread counts and bun coverage was staggering, and I didn’t see anything that resembled the once light-bluish towel-like thingies the girls had been using and that presumably matched their bathroom décor.

I first had to choose from among ambiguously blue colors like Glacier, Cornflower, Fog, Seafoam, and Cloud. It was like looking at some newfangled box of crayons invented by a sadistic environmentalist.

Then I had to decide on an appropriate size of towel that would allow my daughters to envelop themselves like giant burritos (while shrieking) on the off-chance that I need to enter my own guest bathroom to fetch my nail clippers that someone had probably been using recently on a dog. The towels ranged in size from large enough to clean industrial mining equipment to roughly the dimensions of a Cheez-It.

I finally settled on acceptably soft, medium-sized towels in an almost-recognizable color called Denim Blue, which I was confident would be exactly the wrong thing.

One consolation of this shopping trip was that I came armed with an arsenal of coupons. My daughters always roll their eyes and say, “Ok, Boomer!” when I reach into the glove compartment and pull out my trusty gallon-sized Ziploc baggie bulging with mostly expired coupons. What they fail to realize is that these coupons allow me to imagine that I’m getting a great deal on boring, ancillary stuff like food and toiletries so that I can justify purchasing their life essentials like EarPods and UGG slippers. And Bed Bath & Beyond happily accepts multiple coupons for each transaction, expired or not, per company policy – or maybe they just feel sorry for me.

When I arrived home, I was surprised that my wife and daughters approved of my purchases. The only problem was that I was short about a dozen towels and washcloths – since apparently three teenage girls use enough bath linens on a daily basis to run their own limo-detailing service. This meant I had to make another trip to Bed Bath & Beyond, which was actually fine with me.

I still had enough expired coupons for the additional towels and washcloths, and while I was at it, I could grab the dogs and me a six-pack of Poo-Pourri.
–

Copyright 2020 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! The following column contains what some readers may consider to be objectionable (and absolutely accurate) gender stereotypes! Offended parties should try traveling on a long distance road trip with six female persons – five of whom are deep in the throes of hormone-inflicted teenagehood – and then grow a big, swollen, hairy sense of humor. (Actually, they might want to grow the humor tumor before traveling.)

My wife and I recently accepted this challenge on a trip to the beach with our three teenage daughters and two of their friends. We all needed a change of scenery from the COVID-19 crisis in our hometown so that we could experience it in someone else’s hometown. As the sole representative of the dude denomination in an SUV laboring under the strain of enough luggage and snacks to supply the next SpaceX mission, I couldn’t help but take a few notes-to-self for future forgetting.

First, when traveling with a group of mature, even-tempered young ladies, you should avoid trying to determine why they are constantly giggling. Giggling is apparently a complex linguistic tool used by groups of teen females to express an array of emotional responses to external stimuli, most of which emanate from a cell phone screen. If you dare to inquire about the exact source of their giggling, your query will be met by a few seconds of stunned silence, followed by an explosive burst of even more frenzied giggling. A suggestion by you that the giggling might be in any way related to the hairy-legged variety of teenage male will result in acute spasms of convulsive giggling that could require medical attention (for you and the gigglers). In other words, just try to ignore it – and good luck with that!

Another strategy to ensure a more harmonious environment among the travelers is to refrain from insisting that everyone listen to decent music on the vehicle’s sound system. For example, a high-quality 1980’s music playlist will evoke subtle groaning from most of the teenage passengers, followed by the insertion of expensive wireless earbuds that will allow them to ignore your pleas that everyone join in on a rousing chorus of “Rock Me Amadeus.” Instead, it’s just best to open your musical horizons to the vapid refrains of current teen heartthrobs like Harry Styles, The Weekend, Shawn Mendes and something called Marshmello. Allowing the teens to control the music will make them more content and responsive, but you may have to resist flinging yourself out of the moving vehicle.

Along with enduring their insufferable music and chronic tittering, travelers with teen girls must prepare themselves for the incessant distraction of self-photography. In addition to abusing their iPhone SIM cards and risking lip sprains from making duck faces, fish gapes and model pouts, teen travelers also take reams of mini “Polaroids” and occasionally break out 35mm digital cameras that cost me more than their orthodontic work. They usually reserve group photo sessions to memorialize special occasions – like gas station restroom stops.

And speaking of restroom stops, there are few things more humiliating than being the only male in the car and requiring the men’s room while all six ladies could happily go another 100 miles before they have to “go.” Despite trying to limit my intake of Diet Dr Pepper to a gallon or so per trip, I always seem to be the one sprinting into a filthy convenience store for a bathroom break and then fighting the urge to purchase their entire display of jumbo pecan logs.

Once we reached our destination, we had a great time vacationing together, and I’m glad the girls could enjoy an escape from the stress of the COVID-19 pandemic for a few days of rest and relaxation – even if they did have to cover their duck faces with a mask. I’m also proud to say that I didn’t buy a single pecan log for the entire trip and made it home with my humor tumor a little bruised, but safely intact.

–

Copyright 2020 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 cases of COVID-19 on the rise in the state of Texas, and Halloween just around the corner, Gov. Greg Abbott recently signed an executive order requiring the wearing of masks in public. Exceptions to the order include Texans under 10 years of age (probably the demographic that would most enjoy wearing a disguise to town), patrons eating in restaurants, swimmers and anyone lacking ears.

Speaking of restaurants, this new order has caused a level of strident debate in the Lone Star State not seen since Texans flipped their lids over the purchase of the iconic Whataburger fast food chain by a Chicago investment firm threatening to replace the Honey BBQ Chicken Strip Sandwich with a Deep-Dish Italian Beef and Hot Dog Whatapizza.

While I’m still not sure how I feel about Abbott’s order after all of the money I’ve spent on whitening toothpaste and nose hair trimmers, it has inspired me to reflect on the defining moments of mask-wearing throughout my life.

Some of my earliest memories involved those sadistic 1970’s molded-plastic Halloween masks – the ones that could make your face sweat in the Arctic and lacerated your tongue when you couldn’t resist trying to force it through the breathing hole.

I dressed up as Frankenstein one year, and along with the vinyl face-sauna, I had a little tube of green “blood” – because everyone knows that Mary Shelley’s creature was part Vulcan. On another Halloween, I chose a Tusken Raider/Sand Person mask from the first Star Wars movie. My mother even made me an authentic cloak to perfect the look and solidify my reputation as a hopeless nerd. Despite our efforts, though, most people didn’t recognize my costume and thought I was dressed as a deformed walrus with severe tooth decay.

When I entered my teen years in the early 1980’s, my masks (and my hygiene practices) became more elaborate and grotesque. I remember blowing my allowance one year on a highly-detailed rubber skull mask I found at Spencer’s in the mall. The mask was the perfect complement to my Members Only jacket and nylon Bugle Boy parachute pants. Michael Jackson’s macabre “Thriller” music video was all the rage at the time, and I was sure that my fashion medley, combined with a playfully frightful disguise, would be irresistible to the ladies. Instead, they just found me frightful, and I nursed my wounded pride by using the mask to scare the younger neighborhood kids when I answered the front door. I only got punched in the gut a few times.

My most memorable masked incident as an adult happened when I was newly married, and my wife and I were house-sitting for some friends of my parents. It was bedtime, and I had discovered a rubber “old man” mask (complete with wig) while rummaging… I mean walking past an open closet. My wife had gone to the bathroom, so I slipped out of bed and met her at the bathroom door wearing nothing but the mask and a pair of boxer briefs. Instead of screaming or running, she just froze in terrified silence and started crying, eliciting a torrent of desperate apologies from me. (She still has the same reaction to seeing me in my underwear – and I still feel the need to apologize.)

Now that I’m a mature adult and rarely dress up like Star Wars characters or elderly exhibitionists, the prospect of wearing a mask to Walmart or the church house isn’t too appealing. But I say let’s have fun with it. Try painting a set of hillbilly teeth on your mask, or one of those curly mustaches you’ve always wanted to grow but were afraid it wouldn’t look right with your favorite shade of lipstick.

Yes, I realize that face coverings make you look like Hannibal Lecter and sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher when you talk. But at least you can take comfort in knowing you’re allowed to remove your mask when you sit down to eat your Chicago-style Whataburger.

–

Copyright 2020 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, I visited my local gym for the first time after snacking-in-place for over two months. It was like going to see an annoying former friend – out of guilt. I’ve always had a tolerate-hate relationship with working out. I hate spending my time sweating and hyperventilating when I could be lounging in my recliner while watching reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show.” Then again, health-experts tell us that regular exercise can literally add minutes to our eventual time in hospice.

In my desire to remain a source of irritation to my wife and three daughters for as long as possible, I’ve developed an exercise routine at the gym that is almost bearable.

First, I’ve found that it’s important to wear proper athletic attire, which, for me, means looking like Barney Fife at an NBA tryout. The long Nike basketball shorts disguise the fact that I usually skip “leg day,” and the tank top ensures that other patrons can thoroughly evaluate the effectiveness of my deodorant. As an added bonus, a protective COVID-19 face mask hides my identity and cuts down on the public humiliation factor. I also wear a pair of workout gloves so that I can get a better grip on the exit door handle.

I usually begin my workout with some intense cardio on a stairmaster/elliptical-type thingy that mimics the sensation of wishing there was an escalator nearby. Although I realize I need to keep my body moving, I still think these machines should include some kind of head rest, preferably with memory foam. I try to stay motivated on the cardio equipment by listening to some inspirational workout music by Van Halen. My playlist includes songs like “Ice Cream Man,” “Poundcake,” and “Somebody Get Me a Doctor.”

Once my legs feel like overcooked fettuccine and I’ve worked up enough of a sweat to gross myself out, I head to the weight-training area. Before I had children and looked a little less like Steve Buscemi, I would march confidently over to the free-weights to pump some iron and sometimes pull my groin. But now that my days of chugging protein powder and popping my pecs are over, I rely on the weight machines that are less likely to crush my esophagus.

The feature I appreciate most about these contraptions is that they are heavily padded to the point of being almost comfortable. In fact, I sometimes doze off on one of the machines and have to be awakened by someone’s grandmother who needs me to move so she can increase the weight and get her swole on.

I usually conclude my workout by doing a few abdominal crunches in my ongoing and fruitless effort to develop a six pack. If I push down hard enough on my abdomen with my fingers, I can sort of feel the six pack, but it seems to be stored in one of those insulated cooler bags – for freshness, I guess. Mainly, these exercises just make me need to go to the men’s room on my way out of the gym.

Although exercising is almost as punishing as taking my three teenage daughters to shop for cosmetics, I know it’s good for me, and I’m glad to be back in the gym wishing I were somewhere else. If you haven’t started your own post-quarantine workout routine, I encourage you to visit your local fitness center. And if you aren’t into the whole exercise thing, you can always slip into a weight machine and take a nap.

–

Copyright 2020 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, we’ve been hearing a lot about the possible demise of shopping malls in America­, and in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic, the situation seems particularly dire – especially for us nostalgic dweebs of the 1980’s who depended on malls for our embarrassing fashion choices and futile dating rituals. Well, I say it’s time to take a stand, and I’m proud that my three daughters (and my Visa card) are doing everything in their power to keep malls alive and me in debt.

I’ve given up trying to keep track of my two older daughters in the numerous malls we visit. I feel like I’ve done my job if I can just avoid an Amber Alert. My youngest daughter, though, still likes to accompany me – and sometimes sweetly asks if she can hold hands with my wallet.

Architects design malls to wear down impatient dads until they are willing to hand over their cash as long as they can sit down. Malls require extensive walking, punctuated by extensive standing, interrupted by extensive on-the-spot decision-making, eventually ending in defeated slouching on a bench in the mall concourse and blankly staring at other shoppers in a shameful spectacle of full-blown creepiness. Until then, there are the inevitable visits to the following establishments whose sole purpose is to render me bankrupt.

Claire’s

In a store roughly the size of a shower stall, Claire’s sells jewelry, purses, hair accessories, toys, make-up, and other dad-repellent. In fact, I’m pretty sure that men aren’t technically allowed to go in there. There is no seating whatsoever in Claire’s so that fathers will eventually bribe their daughters to make it quick – in exchange for purchasing the entire inventory of PopSockets. Another clever marketing strategy of Claire’s is for the clerk to hand each child a personal shopping basket, suggesting that she is in full charge of all buying decisions – which she is – if she will just hurry up. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch the blood-curdling screams of a toddler having her lobes impaled with a nail gun at the ear-piercing station. Claire’s is torture for dads, literally.

Justice

Justice wins the award for the store with the most ironic name. At this (mainly) clothing store for tween girls, you can purchase a “t-shirt” the size of a Band-Aid for 30% percent off the original price of $200. All the clothing in Justice is the same­­ – neon and doused with glitter. When you buy a shirt at Justice, you’re also required to purchase the matching cardigan, undershirt, tank top, sports bra, and so on. While Mom is assisting in the dressing room, I’m often sent to select some underwear (and they don’t even carry my size). I try to avoid eye contact with other shoppers (99.9999% of whom are female) as I stand at the panty display rummaging through the “boyshorts.” There simply is no justice for dads at Justice.

Bath & Body Works

This is one of my favorite stores in the mall, mainly because it usually smells like food. While my daughters shop for lotions, creams, washes, oils, scrubs, and other concoctions that require me to purchase at least ten items to “save” money, I head for the candle section where I can inhale in peace. I open jar after jar, ignoring the awkward stares of fellow shoppers while I close my eyes and savor the aroma of freshly-baked nothingness.

Great American Cookies

Speaking of baked goods, even the alluring scent of Great American Cookies wafting throughout the mall contains carbohydrates. Occasionally, I purchase an entire cookie cake from this marvelous establishment. (I sometimes get something for my wife and daughters, too.) Anyone who thinks America isn’t great hasn’t tried Great American Cookies.

I encourage all of you to visit a local shopping mall with your family in the near future. Sure, it’s exhausting. Sure, it’s expensive. Sure, it’ll push you to the brink of insanity. But these businesses need our support now more than ever. Besides, they provide an opportunity for hours of quality family time, and you just might survive if you can find a place to sit.

–

Copyright 2020 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].

I don’t know about you, but the next time I hear someone refer to the “new normal,” I think I might scream into my middle daughter’s unacceptable new bikini bottoms that I plan to confiscate and turn into a coronavirus face mask. If adjusting my daily activities according to COVID-19 protocol is now the norm, I’m ready to declare myself an official freakazoid, which is how most people (especially my family members) see me, anyway.

I just can’t accept this way of life, and I’m not gonna take it anymore – unless the government, medical professionals, the local Walmart manager and my wife tell me to. I now invite you to commiserate with me about various aspects of life that have gotten on my first, middle and last nerve.

Speaking of the Walmart manager, I’m not sure I can tolerate another shopping trip for my three daughters’ nutritional requirements – like tater tots, cocktail wieners and Reddi-wip. I’ve been to the local Walmart so many times over the past two months that I recently dreamed I had to fight off an attempt by the manager to fit me with one of those “Proud Associate” vests.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I truly appreciate all of my local grocery stores and their employees standing in the gap for us during this pandemic. I’ve actually wandered the aisles (in the wrong direction) with tears of gratitude in my eyes while embracing an 18-pack of Angel Soft Mega Rolls. It’s just that I don’t think I can stand any more humiliation when my ration of ramen noodles won’t scan properly at the self-checkout counter and the “customer needs assistance” light of shame starts blinking again.

When I’m not instigating mass eye rolling among my fellow Walmart peeps, I’m usually going wackadoodle-in-place at home. I’m tired of my house, and I’m worried that I’m wearing it out, especially the plumbing. I’m not sure my home ever intended for me to occupy it this much. We now have a permanent hiking trail in the flooring from my bed, to the refrigerator, to my recliner, and to the bathroom. You’d think with all of that exercise, I would’ve lost weight by now. Instead, I’m blaming my added pounds on uncontrolled hair growth, which has transformed my formerly stylish coiffure into one of those Russian ushanka-hats. (If you read my previous column, Hank says, “Hi!”)

I guess I can be thankful that I’m not spending all of this time in my house alone, but I’m pretty sure our pets wish they were. It’s a sad day when your dogs treat you like you’re intruding on their “me time.” Yes, these same creatures used to greet me at the door as if my wardrobe was made entirely of Oscar Mayer products. Now they treat me like that distant relative with bad breath your parents used to force you to hug when you were little. Maybe the pets are acting this way because I’ve spent part of quarantine practicing my dog-grooming skills. But despite their poor attitudes, I’m happy to say they still have most of their appendages.

Finally, (and I can’t believe I’m saying this) I’m tired of dressing like I’m always taking a short break between naps – which I am. I’m not even sure I can operate a zipper correctly anymore, and a button fly is completely out of the question. I remember when I used to savor every moment lounging in a pair of sweatpants, pajamas, or Nike shorts. Now, I’m just praying for the day when I’ll have to squeeze into my khakis, navigate a complex network of belt loops, and wear a nipple-chafing dress shirt again. Ah, the good ol’ days of uncomfortable office attire!

With America starting to open up, I’m hopeful that life will soon return to its pre-corona monotony – and we can resume being terrified of other global threats like climate change, vaping, and cauliflower pizza.

Until then, I guess we’ll all have to deal with the “new normal,” and so will my two dogs – if I can get them to hold still.

–

Copyright 2020 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 high time Americans accept a first-world side effect of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I don’t mean those blasted directional floor stickers I can’t navigate in the aisles at Walmart. No, I’m referring to male-pattern corona hair.

At the risk of sounding like a narrow-minded, shortsighted, male chauvinist invasive feral swine, the closure of hair salons during the COVID-19 pandemic has been a source of anxiety mainly for the fairer sex. (Dang! There I go again!) But for men with profuse scalp shrubbery like mine, the angst has been every bit as severe.

Unlike the barren belfries of my fellow kind-of-getting-oldish dudes whose follicles have long since been liberated, my melon is still at maximum occupancy. But rather than following the example of Brad Pitt’s or Keanu Reeves’ studular locks, my dome loaf refuses to grow in a stylish downward trajectory. Instead, it’s as if my hair is constantly turned on – and refuses to be cool about it. Not only that, but it expands at a rate that makes my friends suspect I’m on a Rogaine IV drip.

Normally, I discipline my unruly shag by visiting the salon for a good hedge trimming once every two weeks. But I haven’t had my hair “did” since Dr. Fauci and the Curve Flatteners started rockin’ the house. So now I basically have a rabid wolverine sheltering in place on my skull. And no amount of Consort Extra Hold spray can tame this savage beast.

Some of you might be wondering why I haven’t asked my wife or one of my three daughters to get out the pruning shears and give me a homemade hack job. But based on my behavior for the past thirty years, I’m reluctant to invite any of them to wield a sharp-edged instrument within the vicinity of my face and neck.

There’s also the option of just shaving it all off, but my baldscape would probably resemble the rugged lunar surface due to an unfortunate physical altercation I had with my big brother over the TV remote when I was in high school – while he was wearing his unnecessarily massive class ring. (That’s what I blame it on, anyway­­ – to make him feel guilty – which he doesn’t.)

Besides, my untamed pelt has kind of grown on me – literally. Sure, it doesn’t flow gracefully in the breeze like soft corn silk, but I’ve gotten used to the way it undulates atop my coconut like a luscious meringue when I walk.

Because my hair has developed a personality of its own, I’ve decided to call it Hank. I’m not sure why. It just seems like a Hank.

You may have heard that in my home state of Texas, the governor has allowed salons and barbershops to re-open in an attempt to make his constituents look less like a huge tribe of Wookies. My own stylist, however, is waiting a bit longer before she resumes taking appointments. She told me she needs more time to evaluate the COVID-19 situation in our area, but I think she’s just afraid to face Hank.

And I don’t blame her. Hank can be a little scary until you get used to him. Recently, Hank woke me up in the middle of the night, startling me out of my sleep as he explored my ear canals. In my hazy dream state, I was afraid there might have been a colony of murder hornets nesting in my aural cavities, but then I realized it was just Hank. And I felt oddly comforted – like an old friend was tickling my lobules. (Weird-I know.)

So for now, I’ll try to enjoy the time I have left with Hank, watching him grow up – and out. Who knows? Maybe I’ll keep Hank, or at least a version of him. But probably not. My head is hot and heavy. My neck hurts.

At some point, I’ll have to give Hank his freedom. He is a wild animal, after all. (At least he looks, acts and sometimes smells like one.)

Until then, I’ll give Hank the same words of encouragement I’ll give you.

“We’re all in this together!”

–

Copyright 2020 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].