Cagle World

Ever since our local mayor issued a COVID-19 shelter-in-place-and-go-completely-cocoa bananas order, my family and I have found ourselves cooking more than we have for our entire lives. We’ve even been following recipes and using the actual stove/oven thingy, much to the relief of our exhaustipated microwave. And considering the Mad Max-wasteland conditions in the “cooking-stuff-from-scratch” aisle at Walmart, we aren’t the only ones.

It all started on the first night of quarantine when we all got tired of sitting around and staring at our iPhones while drooling into our belly buttons. We decided it was time to lift our spirits and get some exercise by making a batch of homemade Nestlé Tollhouse cookies – minus the nuts, since my three daughters didn’t want to ruin the experience by including something natural and healthy.

Because these were the first cookies we had made in a while that didn’t start out in a refrigerated tube, we had to locate the ingredients. After rifling through the bowels of our pantry, we found some prehistoric flour, Crisco, baking soda and vanilla extract – the remnants of a sad attempt at making Christmas cookies a few months ago. I’m not sure whether any of it was expired, but it didn’t stink or fight back, so I assumed it was ok.

We had plenty of chocolate morsels­ – thanks to my middle daughter regularly adding them to the grocery list so she can hide in a closet with a bag of morsels larger than her head, a serving spoon, and a jar of creamy Jif to binge on her own twisted version of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. (Ok, that’s me, but I’m pretty sure she does it, too.)

The cookies were delicious, including the ones that we actually baked. And we’re hoping to get all of the flour out of our clothes and hair before school starts next fall. The cookies were so addictive, in fact, that we’ve had to resist making them too often and have managed to cut it down to a couple of batches per day.

After we had rocked the Nestle Tollhouse, I decided to try my hand at the deep magic of Grandma’s old-fashioned pound cake. I never really understood why it’s called “pound cake” until I saw that the recipe calls for enough ingredients to support the American farming industry for the foreseeable future. I actually felt guilty while I was cracking the required number of eggs, like I was back in junior high vandalizing somebody’s front windows – not that I ever did that – not even to that cute girl who wouldn’t go to the movies with me to watch “Meatballs Part 2.”

Despite following the recipe right down to the last shipping container of pure cane sugar, my pound cake clung to the Bundt pan like that infernal “Dance Monkey” song that’s been stuck in my melon for the past three weeks. We tried everything to get the cake to turn loose – steaming it, freezing it, threatening to make it watch Joe Exotic’s music videos. Nothing worked.

Finally, I just gave up and gouged out the cake in chunks, until I wound up with a heap of freshly-baked wreckage. I was so disappointed in the disgraceful presentation that I could only bring myself to eat three servings that night after supper.

Despite a few mishaps, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed regularly trashing the kitchen with my wife and daughters to get my mind off the COVID-19 crisis. There’s just something about sitting around a table loaded down with dangerous levels of homemade carbohydrates that brings a family closer together. And even though I still can’t call myself the Rembrandt of baked goods, at least I can pretend to be Mad Max when I go to Walmart for more Crisco.

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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].

After careful consideration and prayer, my wife and I decided against homeschooling our three daughters when they reached school age, mainly because we recognize our pedagogical limitations­ – and we value our mental health.

How ironic, then, that in the face of the COVID-19 pandemic, we have joined scores of other American parents violently thrust into the math-eat-dad world of homeschooling! And we stand about as much chance of survival as the last four-pack of Ultra Soft Charmin on a Sunday afternoon at Walmart.

Because my wife is considered an “essential worker,” I’ve taken on the role of the nerdy homeschool vice-principal nobody takes seriously. Fortunately, my two older daughters are fairly independent in their schoolwork and only require my assistance when they need to place an Amazon Prime order for important educational supplies like pink hair dye or designer AirPod cases.

My youngest daughter, on the other hand, has the academic enthusiasm of a heavily salted slug. The problem isn’t that she lacks intelligence, creativity, and extreme cuteness. It’s just that she’d rather suffer a third-degree sunburn from the glare off her iPad screen than reduce fractions. Not only that, but getting her out of bed in the morning is like getting Ragú stains out of Tupperware.

Through a process of trial and comedy of errors, I’ve discovered a few strategies to make the homeschooling process no more painful than picking your nose with a hot glue gun.

First, as qualified educators are utilizing video conferencing tools like Zoom and GoToMeeting to communicate with their homebound students, it’s important for parents to assist their children by stifling curse words while frantically clicking various links and buttons on the computer in a futile effort to get their children in the correct video class on time. Because the camera on the laptop will unexpectedly activate during the random button-clicking process, it’s also critical that the belt on the supportive parent’s bathrobe is tightly secured at all times. (What’s the fine for indecent exposure these days, by the way? Asking for a friend.)

Next, amid the grueling schedule of classes, it’s important to take breaks and re-energize with refreshments. My youngest daughter’s preferred activity during these pauses is dragging out her Easy-Bake Oven for old times’ sake and making the kitchen look like she’s been cooking Thanksgiving dinner for the Green Bay Packers. I try to stay out of her way during this activity, only interrupting occasionally to demonstrate proper utensil-licking techniques. I then have her practice with fractions and proportions, dividing the finished pastries between the two of us according to body weight.

Speaking of mathematics, I’ve found it useful to sit in on some of my daughter’s lessons. This has allowed me to brush up on the geometry skills I should have learned in sixth-grade when I was busy deciding whether to break wind or belch in order to attract the attention of the cute girl two desks up from me. (My daughter would tell you that things apparently haven’t changed much.)

I must admit that there have been some meltdowns and tears in this homeschooling process – but my daughter can usually calm me down after a few hours. And despite the academic frustrations and belly aches from too many miniature whoopee pies, it has been an opportunity for me to spend some precious time with my children.

More than anything, this experience has increased my appreciation for the incredibly important and difficult work of our public, private and homeschooling educators. So the next time you see a teacher, offer your heartfelt thanks with a four-pack of Ultra Soft Charmin.

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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].

As we adjust our daily schedules to the reality of the COVID-19 pandemic, many families are suffering from acute boredom.

Students are suspending their homeschool teachers without pay for excessive grouchiness, children are traumatizing their pets by repeatedly dressing them in Superman and ballerina outfits, and adults are resorting to binge-watching Tiger King on Netflix­ – again. One necessary diversion from this “new normal” is a trip to the supermarket, which has transformed from a mundane activity into a full-contact version of Guy’s Grocery Games.

What follows are a few tips for shoppers hoping to survive this ordeal and make it home with enough supplies to avoid another day of gorging on Little Debbie products and then ordering Taco Bell.

First, parents of teenagers should resist sending them to do the grocery shopping. My wife and I made this mistake when we grew tired of all the chronically dramatic sighing and dispatched our two eldest daughters to Target for a few staple items. You can imagine how relieved we were when they arrived back home with a four-pack of canned Starbucks Double Shot Espresso, a family size bag of salt and vinegar potato chips, and three pints of Bluebell cookie dough ice cream. Thank goodness they remembered the essentials.

Before you leave on your shopping trip, it’s important to wear the proper attire. If you’re like me, you’ve been spending your entire shelter-in-place period sporting pants that feature a drawstring. Naturally, you’ll want to dress a bit more formally out in public, unless you’re planning to brave the hordes at Walmart – where pajamas are the norm and pants are optional. Also, be sure to wear something you can strip off immediately and disinfect upon your arrival home. Your spouse’s bathrobe or a full-body Chewbacca costume should do the trick.

Next, if you have delusions of finding the supermarket well-supplied with luxury items like bread or milk, put those fanciful thoughts aside. Instead, we all need to become acquainted with the wonderful world of semi-fresh produce, which always seems to be fully in stock. Sure, fruits and vegetables don’t have trans-fats, sodium nitrate, and all the other wonderful things we love about processed foods, but at least they lack flavor. And it’s high time that Americans start following the American government’s official dietary guidelines, which remind us to avoid ingesting anything that tastes good. So try to forget about your favorite bagels, and pretend that cauliflower is actually edible.

Finally, it’s important to practice good hygiene and social distancing while wistfully wandering through empty aisles that were packed with Ultra Soft Charmin, Lysol spray and ramen noodles back in the good ol’ days of late February. Patience is key as you wait in line for the complimentary hand sanitizer at the store’s entrance while the lady in front of you attempts to use it as a therapeutic body mask. Speaking of hand sanitizer, if you have trouble judging whether you’re at least six feet away from other shoppers, just remember that if you can smell their Purell, you’re too close. And you really have to put on the social brakes when you reach the liquor aisle and see all of your fellow homeschool faculty members.

When you arrive home to restock your pantry with whatever the grocery store had left, like unsalted peanut butter, the odd eggplant and other stuff you’ll only serve once you’ve devoured all of your houseplants, remember that past generations have survived much worse – like leisure suits and disco.

If we all stand together – at six feet apart – we can get through this, especially with some help from Little Debbie and Taco Bell.

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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 addition to the truly grave aspects of the COVID-19 pandemic, a first-world problem that parents all over America are facing – along with looking for a creative and non-abrasive substitute for toilet paper – is how to keep their children wholesomely occupied while schools are closed. This can be especially challenging for parents already in a constant struggle to keep their adolescent offspring from becoming permanently grafted onto their smartphones.

In an effort to encourage my three teen daughters to use their unexpected break from school as a time for personal growth (and cheap labor), I’ve developed a list of activities that I hope will benefit the entire family and society as a whole.

First, as referenced above, finding toilet paper has become more difficult than an adult listening to an entire Billie Eilish song without wondering if something might be terribly wrong with the speakers. (Yes, I know she’s rich, and yes, I’m just jealous.)

Why not combine arts and crafts with personal hygiene? I’m thinking of having my children weave bathroom tissue from common household objects – like the fuzz under our couch cushions, pet hair plucked from my black dress pants, and a stockpile of our dryer and belly button lint. Just think of how rewarding it will be when your children clean themselves with something that they’ve crafted with their own hands – while you save the store-bought stuff for yourself.

Next, it’s important to teach our children compassion by checking on elderly neighbors during times of crisis to be sure they are safe, well supplied and sufficiently annoyed by people checking on them. If you do take your children to visit a nearby senior citizen, be sure to practice social distancing by remaining at least six feet away so that your neighbor is more likely to miss when they throw a can of hominy at you and tell you to get off their porch. And if you notice a lonely senior trying to survive without a sufficient number of bored and whiny teenagers around, offer to keep them company by having yours camp in their back yard for the next month.

Speaking of the back yard, with the arrival of spring, it’s time to get the lawn into shape, which for my family involves cleaning up after our two dogs, who have spent the winter transforming my property into a corporate feed lot. With Easter just around the corner, you can give your teens a chance to relive their childhoods by brushing up on their egg-hunting skills – only these eggs ain’t brightly colored or filled with Skittles. Armed with rubber gloves, an old sock, or receipts from Starbucks, the kids will have a blast gathering puppy grenades that otherwise will most certainly wind up lodged in the treads of my favorite sneakers. Heck, you could even make it a contest! The teen with the most “eggs” wins a free squirt of hand sanitizer!

These are strange and unsettling times in which we are living, working, and praying for more Lysol. Family members must do all they can to keep one another and our fellow citizens safe and healthy during this global pandemic. Until the crisis ends, my family is willing to step up and help by limiting our social interactions, checking on our elderly relatives and neighbors, and washing our hands thoroughly – especially after collecting our belly button lint.

Hang tough, be well, and God bless!

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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 turn the “big 5-0” this year, which means I’m at imminent risk of slipping into a midlife crisis.

Some of my friends and fellow AARP invitees are already deep in the throes of “manopause” and have become objects of pity and ridicule – and not just from their wives. I plan to avoid that sad fate, which all too often goes viral on social media, and be prepared when my crisis hits – or bursts from my chest cavity, grows into a hideous alien creature with hair implants, and tries to destroy my dignity and bank account.

My main strategy for defending myself against doing anything that I can’t afford, or for which there is no effective ointment, is to recognize and reject the traps that ensnare many men approaching their “best-if-used-by” date.

First, I am resolved to avoid purchasing any motorized products (or related accessories) from the Harley-Davidson Corporation. These include additions to my wardrobe, like stars-and-stripes bandanas, embroidered vests, or – heaven forbid – leather chaps. Now, I realize that Harley-Davidson is a fine American company deserving of support, but that support should come from men who look more like the dudes from ZZ Top, and less like escapees from a junior high school faculty meeting. Besides, I never really mastered riding my ten-speed Schwinn, so I’m thinking my Softail Fat Boy ship has sailed.

Next, I am determined to refrain from acquiring any permanent or semi-permanent body art. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against folks with tattoos, piercings, brandings, plugs, drains, downspouts, or BeDazzlings. At my age, though, I have to assume that any decorative addition to my epidermis will soon begin a precipitous descent to an unintended area of my body. As the years go by, I’d rather not be tripping over my nipple barbells or trying to explain why I have tattoos of my daughters’ faces between my toes.

So far, I’ve been able to resist selling my spare organs so I can afford to invest in a regimen of anti-aging and male-enhancement products. I admit that I had hoped I would age naturally into a well-seasoned state of rugged handsomeness. Instead, as each day goes by, it becomes more clear that no amount of testosterone supplements, face polish, or belly bras are going to keep me from eventually being mistaken for a pile of unfolded laundry.

As for male enhancement, if I want to enhance my maleness, I’ll go hang out in a Bass Pro Shops store somewhere and pretend I’m interested in something other than the giant aquarium and the selection of colon-combusting hot sauces in the gift shop.

Finally, I refuse to fall victim to the allure of a young, nubile female person looking for a sugar daddy. Not only would this violate my moral code, but I’m pretty sure my wife wouldn’t allow it. And as a father of three teenage daughters, all of my sugar has long since been consumed by orthodontist bills, car insurance premiums, and unlimited wireless data plans. In other words, this daddy is now sugar-free and binging on the artificial sweetener of credit card debt.

Some say the whole idea of a midlife crisis is just a myth perpetuated by our self-obsessed society – and the Russians. At any rate, if it comes after me and I can’t outrun it, I can always break out my ten-speed Schwinn.

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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].

On a recent frigid day in February as I was entering Target to defrost my nose hairs and purchase a designer toilet brush, I noticed that they already had an array of skimpy women’s swimsuits on display, which dredged up some disturbing memories for me.

If you’ve ever wondered how awkward it might be taking adolescent daughters shopping for swimwear, imagine that you’re taking adolescent daughters shopping for swimwear. That should do it. For fathers of girl children all over the world, except maybe in Saudi Arabia, bathing suit shopping is a task that ranks right up there with taking an armload of feral cats down a waterslide.

For me, this harrowing event with all three of my daughters took place a couple of years ago on a Sunday afternoon in March, ALL Sunday afternoon. When we hit Target’s swimwear section, I first noticed that each suit was designed to reveal everything except one shoulder blade. I actually thought we might have strayed into the first aid section and were looking at a new line of colorful ACE bandages.

I’ve never understood the apparent gender bias of swimwear. Bathing suits for males typically look like long gym shorts, and most of the girls’ suits I was looking at would have made J-Lo blush. Whatever happened to those nineteenth-century bathing machines that were rolled down to the water so that no one could get a glimpse of female skin? I guess Target has something against history.

My main criteria was that any suit we purchased exposed only enough anatomy to allow for the intake of oxygen. Eyesight and hearing would be optional.

Surrounded by bikinis, tankinis, monokinis, and other suits with important segments missing, I was in a constant state of paranoia about being tackled by security, struck with a purse, or spotted by someone from church while I held each suit up to the light to determine whether I could see through the fabric.

After gathering a few unlikely options, the next phase of the ordeal involved my daughters’ attempts to wedge their bodies into these perforated sausage casings in the dressing room. My task would be to evaluate each suit modeled by one of my daughters and, inevitably, return to the swimwear section (exactly one mile from the dressing room) to look for something with more coverage.

Each time I returned to the dressing room, I first had to knock on the door and identify myself, which always resulted in screams and giggling–and not just from me. Then the girls would castigate me for opening the door too widely. When I managed to squeeze into the dressing room through an opening almost large enough for my left earlobe, the real agony began.

The room looked like the aftermath of an Olympic Swim Team slumber party. As the girls modeled the suits, my wife had them squat, stoop, and contort themselves into various unnatural poses while I made rude gas noises to lighten the mood. The girls would then disdainfully order me back out of the dressing room (to my great relief) and tell me to look for another size, color, shape, style, texture, etc. Apparently, they weren’t open to something made of burlap.

Eventually, my wife and I were able to find a few fairly modest swimsuits that I could tolerate (once I’m dead). And the process was no more painful than having a chimpanzee remove my spleen with a popsicle stick.

These days, our swimsuit approval process is done mostly through text message since I’ve now been banned from participating in-person. (Thank the sweet and merciful Lord!) And despite my ongoing disappointment that their bathing attire choices don’t more closely resemble hazmat gear, I really am proud of the mature young ladies my girls have grown to be.

I trust that their maturity will show itself again when I surprise them with my plans to move us all to the Middle East. Burkinis, anyone?

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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].

Like many Americans allergic to adulting, I often zone out on Facebook when I should be doing something more useful – like scooping the litter box or lecturing my children about the dangers of social media. Inevitably, I come across one of those surveys posted by Facebook users who are probably planning to hack into my account and steal my pet selfies.

I recently saw a survey that asks you to identify various rock concerts you’ve attended, and since my teen years were in the 1980’s, attending rock concerts was a rite of passage that ranked right up there with cursing at your Rubik’s Cube and sporting your first fuzzstache.

So hold on to your Hacky Sack, and let’s do this!

First Concert

In August of 1985, a friend’s parents dropped off two of my fellow fifteen-year-old nerdlings and me at the legendary and slightly dilapidated Hirsch Memorial Coliseum in Shreveport, LA, for the “World Infestation” tour of the hair metal band Ratt – with Bon Jovi, ironically, as the opening act. As we sat at the back of the venue’s top row seating with our mouths agape, we could actually feel our undeveloped mullets standing on end as we were initiated into the world of live power chords, drum solos, and overly excited girls with impressively permed, crimped, and teased hairdos as far as the eye could ogle.

Last Concert

Since my wife and I are now the parents of three teen daughters who would rather fold laundry while watching Wolf Blitzer discuss geopolitics on CNN than hang out with us, we’ve caught a few concerts on our own over the past couple of years. Our most recent event was the Billy Joel concert at Globe Life Park in Arlington, Texas. The show was fantastic, and it was great to remain comfortably seated with hundreds of other boring, middle-aged couples singing along to hits from our teen years while waiting for an opportune moment to take a bathroom break.

Best Concert

I witnessed the epitome of 1980’s British metal and poor spelling when Def Leppard performed in Shreveport for the “Hysteria” tour in 1987. Not only was I amazed by the laser show and Leppard drummer Rick Allen’s inspiring one-armed performance, but standing near the stage in my sleeveless Union Jack shirt, I was surrounded by hundreds of squealing teenage girls who didn’t seem to mind that I was there – or that I probably forgot to wear deodorant.

Worst Concert

Nothing against the R&B legend, but I only went to see Keith Sweat in 1988 because the girl I was dating at the time liked Keith Sweat. I’ve got about as much rhythm and blues as Mr. Rogers on his least-funky days in the neighborhood.

Most Surprising Concert

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the 1988 Rush concert in Shreveport was a true revelation – despite the relatively small number of bodacious babes in attendance. From Neil Peart’s phenomenal percussion work that demonstrated what a truly inadequate drummer I was, to the Toronto band’s cerebral lyrics, the show left me feeling exhilarated, more respectful of Canada – and slightly smarter.

Loudest Concert

The concert that probably contributed most to the fact that I often can’t hear my daughters asking for money was the 1988 Texxas Jam “Monsters of Rock” festival at The Cotton Bowl in Dallas. The lineup featured such eardrum-slaying legends as Van Halen, Scorpions, Metallica, Dokken, and Kingdom Come. Van Halen’s Sammy Hagar actually lost his voice at the concert – and I lost my ability to tell the difference between the smoke alarm and the microwave beeping when my chicken taquitos are ready.

It’s nice that my wife and I can still occasionally get away to see elderly 1980’s icons taking advantage of the fact that their fans are now old enough to carry a line of credit. But these days, I mostly get my head banger fix from the praise band at church. And if I’m feeling particularly nostalgic, I’ll rock out to Def Leppard on my iPhone while I scoop the litter box and take a few pet selfies.

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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].

A long time ago in a toy box far, far away…

As a young urchin in the 1970’s, when I wasn’t risking radiation poisoning and a diabetic coma from sitting too close to the TV with an enormous bowl of Fruity Pebbles, I could usually be found in my room playing with my official Kenner Star Wars toys. These memories recently came flooding back like a river of Tang Instant Breakfast Drink when my dad bequeathed to me two large Sterilite storage containers chock-full of my old Star Wars toys that had been fermenting in his attic for the past few decades.

I still remember being seven years old and waiting in line with my parents and big brother to see the first Star Wars movie – that’s “Episode IV: A New Hope” to all of my fellow dweebazoids out there. Although I’m pretty sure I went to sleep at some point during the film, Chewbacca’s luxuriant fur coat and Princess Leia’s cinnamon bun hairdo (among her other features) made a permanent impression on me.

As soon as Kenner released their original wave of toys, including a fully endowed Leia, I succumbed to the injected-plastic side of the force. I eventually had the complete set of characters, and when the sequel came out, along with more toys, I was a hopeless Jedi junkie, blowing every cent of my Tooth-Fairy cash on action figures. My dad was even enlisted in my obsession, touring the retail establishments of the greater East Texas area in search of the elusive Tauntaun – an alien creature from “The Empire Strikes Back” that looks like the love child of the GEICO hump day camel and Rex from “Toy Story.”

My prized possession during those years was the original Millennium Falcon toy, complete with a battery-powered button that made a sound like the ship had an embarrassing case of gas. However, the legendary Falcon, like so many of my other vulnerable playthings, fell victim to a power more sinister than Emperor Palpatine himself – namely my dearly departed toy poodle, Fluff. Along with savagely dismembering several of my action figures, Fluff inflicted singular abuse upon the Falcon.

On one fateful afternoon when I had docked the Falcon on my bedroom floor without its canopy lid, Fluff raised his leg and scored a direct hit right inside the main cargo hold and lounge. Fortunately, I was able to de-funk the ship with a little Pine Action Lysol, and any residual damage actually added to its battle-tested appearance.

Despite the random canine vandalism and general deterioration from the ravages of time (and not just on me), I’ve had a great time reliving my boyhood by refurbishing my Star Wars collection. The restoration process began by washing the toys in our seldom-used, off-brand whirlpool tub. I actually considered getting in the bath with them to play for old times’ sake, but with the vast numbers of plastic figures, parts, and pieces floating around in there, I worried I might accidentally give myself a Stormtrooper suppository.

I now have the toys on display in my nerd nook at home, and I’m busily spending my three daughters’ college savings on eBay purchasing replacement stickers, spaceship parts, and even the rare Yoda cloak – since Fluff undoubtedly digested the original sometime during the Carter administration. Occasionally my wife catches me just standing there and staring wistfully at the toys, making “Pew! Pew!” laser sounds under my breath.

At those times, she just smiles, shakes her head a little, and goes to the kitchen to mix me up a tall glass of Tang.

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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].

Every now and then, my wife encourages me – REALLY encourages me – to put on pants, get out of the house and go hang out with friends for some “boy” time. After all, I serve as the sole representative of semi-masculinity in a family that includes my wife, three teen daughters, and various female pets who still haven’t forgiven me for having them fixed – the pets, I mean.

Recently, I took my wife’s advice when three of my buddies invited me to accompany them on a road trip to a legendary catfish joint called Big Pines Lodge, just outside Uncertain, Texas. Yes, that’s a real town in deep East Texas on the shores of Caddo Lake – an ancient body of water known for cypress trees swathed in Spanish moss, a healthy population of alligators, and curious city folks anxious to test the capacity of their innards with all-you-can-eat fried catfish.

I had visited Big Pines Lodge numerous times in the past, even before a devastating fire destroyed the original building and its contents, including the vintage frying grease that was rumored to have been used since the Mesozoic era. In its earlier incarnation, Big Pines was part catfish joint and part tackle, gun and ammo shop, so just walking in the door helped an alpha nerd like me earn some Chuck Norris man points. In fact, on one visit, I was feeling so machofied that I wolfed down 14 whole fried catfish. (After my first seven, my wife made me sit at a different table.)

This time, though, I knew I wouldn’t be able to top my all-time endurance record. That was the inspired achievement of a young man in his prime, and no amount of Pepto-Bismol could rescue my middle-aged digestive system from that magnitude of delicious industrial trans-fats.

Despite the nipple-chafing afternoon breeze, we couldn’t resist opting for the open-air seating on the patio overlooking the bayou. Our server was friendly and attentive, and I’m pretty sure she could’ve taken all four of us in the UFC Octagon. She got us in the mood by bringing out Big Pines’ famous coleslaw, relish tray, and scrumptious homemade hushpuppies that appear to have been squeezed into the fryer from an icing bag – and look like they were left behind by an well-fed German shepherd.

For our second course of deep fried delights, we chose an appetizer of crispy alligator fillets. Some people say alligator tastes like chicken, and I agree­ – if the chicken was recently devoured by a large swamp-dwelling reptile. (I only had to eat five or six to decide whether I really liked them.)

The main course was a plate of fried whole catfish – the only way to eat them, in my carnivorous opinion. Holding the whole fish and gnawing the flesh directly from the bone takes a man back to his primitive predatory past. (If only they had ketchup and Diet Dr. Pepper back then.)

As we wedged ourselves back into our seatbelts amid a medley of bodily noises and drove down the narrow tar roads away from the bayou and Big Pines Lodge, I couldn’t help reflecting on my childhood. When I was a boy, my dad would take me to Caddo Lake in the spring to rescue hatchling red-eared slider turtles trying to cross the treacherous lake roads to get to the water. I always kept a few as pets and released the rest to torment fishermen and feed the great blue herons tiptoeing among the water lilies. I don’t think I could bring myself to eat a turtle – unless I was starving or on a diet – but I do wonder what they would taste like deep fried with a side of hushpuppies.

If you ever find yourself in East Texas, I encourage you to take your own road trip to Caddo Lake. It’s like entering another world – a world of beautiful wetlands, friendly people, and amazing wildlife – some of which is pretty tasty with ketchup.

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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].

Dear Reader,

Now that the beautifully wrapped gifts have been ravaged, the luscious desserts have been inhaled, and Santa has packed his peppermint-striped Speedo for a vacation to Jamaica’s Hedonism resort, many holiday revelers find themselves experiencing the after-Christmas blues.

Following all of the frantic seasonal preparations, including at least fifteen trips to Walmart for more almond bark, the abrupt conclusion of the festivities can come as quite a shock­ – and not just to the digestive system.

I often suffer acutely from this type of post-holiday funk myself. To me, the days and weeks following Christmas can be a real Old Yeller death scene. With nothing to look forward to other than filing articles of impeachment against my triglycerides, a personal reboot is always in order. By following a few simple steps, I’ve learned how to overcome the despair brought on by the prospect of having to go back to work and put on pants before noon.

First, unless you’re one of those cringey neighbors who leaves unsupervised strings of Christmas lights loitering around your gutters until Memorial Day, I suggest packing away your decorations as soon as possible. Even so much as a half-eaten limited-edition snowman Marshmallow Peep found under the couch cushions in late January can trigger a post-holiday depression meltdown, so a thorough decor detox is an absolute necessity. To make the process more tolerable, I recommend getting the whole family involved. This year, I’ve enlisted my three teen daughters by withholding all Starbucks privileges until the last tuft of artificial snow is safely in the attic.

Once your delightfully tacky Yuletide accessories are in storage, why not tackle a few home-improvement projects? With the remnants of my Christmas vacation on life-support, I recently decided it was time to deal with the biohazards partying on our bathroom sink drain stoppers. But I was hardly prepared for the trauma about to be visited upon my gag reflexes­. And I won’t even attempt to describe the interdimensional ectoplasm that wound up lodged under my fingernails­ when I yanked them out. (I’m now seriously considering installing an outhouse.)

Another effective strategy in smiting the after-Christmas blues involves returning all of your unwanted gifts and using the refunds for things you really need – like luxury underwear and Mexican food. I don’t know about you, but the older I get, the more I value a sleek and bracing pair of boxer briefs with a forgiving waistband, no matter the cost. Adorned with the latest in decadent unmentionables, I can proceed in full confidence to the nearest Tex-Mex joint and order an endless conveyor belt of chips, salsa and queso dip to cleanse my palate of all that rich holiday fare. There really is something to be said for getting back to the basics of clean eating.

Whatever method you choose to avoid wallowing in the dismal aftermath of the holidays, it’s important to move on and consider the bright future before you. After all, a new year is dawning, promising more bitter politics, juicy celebrity scandals, and new episodes of “The Bachelor.”

And if none of that sounds appealing, you can always just leave your Christmas lights up and head back to Walmart for more almond bark.
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Copyright 2019 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].