Cagle World

The last time my family made the five-hour road trip to Galveston Island (a.k.a. The Playground of the South), we didn’t get much playtime. Instead, we spent two solid days in the cavernous Moody Gardens Convention Center waiting for the few precious minutes my eldest and most expensive daughter would take the floor to compete with her high school dance team, usually when I was sprinting back from the men’s room.

This time, my wife had a three-day business conference, and we had plenty of free time to melt our credit cards while getting to know the touristy side of the Texas coastal city my three daughters now fondly refer to as “Galvy.”

An added bonus of the trip was that my wife’s conference was held at the palatial and historic Hotel Galvez, “historic” meaning the worrisome noises made by the plumbing are commonly blamed on ghosts. Because our three daughters don’t provide us with enough drama on their own, we brought along two of their friends and were placed in the hotel’s spacious and extra-historic Presidential Suite, which we crammed with air mattresses, rollaway beds and enough towels to soak up the Port of Galveston.

In other words, we promptly transformed our luxurious suite into an overcrowded youth hostel dormitory.

Our first outing in Galveston took us downtown to the historic Strand district – “historic” meaning the stunning 19th-century buildings now house a seemingly endless assortment of shops selling designer ankle bracelets, lavender-scented candles, fashionable summer footwear and other dad repellent. Luckily, this teen-shopping wonderland also includes the occasional ice-cream parlor, like the fabulous La King’s Confectionery, where father figures can drown their resigned indebtedness in a massive vanilla malt.

No trip to a seaside town is complete without a fully equipped slog to the beach, the mention of which always mysteriously renders my daughters too weak to carry more than their cell phones and sunglasses. Although some discriminating travelers prefer the sugary sands and turquoise waters of the Alabama and Florida coastlines, I was pleasantly surprised by the wholesomeness of the scene,- aside from a couple of nearby beachgoers in neon thong bikinis surrounded by a medley of crushed beer cans and cigarette butts. They were sociable enough, though, and informed me that they had been best friends since their late sixties.

My two older daughters spent most of their beach time contorting themselves into cute poses for selfies and fashion pics, while my younger daughter amused herself by pelting me with balls of chocolate-brown Galveston sand that always managed to invade the rear waistband of my board shorts. We enjoyed the beach for several hours, but by the end of the day, the so-called rash guard concealing my dad bod had chaffed my lower chest region until it looked (and felt) like it was adorned with two scorched and slightly furry pepperonis.

The highlight of our trip was an afternoon of thrilling attractions on Galveston’s historic Pleasure Pier – “historic” meaning we continued the long tradition of dropping a couple of C-notes on a glorified parking lot carnival. Because my youngest daughter has yet to enter her cognitively-impaired teen years, she prefers that I accompany her on the more leisurely rides that are less likely to require rescue by emergency personnel.

Unfortunately, one of the rides she chose was the Pirate Plunge, a buccaneer take on the good ol’ flume ride, with two splashdowns that soak your underwear with enough log water to make you walk funny for the rest of the day.

The older girls avidly sampled every ride on the Pleasure Pier that involved hurling their bodies though violent, high-altitude gyrations until their stomachs were lodged in their sinus cavities. In fact, my middle daughter derived so much pleasure from the Pleasure Pier that her face turned almost every shade in a 64-count box of Crayolas when we went to supper that evening. Thank goodness I was there to eat all of her Chicken Tinga Nachos for her.

Overall, we had a historically terrific time on our latest visit to Galveston. And if my unmentionables ever dry out, we hope to make a return trip.

Until next time, Galvy!

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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].

Many teens take a significant step toward adulthood when they get behind the wheel (and stereo volume controls) of their own vehicles.

My eldest and most expensive daughter recently reached this milestone when my wife and I purchased her a pre-owned 2018 Nissan Altima for her sixteenth birthday. She specifically requested “glacier white” – because plain white would suggest we were simply providing her with a practical mode of transport, rather than a lit ride to impress her squad when she pulls up to spill tea about a dank snack she thinks is the GOAT. Yeet!

I can’t really complain, though. I remember vividly when my dad took me to a nearby dealership to pick up a gently used, black 1985 Cutlass Calais with the word “SLEEK” painted in neon orange across the front window. It was the most glorious two-door Oldsmobile love machine I had ever seen. My Purple Rain cassette never sounded sweeter than when it was pulsating within those deeply tinted windows. I drove that work of poetry on wheels until literally it bled to death, hemorrhaging antifreeze fluid all over the front passenger-side floorboard. But I digress (and need to wipe my eyes).

When my daughter told us she’d been praying for an Altima, my wife and I were a little disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, though. We were thrilled that she was including God in her pursuit for a car that’s “straight Gucci,” and we have nothing against the automaker that brought us the delightfully hilarious Cube. We were just hoping that, based on her tendency to disregard the existence of curbs, the Lord would lead her to something a little more sturdy – like a military surplus tactical vehicle. Eventually, though, we reconciled ourselves to the idea of a mid-sized sedan and intensified our own prayer regimen – interceding on behalf of her tires and hubcaps.

But first we had to go through the stimulating process of acquiring Altimus Prime, as my daughter calls “him.” (Cue the rare dad eye-roll.) The car dealership experience proceeded as usual – with my wife doing all the talking while I tried to look interested and strongly considered waiting in the children’s play area. After going through the typical charade of making a counter-offer, followed by the sales consultant stepping out to ask the sales manager (code for “visit the vending machine to slowly eat a bag of Funyuns”), we then proceeded to the financing department.

The finance manager encouraged us to consider several optional warranty plans – each of them named for precious metals we can’t afford. He implied that if we wanted protection that extends beyond the plastic tire valve-stem caps, we should go with the Ultimate Platinum Protection plan, which would only add enough to our monthly payment to buy me a full body lift.

At that point, I needed a break, so I excused myself to go the restroom. However, to my alarm, and my wife’s amusement, I found that the door to the finance manager’s office was locked. Apparently, they don’t let you out until you’ve signed something that guarantees the company will survive the next round of Trump tariffs.

Once I was finally finished watching my wife do her adulting, while she occasionally patted me and assured me that everything would be ok, the sales associate walked us out to the car, placed an enormous red bow on the hood, gave me a Kleenex, and took a photo of my beaming daughter standing beside Altimus Prime. It was a truly stirring moment – especially for the sales associate.

It only took our daughter about a month to give Altimus Prime a minor facial injury while attempting a complex and dangerous vehicular maneuver – namely parking. But I took the accident in stride and assured her that I’ve had my share of fender-benders, usually caused by matters beyond my control – like a Cardi B song coming on the radio.

Anyway, I’m now bracing myself for a repeat of the whole vehicle-buying ordeal with my middle daughter, who turns sixteen in a few months.

Anyone know where I can get a Russian tank?

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

When the school year draws to a close, parents begin looking forward to the slower pace of summer – with a less regimented schedule, relaxing family vacations, and a long list of menial household chores to inflict upon the children anytime they mention being bored.

But in the weeks before school ends and these leisurely activities commence, parents must survive an onslaught of recitals, awards programs, concerts, banquets and other occasions that require me to take a shower and put on long pants.

This year, since my wife and I were already physically and mentally shattered from running the end-of-school gauntlet, we thought we might as well finish ourselves off by hosting a pool party for my middle daughter’s ninth-grade class – mostly to justify paying thousands of dollars to have an enormous retention pond installed in our back yard a few years ago.

Before hosting a pool party for teenagers, it’s important to prepare the venue for the beating it’s about to endure. My primary responsibility in this process involved removing the countless yard cigars strategically deposited in high-traffic areas by our pets, though I strongly considered leaving them there during the party for my own entertainment.

Along with having an uncontaminated setting, we really wanted the kids to have a great time – and stay out of the house as much as possible. Since we have three daughters, and there would be male children present, we thought it apt to purchase several stereotypically dude-centric pool toys, mostly involving sports balls. Instead of engaging in some aquatic athletic competition, though, the boys spent most of their time untangling their extremities from the pool-volleyball net when they failed to clear it from the diving board. Then they took turns positioning themselves under the floating basketball goal to risk having their melons pegged by dunk shots. (At least I got my money’s worth. )

Anyone with teenagers knows that next to the drama of speculating on who might be Snapchatting someone’s boyfriend who just broke up with someone else’s best friend’s boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, their highest priority is food. And these teens were absolutely voracious, plowing through enough tacos to feed the entire US Congress – when its members aren’t on CNN expressing outrage over the fact that Washington gridlock has rendered them about as productive as belly-button lint. I was hoping that there might be some leftovers, but when the salsa settled, there was hardly enough left to satisfy a paramecium on a diet.

A couple of times during the party, I just had to stare in awe at the sheer number of adolescents frolicking around in what was once pool water that had transformed into a viscous mixture of sunscreen, Axe body spray and mascara. I’ve always considered myself the kind of guy who might sit out on the porch threatening any young whipper-snapper who dared step foot on my lawn – including my own kids. And now my guest bathroom was being overrun with a throng of simmering hormones in bikinis and board shorts.

Speaking of the bathroom, after the party ended and the parents retrieved their children (apparently without most of their clothing), it looked like the aftermath of a flash clearance sale at Goodwill. There were socks, t-shirts, shorts, and various swimsuit segments strewn everywhere. If it weren’t for my wife’s honesty, I’m pretty sure I could have made enough money selling the lost and found items to buy another taco buffet.

As the day wound to a close and I stooped over to peel the last wet Band-Aid from the pool deck, my middle daughter put her hand on my shoulder and thanked me for throwing her and her friends such a great party. And it really was a lot of fun with a group of fantastic kids.

Best of all, we could now look forward to the lazy days of summer – full of sun, family fun and, most importantly, tacos.

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

Spring in East Texas always announces its arrival with an annual tree-pollen allergy apocalypse, followed by our own version of monsoon season, when most residents consider trading in their pickups for four-wheel drive dinghies. All of the rain and foliage-philandering gives rise to the need for some serious yard work, which many of us look forward to with the same anticipation we feel when it’s time to visit Dr. Auger for a thorough colonoscopy.

Below are a few steps that will ensure your yard will be pristine and inviting to the neighborhood canine population looking for a place to mark their territory – including the area between your bare toes when you walk out to get the mail.

Step 1: Wear proper attire

While working in the yard, it’s important to wear protective clothing, and by “protective,” I mean something that will keep you from scandalizing the neighbors when you bend over repeatedly to pull the cord on your mower. Since I can’t seem to work in jeans that don’t take a trip to Plumbersville after about thirty minutes, this year, I visited Walmart to invest in a pair of overalls -and while I was there, some lunch meat and toilet cleanser. It had been a while since I had worn overalls (forty years to be exact), and when I clipped on that second shoulder strap, I suddenly felt compelled to chew some tobacco and plant forty acres of sorghum. . . whatever that is.

Step 2: Go to Lowe’s – again

Once properly dressed, the domestic yard work person should proceed to a local home and garden center to purchase supplies, which may include mulch, enriched topsoil, peat moss, and other products that will make your yard smell like a feed lot. Be prepared to make several return trips to the garden center because you will continually fail to purchase enough mulch, enriched topsoil, and peat moss due to the fact that many of these products are measured in cubic feet. I don’t remember learning about cubic feet in Coach Nickerson’s tenth-grade geometry class, but, then again, I spent most of my time trying to identify the righteous perfume of the totally bodacious babe seated directly in front of me. (Calvin Klein didn’t name it Obsession for nothin’. )

Step 3: Seek first aid treatment

Regardless of how careful you try to be, yard work will inevitably result in injury (often to your feelings). This year, my pain and suffering resulted from an attempt to groom two large poolside palm tree thingies we planted a few years ago when we were trying to turn our back yard into a tropical paradise – and wound up with what looks more like a wilderness location for “Naked and Afraid. “I’m not certain what type of palm tree thingies we have, but I’m pretty sure they are of the species painin debuttis, featuring spikes, blades, and other pointy appendages intent on testing my manly resistance to openly sobbing. (Ok, so I ugly-cried a few times, but there was blood!)

Step 4: Prepare for interruptions

The domestic yard work person should anticipate interruptions at any moment, especially if he or she has children. My first interruption this year came just as I was hitting my yard work stride – sitting in the shade and playing with Snapchat filters. (Have you seen the one that looks like you have French fries up your nose?Hilarious!)I received an urgent call from one of my daughters, who was having some kind of after-school four-alarm sports bra emergency and needed me to bring her favorite one immediately, which is the only time frame in which my three daughters operate. When I arrived at the school, she met me at my car, and – apparently horrified by my new overalls – begged me not to get out, lest her friends see me and we all have to move to Bangladesh.

Ultimately, yard work can be truly fulfilling. The fresh air, sunshine, and occasional profuse bleeding really gets a person in touch with nature – even a consummate indoorsman like me.

Just remember to wear close-toed shoes, especially when you walk out to get the mail.

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

Galveston, Texas, affectionately known as “Galvatraz” by some of its residents and visitors, really gets a bad rap. Maybe it’s because this coastal resort city on the Gulf of Mexico features sand and water that often resemble the aftermath of a 24-hour stomach virus, only less inviting.

Despite these unfair characterizations, my experiences with Galveston have mostly been positive. When I was a child, Galveston Island was my first experience with the ocean – and the unforgettable sensation of beach sand lodged in my shorts.

One of my fondest childhood memories is of my dad taking me “crabbing” on one of the many jetties stretching out from the Galveston coastline. The intricate and genteel process of crabbing involves luring the prized blue crabs with a raw chicken neck tied to the end of a thin rope, and then scooping them up with a long dip net. (Obviously, the blue crab isn’t known for its elusiveness – or its taste in chicken appendages. )

Since I now have three daughters, it goes without saying that my most recent trip to Galveston Island didn’t involve something as personally fulfilling as enticing bottom-dwelling crustaceans with uncooked poultry. Instead, I had traveled hundreds of miles to an interesting city so that I could sit inside a cavernous building all day watching a performance by my eldest and most expensive daughter – this time in a high school drill and dance team competition.

After a punishing four-hour drive, we knew we were approaching our destination when we began to detect the invigorating fragrance of the ocean breeze mingled with refined petroleum.

By the time we had crossed the George and Cynthia Mitchell Memorial Causeway onto the island, it was nearly 10:00 p.m.. About that time, my youngest and quietest daughter, who rarely offers her opinion on any subject other than her plans for world domination via YouTube, looked up from her iPad and declared that she was hungry for popcorn shrimp.

Unfortunately, Galveston enforces a strict popcorn shrimp curfew beginning at 10:00 p.m. on weeknights. After being turned away from three, yes three, seafood establishments just as they were enthusiastically locking their front doors, we finally found a Joe’s Crab Shack that was open until 11:00 p.m.. We hoped they wouldn’t defile our seafood platters for coming in so late, and we were pleasantly surprised by the server’s hospitality. Trying for a healthy option, I ordered two skewers of grilled shrimp on a bed of rice pilaf, which was about as flavorful as a serving of moist paper products. Luckily, one of the joys of having children is that they rarely clean their plates, so I was able to negate my bland, low-calorie fare with some mangled shards of popcorn shrimp and a hearty portion of tepid French fries.

Once we had shut down Joe’s, we made it to our hotel just in time to crash for the night – or at least try. Our beachfront room was decorated in a garish Tang orange. Virtually all of the room’s furnishings, right down to the retro mini-fridge, were like set-pieces from a Wes Anderson film. Even the hallway carpet, with its pattern of yellow circles on an orange background, looked like an accident scene involving a tanker truck full of SpaghettiOs.

The next morning, we headed to the convention center to spend the entire buttock-crippling day watching about 600 dance routines, a few of them actually involving my daughter and her teammates. One consolation was that a lot of the dance music was from the 1980’s,- when musicians still knew the value of a good synthesizer solo. I even got a chance to go out on the floor to help set up curtains for a couple of the team’s dances – while secretly hoping they’d call me up to fill in on a few split leaps.

To top it off, my daughter’s team was named National Grand Champions. (I’m pretty sure the expert curtain installation had something to do with it. )

I’m really looking forward to my next visit to Galveston island. Maybe next time, I’ll even take my daughters crabbing, but only if I can convince one of them to tie on the chicken necks.

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

After several years of driving with a clean record, most of it while I was awake, the unthinkable happened.On a recent drive, after turning up the radio while singing along with the high parts of Boston’s “More than a Feeling,” I looked into my rearview mirror and saw something we all dread.

No, it wasn’t one of my daughters and her boyfriend in the back seat fondling each other’s iPhones, but the ominous flashing of lights.Yes, I was being pulled over by the po-po.

Like most drivers in this situation, my heart started pounding, and I broke out in a cold sweat – as if my wife had just asked me to take my three daughters to shop for swimwear.As I pulled to the shoulder, anxious and somewhat irrational thoughts raced through my mind: “Is my driver’s license expired?Has the Nyquil worn off? Am I currently wearing pants?”

When the officer came to my window, dressed and equipped like he was about to take down an entire drug cartel, he asked for my license and registration, and informed me that I had been speeding in a twenty-mile-per-hour school zone.Although I wasn’t sure that my vehicle could actually travel that slowly unless I was pushing it, I thought it best not to argue (or mention the Boston).Instead, I simply told him I didn’t realize that I was in a school zone – and that my water just broke.No, really, I just admitted that I wasn’t paying attention and the next time one of those police officer foundations called, I would donate my children’s entire college savings.

Unfortunately, the officer said he couldn’t just give me a warning since I was in a school zone, even though I said “Sir” a lot.As he walked back to his patrol car to prepare the citation while countless drivers passed by and gawked, I did the embarrassed doofus-slump as far down in my seat as I could get, until my nose got hung on the bottom of the steering wheel.When the officer finally came back to my window, I took my ticket, thanked him for the important work he did, saw him roll his eyes, and pushed my car the rest of the way to the high school to pick up my eldest daughter.Naturally, I blamed her for the ticket.

When I went to City Hall to pay my fine later that week, the clerk suggested that I take a defensive driving course so that the violation could be removed from my record and I could brush up on my safe driving skills – like how to avoid road rage when the driver in front of me sits there updating his Facebook status on his cell phone after the light turns green, instead of updating it once he gets going again – like a normal person.

Rather than taking a face-to-face defensive driving course, which inflicts the added punishment of having to get up before noon on a Saturday, I opted for the reading-intensive online version.With my crack English major skills, I figured I could breeze through the course in no time.I soon realized, though, that the course is programed to require you to spend enough time on each screen to translate the entire text into Mandarin Chinese.

In addition to the reading, there were also occasional videos that appeared to have been produced by film school students in the early 1980’s.My favorite video focused on tire safety.It featured an attractive couple (complete with shoulder pads and feathered bangs) standing beside a stack of steel-belted radials while making flirtatious banter amid segments dealing with proper inflation, premature tread wear, and optimum performance.(I’m pretty sure that one was rated PG-13.)

I did eventually finish the course, and I actually learned a few things, like how to read about air bags while ordering hamster food on Amazon.com,- all from the comfort of my wife’s bathrobe.Most importantly, I learned that while driving, you should be vigilant regarding school zones, especially when your favorite jam is on the radio.

“I closed my eyeeees, and she slipped awaaaaaaaaay!”

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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].

According to the National Center for Health Statistics (NCHS), about half of Americans are currently trying to lose weight, many of them employing strategies like switching from peanut M&M’s to the plain variety, or drinking more Cherry Coke to increase their intake of fruit.

Unfortunately, most diet plans fail, and any calories burned through the exhausting process of signing up for a gym membership are quickly regained through the consumption of a recovery donut on the way home to take a nap. Too bad we can’t all follow the sage advice of the late Benny Hill, who said that the best way to lose ten pounds of ugly fat is to cut off your head.

I kicked off my own dieting journey recently when I was drying off after my morning shower and noticed that I could no longer wrap a towel around my mid-section without the assistance of an industrial ratchet strap. To add insult to injury, the last time my wife and I bought towels, we opted for extra-large “bath sheets,” which apparently can double as bedding when not being used to dry commercial aircraft.

Having already tried a self-designed dieting plan I called the “Cheeto” diet (not to be confused with that newfangled Keto diet), in which I only ate foods described as “cheese-flavored,” I decided to seek medical advice. I already had a doctor’s appointment to see about another personal issue that was threatening to cripple our household plumbing, so while I was there, I asked the doctor about the best way to lose my “spare tire,” which had developed a severe sidewall bulge on each side in the love handle region.

After looking down my throat and looking up my medical records, the doctor suggested that I try a fasting diet. He explained that the diet involves getting regular exercise, skipping breakfast each day of the week and fasting for 24 hours once a week. In other words, this diet takes the novel approach of weight loss through excessive exertion and starvation – commonly known as The Zombie Apocalypse Diet.

It actually hasn’t been all that bad. My internal organs don’t really function properly until around 11:00 a. m. , so I don’t usually eat much breakfast, anyway – unless Chick-fil-A is involved. I’ve also heard a lot about prayer and fasting at church, and this diet certainly lends itself to praying, mainly that I won’t be tempted to devour our pets.

The biggest problem with the fasting diet, other than my tendency to get a little weepy when I order Chick-fil-A chicken biscuits for my daughters on the way to school, is that when it’s finally time to eat, I’m absolutely ravenous – to the point that I pose a clear and present danger to all nearby edible matter, living or dead. A few nights ago, I’m pretty sure I wolfed down an entire 14-ounce rib-eye without chewing – and that was the appetizer.

To ensure that I get my recommended daily allotment of vitamins, minerals, fiber, and other nutrients missing from food that actually tastes good, the doctor also prescribed an intense battery of dietary supplements to be swallowed by the handful several times a day. I’m starting to think that my daily regimen of supplement capsules is a ruse to fill me up during my fasting periods so I won’t crave something to eat that doesn’t have the consistency of landscaping gravel.

So far, I’m really proud of myself for sticking to my fasting diet plan. Even though I haven’t noticed any results, other than my wife and daughters giving me an unusually wide berth at the dinner table, I’m determined to meet my goals.

Until then, I’ll be looking forward to my next meal – and avoiding eye-contact with the cat.

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

When the holidays have ended and I’ve digested enough homemade snack mix to construct an imposing and delicious wall of heavily seasoned Chex cereal along the entire U. S.-Mexico border, retailers throughout the country often place deep discounts on exciting big-ticket items like televisions, luxury furniture, and septic tanks.

It was during one of these holiday post-mortem sale seasons that my wife and I noticed our mattress beginning to take on the shape of a sadistic landscaping project. As we lay in bed, it was like we each occupied our own drainage canal on either side of a steep ridge of no-man’s cushionry. Once I could no longer muster the energy to hike over Mt. Lumbago to kiss my wife goodnight (much to her relief), we knew it was time to shop for a new mattress.

We first stopped at one of those mattress superstores emblazoned with “72-Month Financing with No Interest!” posters all over the windows. We should have known by the inflatable air dancer flopping around outside what lay in store – a lot of hot air and awkward gyrations.

Our first task was to convince the mattress dealer assigned to stalk us that we weren’t interested in the section of the store featuring mattresses that, based on the prices, were stuffed with spun gold. So he grudgingly directed us to the affordable mattresses – for people who don’t really want to be comfortable. The mattress dealer then encouraged us to lie on the mattresses to get a feel for the softness level we required.

As I reluctantly lay on one of the display mattresses, thinking about all of the bodies that had lain there before me and wondering where I would go to burn my clothes afterwards, the mattress dealer encouraged my wife and me to position ourselves like we do when we sleep.

This suggestion presented two problems. First, for me to lie in the middle of a mattress store like I do while sleeping would probably result in my arrest. (Let’s just say I don’t exactly “pajama up” at bedtime. )Second, the mattress dealer was looming over my wife and me, and insisting that we make ourselves as comfortable as possible – while he watched. At least it wasn’t weird, or anything.

While the mattress dealer was ogling us, our two younger daughters were busily annoying everyone else in the store by playing tackle football with a cluster of balloons they had procured from a sales display. Their older sister (who claims to have a phobia of balloons – or at least uses that as an excuse to scream) sat on the floor with her hands over her ears and accused her sisters of being terrorists.

When my wife asked about the special financing mentioned on the window posters, the mattress dealer informed us that the offer only applies to customers who spend enough to open their own mattress store franchise, have different colored eyes, and were born during the Hoover administration. Needless to say, we took our delinquent children and the DNA of countless other mattress samplers to another establishment where we went through an almost identical ordeal, this time ending with the actual purchase of a mattress and our youngest daughter suffering from blunt-force boredom due to a lack of balloons.

When the new mattress was delivered, we discovered that we had ordered the wrong size of box springs. As a result, the mattress sat so high on the bed frame that once we had pole-vaulted into bed, we could actually smell our attic – and have a couples pedicure compliments of the ceiling fan. It really wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t for the nosebleeds.

After finally getting the box springs sorted out and recovering from altitude sickness, we are thoroughly enjoying our new mattress. It has enough cushion and just the right firmness to give me the leverage to pry myself out of bed while calling down elaborate curses upon the alarm clock each morning.

And on those glorious days when we sleep in, I can just roll over and dream of giant inflatable air dancers offering me 72 months of interest-free financing on a lifetime supply of snack mix.

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

Breaking News& and Wind

My last column’s reference to a report of a Dutch airliner that was diverted due to a passenger’s flagrant flatulence at 30,000 feet received such a resounding response (at least from my big brother) that I’ve decided to devote this entire piece to other newsworthy incidents of a gastrointestinal character. While some readers may find this topic unsuitable for publication, I think it’s time to clear the air (literally), and recognize the power of a good rip and its potential impact on society.

I’ve always been convinced that God has given even the most unimaginative and solemn individuals the ability (deep within) to make others laugh. I mean, what could be funnier in an awkwardly silent situation than the sound of a deflating balloon followed by the pungent aroma of boiled cabbage?Unfortunately, some people (including my wife) have not yet learned to appreciate the organic comedy of ye olde air biscuit. In fact, this most natural of bodily functions has even been known to elicit acts of violence and criminality – and not just toward human nasal passages.

Take, for example, an affidavit obtained by the Miami Herald regarding a Dania Beach, Florida, woman who pulled a knife on a man while waiting in the checkout line at a Dollar General Store, all because someone rang the Taco Bell. While unfair stereotypes propagated by my three daughters might suggest that the male at the business end of the blade was the offending cheese-cutter (and probably someone’s dad), it was actually the knife-wielding woman who cooked up the Jiffy Pop. The man in line nearby simply complained, invoking the wrath of the fragrant female in question.

If only these bargain shoppers could have recaptured that sense of humor often lost after graduation from junior high, everyone could have laughed it off – once they were able to breathe again. Instead, the incident resulted in an aggravated assault charge and a missed opportunity for some comic (and lower-abdominal) relief in the world of discount retail.

In addition to common citizens, our men and women in blue have also been known to fall victim to the scourge of the trouser trumpet. Tony Rizzo of the Kansas City Star recently reported on a police interview that was abruptly halted when a suspect, upon being questioned about his address, leaned to one side of his chair and brashly answered the call of the wild burrito.

Despite the detective’s valiant attempts to proceed, the suspect continued to split the seams of his jail uniform, and the detective was forced to end the interview, apparently in order to evacuate for oxygen treatments. No charges were filed at the time, but the interrogation room has reportedly been repainted.

Officers on the beat must also maintain their sense of calm under pressure, especially when a suspect releases his. In international news, Feargus O’Sullivan of CityLab reported that when a partying citizen in Berlin, Germany, was asked by a group of police officers for his ID, he proceeded to burn the bratwurst in the general direction of the officers – twice.

The rank reveler was eventually slapped with a fine of 900 euros (that’s about $1,000 in Monopoly money) for disrespecting the officers – and their respiratory systems. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed in court, where the judge dismissed the case in ten minutes and invited everyone out for kraut dogs.

As these semi-accurately paraphrased accounts demonstrate, we have a long way to go when it comes to opening our watering eyes to the humorous and odoriferous realities of being human. Amid raging international crises like the conflict in the Middle East, immigration, and “The Masked Singer,” we all could use a little more laughter, even if it’s at the expense of our olfactory nerves.

Now, excuse me while I finish my Nachos BellGrande combo #5. I have a flight to catch.

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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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.

With the smells of the holidays (among other things) still hanging in the air, it’s time for another one of those annoying “Year in Review” segments that make you want to drown yourself in leftover Rotel dip. But this time, there will be no mention of President Trump’s various antics that caused a monsoon of pant wetting on CNN, the dumpster fire (and not the good kind) that was the Brett Kavanaugh Supreme Court confirmation hearings, or the romaine lettuce scare that validated Cinnabon fans everywhere. Instead, I’ll focus on the truly important,events of this past year – to me, anyway.

I’ll begin with my eldest and most expensive daughter, who, like thousands of teenagers all over the country, extracted her face from her cell phone screen just long enough to earn her learner’s driving permit this past year. Because she also managed to participate in another activity that expended enormous quantities of my time and money, she drove us across town at 6:30 each morning for her high school dance/drill team practice. The upside to this parental abuse was that there are few things more effective at bringing your nervous system (especially the part that controls involuntary buttock clenching) fully awake at that time of day than a novice teenage driver.

Speaking of nervous system trauma, my middle daughter also achieved a common teenager milestone in 2018 – her first boyfriend. Despite my offering to make her the sole heir of whatever her older sister doesn’t spend if she would wait until I’ve been embalmed to acknowledge the existence of all non-relative males, she became a victim of puppy love. Unfortunately, the only similarities to puppies I could see were lots of whimpering, drooling and worries about bacterial transmission. I also warned the young man in question that my daughter hadn’t been wormed lately. (She still isn’t talking to me – unless she needs cash. )

While we’re on the topic of puppies, my youngest daughter, who rarely asks for anything, requested a puppy for her birthday. Against my better judgement, I began the search for an addition to our domestic animal reserve. My only requirements were that the droppings from said puppy (fully grown) must not exceed the size of a Tootsie Roll Snack Bar. Within a couple of weeks, I was able to procure what appeared to be a wad of white dryer lint with eyeballs. In addition to taking the cuteness factor to cosmic levels, the puppy’s only other purpose in life seems to be finding creative ways to soil the carpet, usually when we have company.

In the 2018 world of sports, I was cajoled into playing in an annual kickball game at work, ostensibly for the sake of team building and camaraderie. I soon discovered the true purpose of this event was to provide amusement for my colleagues in the audience – who laughed so hard that they risked damage to their internal organs when I showed up in a tank top and a pair of Nike training pants that fit better in 2010. The announcer of the contest accused me of wearing “skinny britches” like some millennial hipster fresh from an artisanal oatmeal tasting. I had a good mind to pull on my slouchy beanie and ride away on my unicycle. I swallowed my pride, though, and went on with the game. Luckily, I was able to walk normally again within about two weeks.

Although there were many other important events that shaped 2018, like Travel and Leisure’s report of a Transavia Airlines flight that was forced to make an emergency landing in Vienna due to a passenger’s incessant and brazen wind breaking, I hope this retrospect has at least captured some of the other essences of the year that was.

So as we careen into 2019 with hope and anticipation, let’s all heat up some Rotel dip and turn on CNN.

Don’t forget your snorkel.

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Copyright 2018 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 susanjase@sbcglobal. net.