Cagle World

Have Yourself a Merry Little… Hedgehog

As Christmas approaches and homes are festooned with twinkling lights, decorated trees, and culturally inaccurate Nativity sets populated by what appear to be Scandinavian fashion models, my thoughts always turn to hedgehogs. Yes, hedgehogs.

You see, at some point in the distant past (before bras, braces, boyfriends and other omens of my impending doom), my middle daughter declared that she’d like to have a real live hedgehog for a pet. While any normal person with any normal child might have been stunned by such a request, for us, this was vintage middle child. It ranked right up there with her aspirations to become a professional coin-operated claw machine performer.

I just dismissed the idea as an innocent childhood fantasy because I naturally assumed that it was impossible, if not illegal, to own a hedgehog, not to mention that they were probably poisonous – and only existed in children’s books.

A few months later, I entered my yearly Christmas shopping panic, and I came across a Facebook post about a woman nearby breeding and selling hedgehogs. “Ludicrous!” I thought. This had to be one of those ironic Facebook hoaxes, like the one about Donald Trump actually being a Klingon.

Sucker that I am, I called the number on the Facebook post (fully expecting to be connected to someone in Nigeria with an exciting investment opportunity), spoke to the hedgehog lady, and made arrangements to purchase my first hedgehog for about the price of a small private jet.

But, of course, it wasn’t that simple. The hedgehog lady needed to unload the hedgehog by Thanksgiving to make room for additional hedgehogs. (Apparently, female hedgehogs can actually give birth to baby hedgehogs. Ouchie!)I was also instructed by the hedgehog lady that the creature would need to be “handled” twice a day for thirty minutes at a time in order to tame it. She could have asked me to eat it alive and I would have been no less shocked. I didn’t think you could touch them at all without risking dismemberment from hedgehog shrapnel.

To make a long story even longer, I had to help Santa keep this fiasco a secret. So for a solid month, I spent thirty minutes every morning before showering, and thirty minutes every night before bed, in my walk-in closet, gently caressing what looked like the love child of a small possum and a box of toothpicks. It only took one session to determine that underwear alone is not appropriate hedgehog-cuddling attire. (Don’t ask. )

Christmas morning finally came, and, once again, Santa got all the credit. But what mattered the most was that my daughter was in heaven over the new addition to our own private zoo. (We welcome visitors for $100 per pound-of visitor. )

Over the course of the next year, suffering from some kind of spiny-mammal mania, I made three more visits to purchase hedgehogs from the hedgehog lady, who is by now likely drawing up construction plans for The Jase Graves Hedgehog Sanctuary. Realizing we had exceeded our hedgehog capacity, though, we have since re-homed two of them to friends we like to laugh at.

The bottom line is that our two remaining hedgehogs have provided all three of my daughters several minutes of happiness and given me something to do on lazy Sunday afternoons when we get out the backhoe and hazmat suits to clean their cages. And the unpleasant little animals have actually grown on me. The African pygmy hedgehog is a rather surly nocturnal creature that will tolerate humans, but prefers to be left alone – my spirit animal, basically. As a bonus, they’re also relatively quiet and odorless (ok, so we aren’t exactly the same). And you haven’t truly lived until you’ve trimmed an uncooperative hedgehog’s toenails (again, pants required).

So this Christmas, if you want to surprise your family with a unique gift that will provide them with companionship and fun (at least until the novelty wears off), consider a pet hedgehog. I have two for sale now.

Heck, I’ll even throw in a pair of toenail clippers and a gently-used hazmat suit.

–

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.

I feared this day might come, but I wasn’t really prepared for it when it did. No, I don’t mean the first time I had to remind my 14-year-old middle daughter to shave her armpits. It was when she asked if she could get a piercing on something other than her earlobe.

Now, before you get the wrong idea, I need to clarify that the appendage my daughter wished to have impaled was still in the general ear vicinity. But instead of the traditional lobe area, she wanted a pinhole puncture wound in her upper ear gristle, which I had always assumed, based on extensive experience, was only good for painful flicking by junior high boys.

You have to understand that among my three girls, the middle one is the most like me – and not just in the irresistible charm, devastating good looks, and sincere humility departments. She also tends to be impulsive and daring, like the time she videoed herself kissing a live mullet – the fish variety – at the beach for no apparent reason (not that there ever would be just cause for snogging wild sea life). This is also the child whom we have repeatedly taken to the doctor for the removal of various foreign objects, usually from her eyeballs. Apparently, introducing external fixtures to her person is a natural tendency with her.

These days, you only have to hang out at Starbucks for a few seconds (which is too long for me) to realize that more young people than ever before are walking around looking like they recently face-planted into an open tackle box. And I can’t criticize them too much. When I was about 15 years old, I asked my dad if I could get one of my ears pierced. I figured with an earring, I’d look just like Rick Springfield – if Rick Springfield were a slightly chubby dork with oversized frames and tinted corrective lenses. As expected, my dad lovingly agreed to do it himself with some industrial hardware – right after I made other living arrangements. (I wisely opted for a gold-tone ear cuff, which only turned my ear green if I left it on for more than 10 minutes, or so. )

Naturally, my immediate answer to my daughter’s request was a resounding and definitive “No!” mostly because “No!” has fewer letters than “I can’t think of a logical reason that this isn’t a good idea right now without getting a headache. ”

I’m proud to say that I maintained my position for an entire 48 hours before I caved. Then came the fun part. After doing some research, I discovered that ear cartilage should be pierced with a sanitized needle, not the staple gun they use on little girls in the mall jewelry store. This would mean a trip to the local tattoo parlor, an establishment I thought I might never have to visit, unless I decided to become a pirate.

To my surprise, though, the place was very clean, and although the technician was clearly not of this galaxy (and demanded a high five at the end of every sentence he uttered – always ending with the word “dude”), he was professional and thorough in his work. There was very little blood involved and only one fainting spell. Luckily, I was sitting down, and they had recently mopped the floor.

The staff at the parlor even suggested that I get some body art done for myself. I politely declined, of course, considering that at this point in my life, the old canvas is starting to resemble a loose sofa slipcover. Any piercings or tattoos I get would likely wind up on the soles of my feet before too long.

After all was said, done and skewered, I was pleasantly surprised by the whole ordeal. I think it’s important to allow teenagers to have a little self-expression – as long as they don’t wind up looking like extras from the Mos Eisley Cantina scene in “Star Wars. “My daughter is happy with her piercing and has promised she is done accessorizing her melon. Now, if I could only get her to commit on the issue of mullet kissing.

–

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.

Today, too many Americans consider Thanksgiving as a mere speed bump on the way to Christmas, a chance to fuel up for Black Friday, when they’ll need their energy to cage-fight each other for an Instant Pot shaped like R2-D2 or a television the size of Guam.

In an effort to adjust our perspective, let’s pause for a moment to reflect on the history of this special holiday, intended as a celebration of America’s many blessings (including expandable waistbands).

In 1621, the Pilgrim fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and creepy uncles gathered with native americans for The First Thanksgiving.Unfortunately, this harmonious occasion ended in a heated argument over immigration policy and whether the cranberry sauce with or without berries is the real stuff.A couple of centuries later, President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving as an official holiday in a valiant attempt to control the national overpopulation of giblets.Moving ahead to the twentieth-century, a staple of the modern Thanksgiving dinner emerged with the invention of green bean casserole, ensuring that American children would be even less likely to eat their vegetables.

Now that I’ve provided a comprehensive historical survey, I’ll offer an overview of a modern Thanksgiving in a family that truly appreciates the deeper meaning of the holiday. The celebration in my own household begins each year in typical fashion, with everyone dragging out of bed just in time to catch the conclusion of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade of Lip-syncing One-Hit Wonders.We then watch the National Dog Show, often trying, and failing, to identify a contestant like our own little dog, Bailey.(Apparently, they don’t include breeds from the worthless group.)

During the dog show, I usually prepare a pumpkin pie – otherwise known as an excuse to eat an entire tub of Cool Whip.This is one of the few menu items I’m entrusted to contribute to my parents’ Thanksgiving feast, probably because the only culinary skill it requires is the adept use of a can opener.I suppose someday my wife and I will need to learn the dark magic of cooking turkey and dressing, but as long as our parents are willing, we’ll gladly stick to the Thanksgiving equivalent of heating up Pop Tarts.

When the pie is done (we think), we begin our annual mad dash to get to my parents’ house before Thanksgiving officially expires. Unfortunately, arriving anywhere on time with my wife and three daughters ranks right up there with trying use Saran Wrap without cursing.

Once we finally arrive, we force our daughters to participate in a traditional family photo session in front of the old magnolia tree before they have a chance to soil their outfits with ketchup, ,’yes, ketchup.The whining and complaining that ensues when we mention taking pictures probably makes the neighbors suspect us of committing some kind of severe abuse, ,’like forcing our children to pose for photos.

After the photo-torture, we proceed to the main event. The Thanksgiving meal always begins with a prayer, which usually (and ironically) is my responsibility.I thank the Lord for the blessings He has imparted to us, followed by requesting a quick recovery from the gravy overdose we are about to receive.My parents spend hours cooking, so we always feel obliged to test the capacity of our internal organs. And still, when I finally pry myself away from the dining table to hook up a Pepto-Bismol IV, my dad always asks accusingly, “Is that all you’re gonna eat?”I usually answer by grabbing the pie server (and handing it to my mother since I’ve been told I’m geometrically challenged).

I truly have a lot to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.My family is healthy, we have more than we need, and we get to sleep until noon for three days straight. I look forward to the day when I can host Thanksgiving for my children and grandchildren, and we can sit down together for a hearty meal of pumpkin pie and Pop Tarts.

So this Thanksgiving, put down those Black Friday ads for a minute, focus on the things in your life that really matter, and ask a loved one to pass the Cool Whip.

–

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 [email protected].

High school class reunions are funny things (in more ways than one). We spend 12 years trying our darndest to get out of school and, by extension, away from our classmates. Then, every decade or so, we migrate back together like humpback whales returning to their breeding grounds (hopefully without the breeding – but more like whales than we’d like to admit).

It’s as if those of us who graduated in the 1980s need an occasional reminder that permed mullets, parachute pants, and Wham! aren’t just the fantastical stuff of our recurrent nightmares – but elements of the actual trauma we managed to survive (with various degrees of psychological scarring).

Some folks avoid class reunions due to concerns about how their physical appearance may have declined over the years. I’m happy to say my looks have actually improved with time – unless you count my expansive love handles that grow more lovable with each passing Mexican dinner. I’ve also developed a reptilian skin flap under my chin that I’ve learned to flare out as a sort of mid-life mating call. So far, it just seems to give my wife a severe headache.

Speaking of my wife, in addition to her professional success, she has managed to stay slim and beautiful throughout our marriage. So when my 30-year reunion rolled around this year, I was anxious to show her off, proving to everyone that I was actually able to find someone to marry me without having to place an order with a suspicious overseas website. Believe it, or not, during high school, I wasn’t the loosely strapping (in places) dollop of post-dweeb manliness that I am now. I think the girls in my class thought of me as an annoying little brother who, with the right treatment, might reach puberty by his late twenties.

When my wife and I first arrived at the reunion venue, it was extremely dark inside, concealing age spots, wrinkles, and other blemishes on my sport coat. As “Don’t You Forget about Me” by Simple Minds roared predictably through the speakers, I noticed that most people were holding drinks, so bowing to peer pressure, I threw caution to the wind and ordered some of the hard stuff – a couple of Diet Cokes on the rocks. (This occasion was clearly too intense for Diet Dr. Pepper. )

After milling around and trying to decide how early we could leave without being noticed, I finally bumped into a couple of my former running buddies. Both have families and successful careers now, and it was just plain weird to stand there as adults discussing children and daily commutes when the main topics of our school days conversations probably made us permanently unfit to serve on the Supreme Court. It was good to see them, though, and to know that we all “made it,” despite the dangerous risk we once took with a Bic lighter and the aftermath of a Taco Bell bean burrito.

After catching up for a few minutes, it suddenly became clear that there was no chance of making a graceful exit. The reunion organizer was a vivacious classmate with enough blackmail material to coerce a few of us onto the dance floor for some organized humiliation – just like old times. The “game” involved pairing us up and forcing us to maneuver an inflatable ball between ourselves from our waists up to our necks without using our hands. Luckily, I was partnered with a female classmate whom I had somehow convinced to dance with me a few times when we were teens, so at least she was used to my deodorant. We actually did pretty well, probably because she runs marathons, and I run to Walmart about twice a week.

After my great victory on the dance floor, my wife was rescued from further embarrassment when our eldest and most expensive daughter texted us to come pick her up from whatever event she was attending that required a new outfit. Even though we couldn’t stay long, I’m glad I went to the reunion. And once my wife gets over her headache, maybe I can convince her to play that game with the ball.

–

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.

Autumn in East Texas is usually ushered in by a yearly “cold snap,” meaning we have a few days in late September or early October when the daytime temperature drops below 90 and we don’t have to handle our seatbelt buckles with fireplace tongs. Shortly thereafter, though, the fall season is hauled before the Senate Judiciary Committee and subjected to an F. B. I. investigation that delays its swearing in for at least another month. As a result, a “crisp fall day” often takes on a completely different meaning in this part of the country, but at least it reminds us of bacon.

It’s during this resurgence of summer that East Texans often attend one of the many area fall festivals, perhaps in an attempt to lull ourselves into the delusion that we shouldn’t all still be up to our necks in a swimming pool somewhere. I recently attended one of these events in a nearby city to watch my eldest and most expensive daughter march in the festival parade with her high school drill and dance team.

As with most activities that occur outdoors, I immediately felt out of place (I consider myself a consummate indoorsman). My feelings of unease were heightened by the fact that this particular festival had a decidedly country and western theme (and I’m about as country and western as Donald Trump in a pair of woolly chaps). Despite the heat and close proximity to crowds of people who regularly butcher their own dinner, I was determined to see my girl do her thing ,’ and embarrass her in some way if possible.

Our first task was finding somewhere to park, and because the entire community had come out for the parade, this basically meant driving to the end of our street and walking the rest of the way. Since my youngest daughter has an aversion to any physical activity that involves more than operating a touch screen, she reacted to the prospect of walking as if we were asking her to hike the entire Appalachian Trail barefoot over a pathway of scattered Lego bricks while carrying me piggyback.

We first strolled to the drop-off point to deposit our eldest daughter, who was irked because she hadn’t had time to apply her makeup concealer that morning. (Surprisingly, her mood didn’t improve when I offered to loan her some of mine. )

Then, after trekking through a tick-laden pasture and at least 12 parking lots packed with massive pickup trucks full of hunting gear, we finally found a spot to stand for the parade. I was so excited about seeing my daughter march that I barely noticed the tributary of sweat that was now streaming down my back and draining into my shorts.

Like most small town parades, this one featured numerous flatbed trailers piled with unruly children throwing candy, sports cars with lovely pageant contestants emerging from sunroofs and throwing candy, first responders driving emergency vehicles and throwing candy, and horses throwing… well, never mind. The candy really made it special for the younger parade watchers, and I only knocked over a few of them when I was going after the Snickers.

When the drill team finally made their way down the thoroughfare, I grabbed my camera to try for the perfect shot of my daughter, who was pretending to smile while I shouted her name in my best annoying-dad bellow. Fortunately for her, she was on the opposite side of the street, and my wife stopped me before I could dash out for a close-up and probably be crushed under the unreasonably large tires of a modified Super Duty F-350 Platinum. (I had to look that up. )

Despite the heat and the fact that I had given up about four hours of Saturday morning sleep-in time, we really enjoyed the fall festival. Events like these truly bring communities together and harken back to a simpler time,’before Snapchat, green smoothies and Dancing with the Stars. It’s also a great way to celebrate the beginning of autumn. And, who knows? In a month, or so, the weather might even stay cool enough to break out your woolly chaps.

–

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.

With school back in full swing, I’d like to say a few words about teachers, without whom none of us would know what in the heck to do with the word “whom.”

I come from a long-ish line of teachers myself. My mother taught elementary and middle school for over thirty years, and my grandmother also had a brief stint practicing the pedagogical arts.I guess you could say teaching is in my blood – like a serious infection. In fact, “pedagogy” kind of sounds like the name of a disease.

“I’m sorry, sir, you have an acute case of pedagogy, and I’m afraid we don’t have an ointment for that.”

Some folks may labor under the delusion that teaching is a relatively easy career – with short workdays, summers off, loads of holidays, and late nights praying fervently for catastrophic levels of precipitation when snow is in the forecast. (Ok, maybe that’s just me.) Sure, teachers may get a little more time off than some professionals, but they need these precious moments of psychological rehab to keep from setting their hair on fire and running naked through the streets – especially when snow is in the forecast.

Just think about all of the irritating behaviors and disgusting bodily functions that your children have inflicted upon you over the years. I can assure you that these outrages have been visited upon your children’s teachers, as well. Only, instead of dealing with two or three human larvae breaking wind and finding creative ways to refer to each other as the nether regions of various farm animals, teachers are saddled with up to thirty at a time – all while trying to teach them long division.

And I would know.

My own olfactory nerves were permanently damaged during my short tenure teaching junior high.In fact, back when I was in seventh grade, amid diagramming sentences, my friends and I used to see how often we could prompt our English teacher to pull out the Lysol within a 60-minute class period. By the time the bell rang, the room could’ve been mistaken for an overcrowded feed lot – with a hint of linen freshness.

Besides actually managing students within the fragrant confines of the classroom, teachers are also subjected to various other “duties as assigned,” including hall duty, bus duty, lunch duty, recess duty, carpool duty, and many other great big piles of duty. Have you ever spent some quality time monitoring a junior high school cafeteria? It’s a great way to lose weight (and your hearing). I call it the Food-Fight, Boisterous-Belch, Milk-Spew, Jell-o-Slurp, Giggle-Snort, School Cafeteria Diet. Once you’ve seen an eighth-grader hork down a cafeteria style French dip – a sandwich made out of a roll and everything else on his sectioned tray (dunked in chocolate milk), you may never bring yourself to eat again.

Now don’t get me wrong. Teaching does have its rewards. There is nothing quite like the joy of watching a child learn. Teachers have the privilege of introducing their beloved students to such important concepts as dangling participles (not to be confused with other offensive dangling things – like prepositions), the Shakespearean origin of the word “puking,” and algebra.

Teachers really are the unsung heroes in America. Sure, we all pay lip service to honoring teachers by force-feeding them enough desserts to send them into a carbohydrate freak-out on Teacher Appreciation Days, and we bring them tacky Christmas gifts like mugs, candles, and apple-shaped bath bombs that make them smell like they underwent a prolonged hot-cider baptism. (I’ll bet if my mom had lit all of her teacher-gift candles at once, they could’ve easily be seen from the Death Star.)But couldn’t a society that wastes $9.8 billion a year on gastrointestinal discomfort at Taco Bell do more to show our thanks?

While I don’t want to get into the debate about teacher pay, I can promise you this: Teachers aren’t paid too much, their insurance isn’t overly generous, and their retirement plans aren’t excessively lucrative.And if you need to see for yourself that teachers earn every cent of their salaries (and beyond), volunteer at your child’s school sometime. I’ll bet they could use you in the cafeteria.

–

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 [email protected].

Yes, it’s that time of year again! Not only does every product in the world economy suffer from widespread pumpkin spice contamination, but entire nacho-crazed communities across America have succumbed to the yearly epidemic of Friday night high school football mania.

In East Texas, these events would rival the popularity of a free Beyonce concert at which each fan receives an after-party invitation to drink Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Frappuccinos with the British Royal Family. It was into the frenzied atmosphere of “Friday Night Lights” that I found myself thrust recently as I sat waiting to see my eldest and most expensive daughter perform with her high school dance drill team during halftime.

I have a checkered history with Friday night football games. As a youth, my initial experience primarily involved wandering around under the stands looking for lost change and watching more pubescent people than I make out. (And I wondered why I couldn’t get a girlfriend). I eventually tripped over puberty myself, grew a lavish mullet, joined the marching band and played the bass drum – the coloring book of band instruments.

Let me tell you, nothing attracted teenage girls like parading around harnessed to a massive barrel that made me look like I was in the third trimester of a septuplet pregnancy. The most excitement I ever experienced playing the bass drum at a game was when the fuzzy end of my mallet came off in mid-beat, flew up into the stands and ruined a fan’s heavily Aqua-Netted 80’s hairdo.

I’m also ashamed to admit that despite a brief stint playing junior high football, I don’t really know much about the game. My primary concern at the time was trying to arrange all of the protective football pads, cups, gussets, and straps in and around my various appendages without injuring myself in the locker room. And I still can’t tell the difference between a fullback, halfback, running back, cornerback, tailback, fatback, baby back, and hunchback. I also have trouble deciphering the referee signals, many of which come perilously close to obscene gestures I often see while driving in heavy traffic.

Anyway, having failed to convince my wife that we should leave after the National Anthem, I realized I was in it for all four innings. To pass the time, I pulled out my 35mm camera with extra-embarrassing zoom lens and proceeded to mortify my eldest daughter by taking about 500 pictures of her, ,while she was still sitting in the bleachers (and giving me a stink eye that rivaled the odor of the guy seated next to me eating his second boat of chili-cheese nachos. )

Speaking of nachos, my youngest daughter seemed to have come along strictly for the refreshments. The highlight of her night was devouring a ginormous pickle while wallowing around in my lap and using my shirt as a napkin. Although she’s all knees, elbows and other pointy parts, I cherish moments like this because I know that soon, she, too, will refuse to acknowledge my existence as a fellow life form. I just wish that holding her in my lap felt a little less like having my undercarriage trampled by a juvenile bull moose.

My middle daughter has recently entered the dreaded stage of surly teenage morosity (where everything on the planet is “lame,” with the exception of Converse sneakers, fake fingernails, and cute guys – meaning barely adolescent male stick figures who spend more time styling their hair than it takes me to mow my yard). She spent most of the game walking to and from the girls’ restroom, though I suspect this was just a ploy to increase her chances of bumping into an East Texas version of Shawn Mendes.

The football game actually turned out to be pretty exciting (as far as I could tell), and my daughter’s half-time performance was outstanding. Because all of the drill team performers dress and style their hair the same, I had a hard time finding her, even with my zoom lens. I eventually spotted her, though, and despite her beautiful smile, I could have sworn she was still giving me the stink eye.

–

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.

Wild-ish Kingdom:Inept Interactions with Backyard Wildlife

As you enjoy the pleasant weather of late summer and early autumn, you are likely to encounter local wildlife.No, I don’t mean the neighbors’ children, but actual non-humanoid, indigenous animals.

What follows are some accounts to assist you in identifying and interacting with some of these creatures that may intrude upon the domestic tranquility of your own yard and cause you to reconsider ever going outside again.

At a recent family gathering in my own backyard, we caught a glimpse of a shaggy mammal that appeared to be failing a field sobriety test along the top of our privacy fence.At first, we couldn’t determine whether it was a morbidly obese rat or a Pomeranian with a serious meth habit.Finally, my middle daughter identified the intruder as the North American opossum.

There has been a recent attempt in the media to rehabilitate the image of the opossum by reminding observers that these fierce-looking creatures are relatively harmless as they often hiss and involuntarily faint, or play dead, when they feel threatened. (My youngest daughter exhibits this same behavior when we try to wake her up for school.) There are even celebrity opossums with their own YouTube channels and Facebook pages.Our opossum visitor, on the other hand, didn’t even have the courtesy to stop for a group selfie.

About a week after the opossum sighting, I chanced upon another hairy nocturnal beast that is often the stuff of nightmares.No, I don’t mean a teenage boy picking up one of my daughters for a date, but a small brown bat.As the girls and I were watering our flowers in a futile attempt to delay their inevitable and untimely doom, we found the animal clinging to the side of a large planter on our patio.

At first, I thought it might be a frog in need of a good waxing, but upon closer inspection, I realized that we were in dangerous proximity to an animal that might very well transform into an animated version of Adam Sandler and speak with a goofy Romanian accent at any minute.

Seriously, though, knowing that bats can carry rabies, I took an extremely scientific approach to removing it.Amid earsplitting squeals (some actually coming from my daughters), I grabbed a large Rubbermaid dustpan and gingerly scooped the bat off the planter.The bat wasn’t moving and may have been dead, but I didn’t feel like taking its vitals to be sure.Instead, I deposited it on top of a fence post at the back of the yard so that it could hang out with the opossum the next time he came by.I then went inside to change my shorts.

My next wild animal encounter took place one evening while I was emptying a skimmer basket on the pool we put in a few years back (because sanity and financial responsibility are overrated).When I clean the baskets in the dark, I always feel like Flash Gordon in the gloriously cheesy 1980 film when he reaches into the hollow stump and tries to avoid being stung by that alien-scorpion-slug thingy,’with the Queen soundtrack playing in the background.

Sure enough, the basket contained the ultimate baddie of the animal kingdom,’a snake.It was a baby garter snake, but it still had that fiendish look in its eye as if it might tempt me to do something sinful.Being the manly skimmer-basket cleaner that I am, I snatched the serpent by the tail and flung it over into a flowerbed.When I told my wife about my impressively macho reaction to the snake, the ensuing conversation went something like this:

“How big was it?” she asked.

“Hard to say.It was dark.”

“How big, do you THINK it was?

“You know that water hose out back?”

“You mean it was as big as a water hose?!”

“Well, it was the same general shape.”

I then quickly changed the subject.

At any rate, I hope that these mostly true anecdotes will help you enjoy the diversity of nature that you can experience right in your own yard.And if wild animals creep you out, you can always stay inside and re-watch “Flash Gordon.”

–

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 [email protected].

In the scorching summer weather, which lasts roughly from Easter to Thanksgiving in East Texas, if you want to avoid morphing into an extra-greasy (and slightly hairy) strip of bacon, escaping the heat and humidity is a necessity.

Although the air-conditioning at Walmart can be quite exhilarating, you can only browse through the mouthwash and processed meats for so long before you raise the suspicions of store management,- and they threaten to hire you. Therefore, several years ago, in a spasm of financial self-flagellation, my wife and I decided to transform our backyard into a chemically enhanced tropical paradise with the installation of an in-ground swimming pool, complete with real live palm tree thingies.

As we soon discovered, pool ownership can present several challenges. One example is the mysterious phenomenon in which the pool water creates its own gravitational field, attracting every leaf, insect, frog, squirrel (usually dead), snake (usually alive), and annoying neighborhood kid within a five-mile radius. As the pool owner, you are responsible for removing these contaminants (mainly the annoying neighborhood kids) and buying expensive chemicals to protect against them.

Also, depending on the type of pool you own, you’ll also be tasked with cleaning the filter. Once you’ve done this for the first time and witnessed the unidentifiable sludge that comes out of it, you’ll likely decide to purchase additional cleaning equipment. I recommend an encapsulated hazmat suit and a flamethrower.

With whatever is left of your time and money, you may choose to host a pool party. At our home, pool parties always include a number of various and sundry children (in addition to our own three daughters). Depending on the age of the children (and some adults) present, there is the ever-present paranoia about the potential urine-to-chlorine ratio in the pool water. Despite these apprehensions, though, I seem to be the usual go-to parent whom the children request to get in the pool and play the straight man to their shenanigans. My wife assures me that this is because I’m so good with the kids, but I suspect that they consider me a larger version of themselves -just with more ear and nose hair.

One pool game that can provide minutes of fun is Sharks and Minnows. In our version, I play the shark (more like an elephant seal with low T) trying to tag the minnows before they can swim from one side of the pool to the other. For some reason, the children often up the stakes by assaulting the shark immediately upon being tagged. The game can get pretty intense, and it inevitably ends with someone’s feelings getting hurt (usually mine).

We then transition to a game that is less likely to involve having my eyes gouged out by someone in a Hello Kitty swimsuit – the repetitively annoying Marco Polo. After years of playing, I’m convinced that Marco Polo was invented specifically to irritate nearby adults to the brink of insanity and to allow children to hone their advanced cheating and arguing skills.

Once everyone is so upset that they won’t speak to one another, it’s time for snacks. Nothing awakens the savage beast of childhood “hangry” like swimming, so it’s important to be prepared with enough refreshments to satisfy a large sleuth of grizzly bears just after hibernation. At our last pool gathering, the kids cleaned out every last Cheese Nip and then resorted to eating an entire box of stale Saltines left over from the Great Tummy Virus Epidemic of 2016.

As the sun sets and we light the citronella Tiki torches (so the mosquitos can see better), I often sit back to enjoy the tranquility of the evening, interrupted only by the occasional shrieks of five adolescent girls trying to cram themselves into a quickly deflating $25 pool ring. At these moments, I realize that even with all of the extra work and financial sacrifices, the pool has been a great investment.

So if you ever decide to put in a pool, and you find yourself gagging while cleaning the filter, just reflect upon the sweet times spent with family and friends – and switch the flamethrower to turbo.

–

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.

!

Welcome to another installment of Things You Should Do Before A Wild Saturday Night Consists Of Cruising the Aisles at Walgreen s for Prune Juice and Denture Adhesive !

After ten years of traveling with my family for summer vacation to the coast of Alabama (yes, they have a coast – and it has nothing to do with Nick Saban), we were finally able to catch a scheduled practice of the world-famous U.S. Navy Blue Angels Flight Demonstration Team at nearby Pensacola Naval Air Station. I ve had a fascination with the Blue Angels ever since I first heard the stunning roar of their F/A-18 Hornets as they buzzed the Alabama beaches on their way back to the station while I was sunbathing in a pair of previously unsoiled board shorts.

The Blue Angels website cautions that hydration is essential for attendees of their practices because there is no shade for the audience, which is seated on metal bleachers – next to a gigantic concrete military runway – in Florida – in late June. In other words, we would basically be viewing the practice from the bowels of an active volcano, only with less of a breeze.

Since my father-in-law insisted that we get up shortly after I went to bed in order to get a good seat, we were first in line at the airfield. Beside the entrance stood a massive sign that read, Sit Down. Hold Tight. And Experience the Sound of Freedom. Couldn t they make the sound of freedom later in the day? The only sounds I make in the morning& Oh, never mind.

An elderly lieutenant colonel retired from the Marine Corps provided some of the narration for the show. He stood out on the boiling pavement in front of the stands and spoke with such excitement and vitality that we wouldn t have been surprised if he broke out with a few advanced tumbling passes. In contrast, we sat slumped over in the bleachers, sweating from every inch of our bodies, including our eyeballs, and offering larger audience members our firstborn children if they would stand up to provide some shade.

Speaking of children, the heat-resistant lieutenant colonel reminded us that when the show was over, we should pick up all of our trash and random belongings, including kids. He announced that any child left behind would be sent home with a puppy and a large energy drink. He also reminded us that there was a concession stand selling Gatorade, water, and sandwiches from Chick-fil-A (a proud supporter of the U.S. Military and the official fast food of Heaven.) Unfortunately, when I left my seat to purchase some expensive beverages for my family to pour on themselves, the line looked like the checkout at Walmart when they re having a big sale on pork rinds. The line moved quickly, though, and I made it back to my seat just in time for the start of the show – and to see my middle daughter spontaneously combust.

The practice itself was truly awe-inspiring. It began with a test run of Fat Albert, a massive C-130 that carries supplies for the Blue Angels and has withstood brutal body shaming over the years. We then saw the Angels perform several amazing stunts that seemed to defy physics, aerodynamics, quantum mechanics, and other courses I avoided in college by majoring in English. For a minute there, I was so caught up in the thrill of the performance that I didn t notice the heat searing me to my bench like a suicidal earthworm on a hot driveway.

After the last of the Blue Angels had landed and taxied past the stands to the wild applause of the audience, we oozed out of the bleachers and made our way to the neighboring National Naval Aviation Museum. Inside the comfort of the climate-controlled museum, surrounded by majestic artifacts of America s past, I felt a strong appreciation for the U.S. Military and their protection of our freedoms and way of life.

I couldn t help pausing for a moment, closing my eyes, and whispering, God Bless the U.S.A. – and reliable, high-quality air conditioning.

–

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 [email protected].