Cagle World

Welcome to another installment of Things you should do before the highlight of your week is lime Jell-O Thursday!

This year, in my family s ongoing quest to turn ourselves into an enormous package of extra-salty beef jerky, we decided to take a family road trip to South Padre Island, Texas, for the third summer in a row.

Because I have a wife and three daughters, preparing for such a trip is like mounting a major military campaign to the Middle East. Unable to cram all of our luggage into our Ford Expedition without triggering the air bags, I resorted to using the dreaded roof-mounted luggage container, which my daughters fondly refer to as the turtle. Unfortunately, the turtle is getting older and occasionally suffers from shell-closure dysfunction. As a result, I found myself periodically thrusting my head out of the window like a drooling Labrador retriever to see if the Gorilla Tape and bungee cords were keeping the turtle from scattering my underwear all over US 77.

Another harrowing aspect of our trip was the lack of service stations on the remote highway to South Padre Island. Near the town of Riviera, we saw a sign indicating that there wouldn t be another service station (complete with squalid restrooms) for 60 miles. Despite having already taken approximately 37 potty-breaks, I warned everyone that they should go now, or risk choosing between a large grove of roadside prickly-pear cacti and a Sonic cup.

Once we finally arrived on the golden shores of South Padre Island, we spent several days enjoying typical beach activities, like being paranoid about flesh-eating bacteria, fighting off plagues of Cheezit-crazed seagulls, and asphyxiating ourselves with spray-on sunscreen fumes. But the highlight of the trip was a relaxing dolphin, sunset, fireworks, and overpriced beverages cruise on our last evening.

Because we wanted a genuine experience, we booked with a company called The Original Dolphin Watch. (We weren t about to stand for some imitation cruise featuring off-brand dolphins imported from Taiwan.) Our boat had two decks, so when we boarded, my daughters immediately proceeded to the top level – for maximum UV ray exposure. Once I was comfortably settled into my seat, the girls asked if I would go back down to purchase them a few sodas, the cost of which ensured that the captain and his deck hands could send their kids to elite private colleges.

Shortly after we left the dock, the captain warned us that the ride might get a little rough as he took us out to where the dolphins were hanging out with their squad. Once the boat stopped rocking and I managed to extract my iPhone from my left nostril, the captain alerted us to the presence of dolphins, always directing us to look on the side of the boat opposite from where I was standing. By the time I had stumbled over to the correct side for original dolphin viewing, all I saw was an elderly dude in a kayak wearing nothing but a zebra striped Speedo.

Next on the agenda was a relaxing sunset journey to the fireworks launch site. As we motored out alongside the Queen Isabella Causeway, the crew dropped a net and brought up several ocean creatures for display. They caught a blue crab, a starfish, and several other cast members from SpongeBob SquarePants. My wife and I were also delighted that after the perfunctory playing of Margaritaville, the on-board music featured hits from the 80 s, when almost every song had that Dude, this new synthesizer is totally rad moment. My children really enjoyed it when I let loose to Toto s Africa, especially since I never get the lyrics right.

I guess it rains down in Aaaafricaaa!

The highlight of the evening was a spectacular fireworks display over the bay. After the show ended and we cruised back to the dock, I reflected on the special time I had spent with my family and couldn t resist singing along with Corey Hart s I Wear My Sunglasses at Night.

Don t be afraaaaid of the guy with shakes, oh no!

My kids now refuse to sit by me in public when music is playing. I m not sure why.

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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 [email protected].

This summer my wife and I travelled to Cincinnati, Ohio, to collect my second leg lamp for humor writing from the National Society of Newspaper Columnists at the annual conference. The conference itself was outstanding, and it was a privilege to meet Pulitzer Prize-winning columnists Clarence Page, Rochelle Riley, and Connie Schultz, who write about important topics like truth in journalism, race in America, and the struggles of underrepresented populations. Disheartening self-comparisons were inevitable, though, considering that most of my columns feature someone not wearing pants – usually me.

We had never been to Cincinnati, and all I knew about it was that it’s located in the Midwest, meaning north of Texarkana and probably east of the Pacific. Our flight landed in a suburb of Cincinnati called Kentucky, and we crammed ourselves into our rental car, a Nissan Versa approximately the same size as a box of Milk Duds.

Before the conference began, we wanted to get a feel for the city by exploring the downtown area. In other words, we were looking for somewhere to eat. I had heard, and been warned, about the famous Cincinnati chili. A Cincy native told me it’s like a plate of pre-teen spaghetti with meat sauce that got carried away with dad’s Old Spice cologne. The whole thing is then covered with a metric ton of grated cheddar cheese – out of embarrassment.

Despite the caution, though, we wanted the full Queen City experience and stopped into Skyline Chili. We were served by a cordial young man who guided us through the menu, brought out a large platter of “Three-Way” Chili, and then ran behind the counter to watch us try to eat it – and keep it down. (I’m pretty sure he was putting us on YouTube.) No, really, he checked on us regularly and even brought us a first-time-visitor gift bag containing some York Peppermint Patties to cleanse the remains of our palates. All joking aside, the chili was actually quite satisfying, and we ate every bite. We’re still hoping to regain our sense of taste someday.

Our next stop was another Cincinnati institution called Graeter’s Ice Cream (founded in 1870 – before correct spelling was invented). When we asked for the most popular flavor, our server gave us each a scoop of raspberry chocolate chip, an odd combination, we thought, but after the silly chili, we were ready for anything. What we weren’t prepared for was that at Graeter’s, “chocolate chip” is code for massive geological deposits of chocolate formed during the Cretaceous period. This unique ice cream is created through the French Pot technique, which involves pouring molten chocolate directly into the cream during the cold mixing process while maintaining a Gallic accent and an attitude that you’re better than everyone else. The chocolate chip ice cream at Graeter’s was so overwhelming that we didn’t feel like going back until the next day – and the next.

About an hour after the ice cream, we were ready to eat again, so we booked an evening dinner cruise with B–Riverboats aboard The Belle of Cincinnati. This majestic paddleboat churns down the Ohio River, half of which is owned by Kentucky in some kind of time-share agreement. (I think the people of Kentucky are somewhat consoled about the river’s name by the fact that Ohio’s residents are named after a poisonous nut.) The boat was truly grand, and the passengers consisted of my wife and me, about a hundred high school kids from an Upward Bound program, and the residents of every retirement village in the Ohio Valley. After dinner, there was even a DJ and dancing on the upper deck. My wife and I were struck by how well-behaved and calm the teenagers were, but we figured they were probably just in shock from watching several of the elderly female passengers twerking to V.I.C.’s “Wobble.”

It was a true privilege visiting Cincinnati and being honored by the NSNC on the night of the awards banquet. I’m guessing the Pulitzer folks probably won’t come knocking anytime soon, but just in case they do, I’d better put on some pants.

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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 [email protected].

For the past couple of years, I ve put in my recommended thirty minutes of rigorous near-death exertion per day by watching Netflix while pedaling a recumbent stationary bicycle, the piece of exercise equipment that most closely resembles a recliner.

On a recent evening, determined to pay for the crime against my arteries I d just committed at the local Chinese buffet, I began my evening workout regimen with some high-impact stretching. This warm-up involved lying on the floor in front of the television, breathing heavily amid occasional bodily noises, and strenuously clicking through Netflix in search of some high-quality streaming entertainment.

Would it be one of about a hundred Netflix-produced Adam Sandler films that I ve never heard of, or something from the critically acclaimed Sharknado franchise? Maybe I d indulge my inner romantic with Sin City: A Dame to Kill For. Then again, I might fancy an educational documentary, like Danny Trejo s Survivor s Guide to Prison. The number of choices was maddening, and before I knew it, I was suffering from acute Netflixation. Having spent over an hour in an indecisive stupor, I could barely peel myself off the carpet and go to bed. (I counted that as a push-up.)

Neflixation is a national epidemic that has killed an untold amount of time that could ve been spent on more useful pursuits, like finding a cure for Sonic Route 44 brain freeze. In fact, I m convinced that if it wasn t for Netflix, Robert Mueller could have wrapped up the Russia investigation in about the time it takes to binge-watch a season of The Crown. (I m still struggling to get over Princess Margaret s heartbreak.)

Speaking of binge-watching, I resent Netflix s collusion with our innate human tendency to fritter away our time with its Binge-Worthy recommendations. I m proud to say, though, that it only took me a single weekend to get through every episode of Stranger Things twice with minimal potty breaks.

The main problem with Netflix is that finding something decent to watch is like trying to find your daughter s fake eyelash that she has to have for her dance recital, and that she lost somewhere in her bedroom, which she hasn t cleaned since 2010. (After conducting a frantic and exhaustive search, we eventually found it stuck to the side of her head.)

I actually miss the old days of selecting a movie at the local video store. At least there, your feet eventually got so tired from browsing that you were willing to settle for Howard the Duck again. With Netflix, on the other hand, you risk becoming paralyzed for hours by the variety of crummy video choices without leaving the comfort of your own throw rug. And if you finally do make a selection out of sheer desperation, you could find yourself watching John Travolta go full-on-alien-Scientology-dreadlocks in Battlefield Earth.B-B-

I also take issue with how Netflix rates its offerings. Unlike typical customer rating systems, which clearly display actual customer reviews, Netflix buries viewer comments deep within the details section of each thumbnail. I think they hope you ll be too zombified by the selection process to bother reading an honest review that might say, Watching this movie was like reading Tolstoy backwards after soaking your contacts in Windex.

Instead of emphasizing ratings, Netflix makes dubious predictions about what you ll want to watch in the future based on your own thumbs-up or thumbs-down film rankings. Why, then, do my Top Picks recommendations feature a Netflix-produced teen romcom called The Kissing Booth and reruns of Friends? Apparently, Netflix has mistaken me for a seventeen-year-old girl, which hardly ever happens to me anymore.

An alternative to Netflix s endless library of substandard streaming options is their mail-in DVD service, which offers a vast selection of films not starring Adam Sandler. The shipping is as slow as a rickshaw pulled by a team of elderly members of Congress, but it might remind you of a simpler time before streaming movies.

In fact, I think I ll see if Netflix has Howard the Duck, just for old times sake.

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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 [email protected].

As a married man with three daughters, I enjoy the occasional moment of solitude when I can reset, recharge, refocus, and stand at the open refrigerator in my underwear eating aerosol whipped cream and drinking milk directly from the jug. I was looking forward to reveling in this kind of reclusively boorish behavior recently when I had a week of vacation to myself while the girls were still in school and my wife was at work – wondering if I d be out of bed by the time they got home.

Unfortunately, I found myself unable to continue ignoring those chores usually assigned to the man of the house and which require a full set of clothing. Based on my experiences that week, I thought I d offer a few tips to other men like me whose tools all still have that new hardware smell and whose yardwork always begins with untangling an epic mass of electrical cords.

Tip #1 – Prior to spending a significant amount of time outdoors in the sun for the first time since the previous August, generously apply sunscreen to the back of your neck until it reaches the consistency of spackling paste. Failure to do so will result in your neck looking like an inflamed Louisiana hot link, which, in turn, will prompt friends, family and your barber to joke incessantly about the fact that you ve finally become a real redneck, which, in turn, will prompt all of them to tell mostly the same You might be a redneck jokes, which, in turn, will make you wish you d thought up the whole redneck comedy shtick so you wouldn t have to be doing yard work in the first place.

Tip #2 – If that plastic safety cover thingy comes off the end of your electric weed whacker while in use, refrain from raising the weed whacker to waist-level in order to get a better look, especially when wearing a pair of old Nike shorts. If you do happen to raise the weed whacker and you accidentally hit the on button while doing so, immediately assume a fetal posture and holler out curse word alternatives like Shatner s Fusty Skunk Nuggets! Then quickly concoct a story to tell friends, family and alarmed neighbors about an altercation with an unusually athletic possum. Thereafter, put the offending weed whacker out of its (and your) misery – and violently so.

Tip #3 – Be prepared to replace all toilet seats in the home at least once every decade. (Apparently, certain family members are opposed to performing acrobatic moves on the commode to avoid splinters and other injuries requiring a tetanus shot.) When shopping for toilet seats, be willing to laugh politely when an elderly fellow-customer walks up to the display and jokes (hopefully) about the high cost of those large, white picture frames. Before attaching a new toilet seat, maintain a healthy suspicion of all marketing gimmicks on the box that claim, Installs in minutes and No need to get on hands and knees. You won t be on hands and knees because you ll be on your back with your head wedged underneath the toilet bowl, embracing it like an awkward prom date. Once you ve installed the new seat and extracted your melon from the forbidden zone, flush the toilet to be sure it still works properly.

Tip #4 – Expect your children to interrupt all of the above tasks daily when they activate your parental guilt reflex by requesting that you bring them lunch to school from a fast food restaurant. On the way to the school, position your air conditioning vents such that the icing on the gourmet cupcakes you bought as an excuse to eat one yourself doesn t melt. At the same time, balance the kids Raising Cane s Box Combos in your lap to keep them warm. Before delivering what s left of their food, remember to lick Cane s Sauce residue from your fingers to remove evidence.

I hope these tips provide you with the guidance needed to avoid selfishly enjoyable and relaxing alone-time while you re off from work. And if you ever do find yourself desperate for a minute to yourself, there s always the refrigerator.

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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 [email protected].

Although some men long to have a son to carry on their family name (and their male-pattern baldness), I’ve always felt lucky to have three daughters.

Having girls is more interesting for me since I’ve been doing the whole boy thing for almost fifty years – and not all that well. Also, when the girls were very young, my patriarchal, narrow-minded, predisposed, non-pc, androcentric (I got that one from the thesaurus) expectations told me that, with daughters, I might be able to avoid spending every Saturday for a decade watching my children play sports.

I know it seems un-American, but even when I played little-league baseball, the only enjoyment I ever got out of it was visiting the concession stand for Pop Rocks, grape Shasta, and some artificial cheese-product nachos after the game. It also didn’t hurt that there was usually a cute, older teenage girl working the stand who I hoped was into slightly chubby younger guys with chili bowl haircuts and glasses thick enough to double as a binocular telescope.

I’m sure you’re ahead of me by now, but I soon realized that even if I managed to avoid branding my cheeks with hot metal bleacher imprints at a ballpark every Saturday afternoon, there are a plethora of other equally-excruciating spectator events lying in wait for unsuspecting dads of girl children.

One of these ordeals I experienced recently was a day-long dance recital. Our family attended because my eldest and most expensive daughter participates in every possible activity that requires me to watch a procession of other people’s children perform for hours on end while I wait to see her finally do her thing for three whole minutes.

What I first noticed about the recital (other than the lack of a concession stand) was the staggering amount of sequins. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like sequins as much as the next adult male who isn’t a figure skater. I fondly remember many a grade-school craft project that involved gluing sequins onto paper plates, cotton balls, toilet paper tubes, and other household goods sacrificed in the name of art. But I’ve never witnessed a Mt. Kilauea of sequins like I saw at this dance recital. Every dancer seemed to have dipped herself in Karo syrup and performed a swan dive into an enormous vat of sequins.And judging by the cost of the two costumes we purchased, these sequins may have once adorned a garment worn by Cleopatra herself – or a Kardashian.

Once my retinas had adjusted to this sequin throat punch and I’d used my iPhone to invest in the international sequin cartel, I soon became distracted by my fellow spectators. Based on their audience etiquette, many of them had never attended a public performance of any kind, unless you count watching domestic disputes in the Walmart parking lot.

Several audience members felt compelled to screech out the names and nicknames of every performer they knew before, during and after each dance. (I think I heard “Go, Nay-nay!!!” at least fifty times – and not for the same person.)

Then there were the babies and toddlers doing what babies and toddlers do when you take them to a two-hour event featuring lots of earsplitting techno music and flashing lights. That’s right, Sherlock as played by Benedict Cumberbatch, they don’t sleep, and thanks to them, neither could I.

Finally, the pre-teens seated behind us spent the show debating, at full volume, which Disney Princesses the dancers were depicting on stage at any given moment while kicking the back of my seat. (After the show, I located my spleen several rows up.)

Despite all of these minor irritations, I beamed with pride when my own be-sequined daughter took the stage and danced her heart out. When she came out to the lobby after the recital, I spread my arms to catch my little dancer in a warm fatherly embrace. Instead, she handed me a bundle of hangers, garment bags and costumes, and ran off to take Instagram photos with friends.

Oh, well, I know she loves and appreciates me, and at least she isn’t playing baseball. But I do miss the nachos.

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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 [email protected].

President Trump and I disagree on several important issues, including the disrespectful and insulting nicknames he has given his opponents. I mean, there’s Little Marco, Little Jeff Zucker, Little Adam Schiff, “Liddle'” Bob Corker, and Little Rocket Man (now his potential little buddy, apparently). Where is his creativity and imagination? Hasn’t the president ever heard of a thesaurus? How about Miniscule Marco, Shrimpy Adam Schiff or Bitsy Bob Corker?

One thing we do agree on, though, is our frustration with Amazon.

Besides the fact that Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos is one facial scar and miniature clone in a baby carrier away from qualifying as Dr. Evil’s body double, I received an email last week indicating that my Amazon Prime membership fee is going up – AGAIN! Now that they have us hooked on express shipping, they know good and well that we can’t bear to wait more than two days for our Vine-Shaped Bedroom Fairy Lights or our Millennium Falcon Two-Man Pool Floats to arrive. What kind of monsters are these people?

But the impact of Amazon doesn’t end with my coughing up $119 per year to have my Original Squatty Potty Bathroom Toilet Stool delivered before my next trip to the thunder box. Thanks to online retailers like Amazon, iconic American stores like Toys R US and Radio Shack are closing (and Sears is currently on a continual Diehard defibrillator), not to mention the countless mom and pop businesses that Amazon has pushed to the brink of bankruptcy. Why, I have a good mind to stay offline, get on the “Buy Local” bandwagon and travel three whole miles to Walmart the next time I need a Pink Faux Fur Rolling Task Chair!

Amazon has even taken the sport out of gift giving. There was a time when I would drive for hours throughout East Texas and beyond, risking life and limb (of fellow drivers), and doing my part to melt Antarctica with fossil fuel emissions while searching obsessively for a Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood “You Are Special” T-Shirt in just the right size. It was as if I was Tom Cruise on an impossible mission to make another action movie without rupturing my one remaining un-ruptured body part, and it gave me real purpose. Nowadays, I just pick up my iPhone, click a couple of buttons, and buy exactly what my kids tell me to – and I don’t even have to put on pants. In fact, in certain moments of stunning irony (to the dismay of family members), I’ve risked tearing a hole in the space-time continuum by purchasing pants while not wearing any!

Heck, my three daughters don’t even let me surprise them on birthdays and holidays anymore. They simply load up the “Saved for Later” section of my Amazon shopping cart with household necessities like Wireless Bluetooth Sport Earbuds, Ultrasonic Essential Oil Diffusers, and Pullover Pocket Cat-Ear Hoodies (Yes, these are from my actual Amazon order history).

Gone are the Christmases full of mystery gifts received with anticipation and opened with feigned gratitude – disguising utter disappointment. These days, if I try to buy my girls something without consulting them first, I get the inevitable, “Daddy, I was looking at our Amazon shopping cart, and it’s not that I wouldn’t love some Wonder Woman Plush Boot House Slippers With Attached Cape, but could we swap them for a Mini Portable Wireless Photo Printer Compatible with Android and iOS? I went ahead and added it to our shopping cart, just in case!”

Sure, I could change our Amazon password, but since I can’t remember my wife’s name most days… What was I saying?

Anyway, after careful consideration of the alterations to American life caused by the ostentatious convenience of Amazon, I’ve decided that Little Jeffrey Bezos can take his Prime membership with two-day shipping and… Oh, who am I kidding? I know I’ll pony up the increased fee, but I don’t have to like it.

Now excuse me while I order some pants.

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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 [email protected].

My eldest and most expensive child recently reached one of those teen milestones that parents often consider with a combination of dread and hopefulness.No, I’m not referring to her first solo trip to a beauty salon, from which she might return either lovelier than ever, or looking like an adolescent version of Pennywise the clown.I’m talking about earning her learner license to operate our largest and most embarrassing family vehicle while at least one parent develops advanced gluteal clenching skills in the front passenger seat.

Although we have several driving academies in town, my daughter chose to complete her driver’s education through an online program (in between taking kissy face selfies).Then the idea was for me to “teach” the driving portion of the curriculum since I already provide an after-school shuttle service to her various extra-curricular activities that always require more than one expensive outfit.And having gone through driver’s ed myself many years ago, I figured I could do at least as well as my own instructor – a friendly football coach who mostly read the paper and warned me against swerving to dodge roadkill.

When the fateful day arrived, and I had devoured enough TUMS tablets to bring peace to the Middle East, my daughter suggested we travel to a Texas DPS office in a smaller nearby town in hopes of a shorter wait – and minimal likelihood of being seen in the same zip code as her dad by someone she knows.Unfortunately, when we reached the office, it looked like Cow Appreciation Day at Chick-fil-A, only instead of wearing bovine costumes, the throngs of customers were dressed like surly teenagers and their beleaguered parents.Once we squeezed our way in, the clerk told us to fill out some lengthy forms and take a number. (You know you’re in trouble when they’re up to exponents.)

After I’d reached retirement age and written down every possible piece of personal information about my daughter and the rest of our family, including the medical history of our pets, the clerk finally called our number. Since my own driver’s license was due for renewal, I decided to share in the joy by forking over $25 for a charming portrait of myself that looks like the love child of Shrek and a smoked ham.

Learner permit in hand, my daughter was anxious to begin her training right away and asked for the keys.With trembling fingers, I handed them over, prayed that we would arrive home safely with clean underwear, and assumed my position in the passenger seat.I’m pretty sure I could’ve operated a lug wrench with my buns at that point.

To make the experience even more terrifying, what began as a beautiful spring day suddenly turned into a good ol’ East Texas frog strangler as soon as we pulled out on the highway. At first, I was worried about the zero-visibility, but then I decided it was better this way.At least I wouldn’t have to shield my eyes with my hands and could use my left arm as my daughter’s emergency surrogate parental seat belt while keeping a firm grip on the “OH, SHICKIWAD!!! WE’RE GONNA DIE!!!” handle with my right.

To my pleasant surprise, though, my daughter demonstrated solid multitasking skills throughout the entire ordeal.She was able to simultaneously navigate the treacherous road conditions, chronically roll her eyes in my general direction, and completely ignore my recommendation that she maintain her speed at a steady two mph.She even managed to park the car in our garage without producing an enormous cavern in the sheetrock, which is more that I can say about my first few tries.

So far, I’m happy to say that my daughter has turned out to be a terrific driver, thanks to my guidance on dealing with roadkill.In fact, when my middle daughter turns fifteen next year, I’m looking forward to teaching her to drive, as well.

(In lieu of flowers, please send TUMS.)

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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 [email protected].

Dear Facebook,

I know you’ve been under fire lately due to the Cambridge Analytica scandal (and the fact that your gobzillionaire CEO Mark Zukerberg is reacting like a 16-year-old who just got caught allowing his friends to raid his mom’s make-up and wardrobe to prepare for a Comic Con convention).

I have to admit that since I don’t really understand your complicated privacy settings anyway, I just assumed that anyone with the computer skills of algae could probably swipe, scrape, gouge, or snort my personal data – and then die of blunt-force boredom shortly after examining it. Besides, I consider myself immune to a consulting firm improperly using my profile information to sway my political opinions, like my belief that the current United States Congress is actually another reboot of The Muppet Show.

Please don’t get me wrong, though. Social media privacy is a serious issue, and I know that the data of millions of Facebook users is at stake. In my “List of Things I Worry About at this Point in my Life,” though, this issue ranks just below whether the skin on my neck has gotten loose enough to make me attractive to an amorous Galapagos tortoise.

Therefore, I just want to say that I forgive you, Facebook, and unlike the announcement that my social media “friends” occasionally make, I WON’T be taking a break from you anytime soon. I like you. Call it a guilty pleasure. Ok, it’s an addiction, but at least I don’t allow it to interfere with my family life or career – except when I’m at home or at work.

So what is it that makes you like the unlimited chips and salsa at a Tex-Mex cafe?

First, I actually enjoy being provoked by posts about political issues,- like Donald Trump’s blatant use of Russian deodorant – even though I realize that these posts were probably planted by Vladimir Putin’s personal chest waxer.

I also like snooping on former classmates from high school, most of whom didn’t hang out with me, and still wouldn’t, and I don’t blame them. High school wasn’t the best time of my life. Some of it was fun, but most of it was awkward and embarrassing. Think electric blue parachute pants and a permed mullet,- and that was my understated look.

Among social media platforms, you’re actually kind of old and uncool these days, making you perfect for dads like me who enjoy posting family photos ad nauseam to the embarrassment of my children and spouse.(Yes, my wife is clearly out of my league, I can’t take credit for my children’s talents and good looks, and I realize that nobody else thinks they’re as good-looking and talented as I do.Just click “like,” and move on, people!)

I also relish the feeling of superiority I get when my Facebook friends misspell words and use poor grammar in their posts, until I discover that I wished everyone a “Happy Keaster” in my own post from three years ago when that Facebook memories thingy pops up.

Speaking of superiority, I especially get a kick out of those Facebook videos of babies eating lemons and frightened adults being chased by waterfowl. These usually make me feel smarter.

So thank you, Facebook. Thanks for reminding me of birthdays I would never have remembered or known about otherwise, some of which are birthdays of people I barely know and who undoubtedly find it creepy that I’m wishing them a happy birthday. Thanks for the opportunity to scoff at those posts promising that I’ll go to heaven, win a million bucks, be better looking and save defenseless puppies if I like and share a post on my wall.Trust me; they don’t work – especially the better looking one.

Most of all, thanks for giving me an opportunity to procrastinate from doing whatever it is I should be doing other than looking at Facebook.

See you tomorrow, Facebook – or in a few minutes.

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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 [email protected].