Cagle World

Depending on when you’re reading this, my 52nd birthday is/was on April 20th, which, as my dad still loves to remind me, is the same day as Adolf Hitler’s. As a child, I remember thinking that 52 was an age that might be reached by an elderly Galapagos tortoise or a giant redwood tree – certainly not a human.

My age really hits me when I’m watching a sporting event and realize that I’m now older than practically all professional athletes (other than a few bowlers). I guess I can cross that off my list of things to worry about. No more pressure there.

Birthdays are weird things to celebrate. After all, the person receiving the benefits of the celebration didn’t really do anything, other than put another human being through extreme discomfort for several months, culminating in a few hours of drug-induced agony–and not just for the father. And if we’re all honest, we would admit that the actual delivery isn’t pretty, either – lots of crying, moaning and sometimes cursing – also not just from the father.

Apparently, I was almost born in the car on the way to the hospital, so any screaming probably had to do with my dad’s driving.

One of my fondest memories from my early childhood in the 1970s is of an Easter-themed birthday party my parents organized. There were plastic eggs packed with jelly beans, miniature baskets full of candy, homemade bunny ears for the kids to wear, and lots of plaid polyester. It was a simpler time then–full of childhood innocence and questionable fashion choices.

These days, my birthdays prompt bouts of contemplation (especially from my wife) about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I’m really too old to drive a Harley or sports car without being held up to ridicule on someone’s TikTok video. I’m not interested in the pain or expense required for an array of tattoos. And a new obsession with golfing, fishing, hunting or any other physical activity just sounds exhausting. Besides, I recently threw out my back tying my shoe, so I’m thinking mixed martial arts is probably out of the question, too.

Maybe I’ll really lean into my favorite hobbies of marathon snoozing or competitive eating. (I’m not actually a competitive eater, but I sometimes pretend I am, especially when cake is involved.)

And speaking of cake, the highlight of most of my birthdays has been a special multi-layered strawberry cake that my sweet mother makes for me. The cake is large enough to share with the entire family, but I always warn my three daughters that the cake is held together with dangerously sharp toothpicks–and they may or may not be used.

And then there’s the singing involved with birthdays. I don’t mean to be a grouch, but doesn’t “The Birthday Song” get a bit tiresome? “Happy Birthday to you” is repeated three times! It’s as if it’s intended for a person with short-term memory loss. If I make it to 90 years old, I’m sure I’ll appreciate it more, but in the meantime . . .

What was I saying, again?

Once the singing is mercifully finished, then comes the pressure of blowing out the candles in one breath without sputumizing all over the dessert.

In the age of COVID, is blowing on cake even still a “thing”? Or has it gone by the wayside along with other forbidden activities–like shaking hands, kissing babies and enjoying life in general?

Seriously, though, I really am grateful that God has given me another year to annoy my wife, children, and pets. I also want to thank everyone who thinks enough of me to fill in that automated birthday greeting when the Facebook algorithm reminds you once a year that the weirdo from high school or the relative whose lineage you question is still alive.

I’ll remember it always, or at least until I eat the last piece of strawberry cake and take off my bunny ears.

–

Copyright 2022 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 Livestrong.com, there are nearly 5 million young people participating in gymnastics in the United States, and although only a handful ever make it to Olympic competition, their parents fork over enough cash on lessons, leotards, custom-embroidered gym bags, hair bows, grips – and other equipment my wife didn’t tell me about – to fund the entire Russian sports doping program.

Yes, all three of my daughters have participated in gymnastics at one time or another, and we gladly spent what it took to give them the opportunity to gain some balance, discipline, coordination and physical fitness (and look really cute) – while I numbed my buns in the waiting area eating Cheez-Its and playing Angry Birds on my cell phone.

I even tried my own Atari-joystick-calloused hand at gymnastics for a brief time as a youngster, but I gave it up after being traumatized by a disagreement I had with the pommel horse. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I’m pretty sure it involved a combination of my fear of heights and an unintentional performance of the splits.

Although I once thought my days as a reluctant gymnastics-watcher were long since over, I recently found myself at the Texas Gymnastics Conference Championships to watch my eldest and most expensive daughter (now in college) compete with Texas A&M University Gymnastics. Yes, this is the same daughter who, through the years, has also taken us on exciting, wallet-wringing adventures with ballet, violin, horseback riding (western and English), tumbling, and drill team dance – to name a few.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely proud of her for her hard work and for trying so many new things. I only wish I could cash-in on my finely-honed skill of sitting for up to eight hours straight while waiting to watch my child do something that lasts approximately three minutes. The sport could be called “Competitive Inactivity,” and prize money could be awarded according to the degree to which your rear end takes on the consistency of melted Silly Putty.

My wife and I began the morning with a trip to Chick-fil-A for some “Lord’s carbs” to sustain us physically and spiritually throughout a long day in a gymnasium that smelled exactly like – you guessed it – a gymnasium. Once we were seated, I was amazed at the level of activity taking place throughout the facility, but I immediately identified the most important areas of the venue – namely the men’s room and concession stand.

The first few hours of the competition involved the men’s teams and featured incredibly chiseled athletes with muscles bulging even from their earlobes. Although I was impressed with their talent and athleticism, watching the men mainly made me want to do some sit-ups, so naturally I went to get a snack.

Amid the competitions taking place throughout the facility, I also noticed several gymnasts receiving warm-up massages, and I briefly considered swiping a “big and tall” leotard to see if I could get someone to work on my lumbar region. Luckily for my wife (and everyone else), my daughter’s floor-routine competition was just getting started.

My daughter, who inherited my nervous stomach, looked almost as nauseated as I was, but she did great and, as usual, made us proud. I’m not sure how many flips she did in that routine, but it was truly impressive – especially to a guy who never turned a flip that didn’t end with a belly flop off the high dive.

Once the competition was over, we took our college girl out to catch up over some Mexican food. The whole experience was a great reminder to appreciate the precious time I still have to sit and watch my kids do the things they love–especially when the day begins with Chick-fil-A and ends with tacos.

–

Copyright 2022 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

With the onset of Daylight Saving Time throughout the U.S. – except for a couple of states that still trust the science – we’ve now reached the time of year that is especially challenging for folks like me who don’t identify as “morning people.” And there are lots of us. According to the posts I’ve been seeing on Facebook, the popularity of Daylight Saving Time ranks right up there with Vladimir Putin.

And now I hear the U.S. Congress is considering taking that precious one hour of extra sleep hostage on a permanent basis by leaving Daylight Saving Time in place – forever!

Does daylight really need saving? Who are we to tamper with a normal force of nature like this? Think of the harm we may be inflicting on the environment – and ourselves! In fact, a recent Business Insider article links Daylight Saving Time to an increase in car accidents, heart attacks and strokes. Maybe that’s why waking up to my alarm when it’s still dark outside makes me feel like I’m recovering from a head transplant.

Honestly, my primary complaint is with mornings in general. Although I appreciate attempts at positivity, I feel triggered anytime someone greets me with an enthusiastic “Good morning!” Other people leave it at a mercifully abridged “Morning.” These folks get it. They recognize the time of day but don’t impose their adjectives on me, or maybe they can just tell I’m about to burst into tears.

Some morning people seem to take pride in their inability to sleep-in. “I’m just a morning person, I guess,” they say with false humility. I actually admire these people. They’ve accepted the fact that morning is coming each day, so they figure they might as well be happy about it. I, on the other hand, feel like rising up in protest about the unreasonable expectation that I should put on pants before 11:00 a.m.

Have you ever noticed that “morning” and “mourning” are homonyms? This makes perfect sense. For me, both words are associated with sadness and a big meal to try to make things better.

And speaking of meals, even the word “breakfast” has the word “break” in it. Whoever coined the word must have recognized that getting up early enough to eat at that time of day makes people like me want to break something – fast. Because, deep down, nobody really wants to eat at 6:00 a.m. That’s probably why most traditional breakfast foods are full of sugar, cholesterol, and other delicious ingredients. It’s like we’re trying to trick our stomachs into thinking we’re on a food tour at the fair instead of getting ready for work.

Some people might criticize me for sleeping late whenever I get the chance. They use words like “slothful.” Have you ever seen a sloth? They’re adorable, huggable creatures, and even acrobatic – like me.

Others might even be tempted to quote Proverbs 6:9, which sounds a lot like my dad when I was a teenager: “How long will you lie there, you sluggard? When will you get up from your sleep?”

Fair enough. I’ll admit that morning is my favorite time of day to miss, and I do take sleeping late to extreme-sport levels. But instead of focusing on the negative, I like to reflect on Psalm 127:2, which says, “In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat – for He grants sleep to those He loves.”’

See, Dad, God must love me – a lot!

And while I’m on the subject of God’s love, I’m forever thankful that He blessed me with a wife and three daughters who are all skilled in the fine art of sleeping until noon on Saturdays. They truly make me proud.

So even if you’re a morning person, I encourage you to join the battle against Daylight Saving Time by sleeping-in from time to time. Do it for your health. Do it for your car. Your pants can wait.

–

Copyright 2022 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Warning! The following column is clogged with gratuitous potty humor. If it’s a strain for you to read it, the CDC advises that you hold your nose, wear an N95 mask if necessary and then answer the call of curiosity. I think you’ll be relieved.

God has blessed me with a wife, three teenage daughters, two female doglets and one female cat. (My wife, by the way, has insisted that I leave her out of this – and I’m pretty sure God would prefer that, too.) Over the past 18 years, I’ve become quite proficient in the delicate art of unclogging our three toilets. And, no, I haven’t been able to train our pets to use the commode, but one can dream.

In my shortsighted expectations of having daughters, I just didn’t see myself spending nearly this much time wielding a plunger – and wishing I owned a blowtorch. But according to the National Institute of Plumbery, the average American parent spends up to 24 hours per year unclogging household toilets.

Okay, I made that up. But if there was a National Institute of Plumbery (if “plumbery” is even a word) and they bothered to research such a significant domestic crisis, I’ll bet it might be true – give or take 20 hours, or so.

As an added bonus, my daughters often surprise me with clogged toilets they’ve left unreported­ – presumably to conceal the identity of the perpetrator. When I ask who did it, the two big sisters usually blame the youngest, who invariably replies with a diplomatic “I don’t recall.”

Since everyone denies the atrocity, I’m left to assume that an offensive lineman for the Green Bay Packers repeatedly pops in for unannounced and clandestine visits to our bathrooms. (Or maybe it’s the Russians.)

After these unfortunate incidents, I always remind the girls to take a look after they flush, just to be sure everything makes a clean escape. Their thoughtful response to this recommendation is the same for almost all of the fatherly advice I give them, “Oooo, gross, Dad!”

I’ve often wondered if the chronically-clogged toilet phenomenon might be limited to my own children, but just recently, one of my Facebook friends who has four daughters of his own and shares my official title of Family-Throneologist-in-Chief posted the following, and I quote, “Anyone else’s kids constantly clog toilets? My kids do so on a daily basis, with very little toilet paper. Plunging toilets is a full-time job while I’m at home.”

I simply replied with the Facebook “care” emoji.

Since my youngest daughter is now 15 years old, I realize that I only have a few blessed years left with my children at home, the reality of which makes me wistful and a bit sad. So, until they’re gone, I’ll keep happily plunging away, grateful to God for the time I have with them – and wishing I owned a blowtorch.

–

Copyright 2022 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].

From the time that I was still being knit together in my mother’s womb with some defective parts God had left over after making my big brother (he made me write that part), I’ve been attending Southern Baptist churches.

In fact, one of the first known photos of me was taken on a Sunday morning in 1970 when I had recently been de-wombed and my mother was posing with me in the front yard, both of us wearing heavily-polyestered church clothes.

So I guess you could say that I grew up with red Vacation Bible School Kool-Aid coursing through my veins, and my Southern Baptist heritage has had a profound impact on my worldview–including the high value I place on a 9 X 13 casserole dish.

Here are a few signs that you, too, were raised in the nap-proof wooden pews of Southern Baptist (or similar) churches in the 1970s and 80s.

First, you were always excited about the prospects of a trip to the fellowship hall–because it usually involved red Kool-Aid and/or several 9 X 13 casserole dishes.

And speaking of food, you knew that “dinner on the grounds” was a sacred form of congregational picnic that featured, you guessed it, red Kool-Aid and several 9 X 13 casserole dishes.

And speaking of more food, you knew that when the Lord’s Supper was being administered in “big church,” the sermon might be a little shorter, and the Dallas Cowboys were probably playing at noon.

And speaking of even more food, you considered stale Certs mints and Clorets gum from your mother’s purse appetizers to get you through that fourth verse of “Just as I Am” before you headed to the fellowship hall, dinner on the grounds or home for a lunch that was probably baked in a 9 X 13 casserole dish.

Before any meal, you could say a blessing in the King James version because you could use “Thee,” “Thou,” Thine” and “Thy” without sounding like Daffy Duck.

During “big church,” you could do amazing sketch art with one of those eraserless pew pencils and the back of a complimentary tithing envelope.

When you ran out of tithing envelopes, you could play about 50 games of tic-tac-toe in the margins of the church bulletin with your dad when your mom­­­­–and the preacher – weren’t looking.

You knew the first, second and last stanzas of almost every selection in the official Baptist Hymnal – located in the back of the pew right next to the improvised art supplies. (The hymnal also served as an excellent lap desk for tithing envelope sketch art and tic-tac-toe.)

You also knew that “God,” “Jesus,” “Pray,” “Read your Bible” and “Go to church” were the correct answers to approximately 90% of all Sunday School teacher questions.

When the choir director told the congregation to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” some of us only paid attention to the “noise” part.

Seriously, though, I feel truly blessed that my parents exposed me to the gospel shared in church when I was growing up. I’ve often heard that going to church doesn’t make you a believer any more than standing in a garage makes you a car. But for the sake of protection, repair and general maintenance, a garage seems like pretty good place for a car.

And for an imperfect human like me, the church has been instrumental in helping me to stay aligned, balanced, and all those other car metaphors I might know if I wasn’t so automotively challenged.

A recent Gallup study showed that since 1999, church membership in the U.S. has dropped by a full 20%, which seems to explain quite a bit about the times in which we live. And although churches aren’t perfect places full of perfect people, America might be a different country if more folks still attended church, loved one another and recognized the value of a 9 X 13 casserole dish.

–

Copyright 2022 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

I have a problem. I misplace my wallet – a lot.

In fact, if losing wallets was an Olympic sport, I’m pretty sure I’d be investigated for doping. And according to a 2018 survey by MoneyTips, I’m not alone, joining the 62% of survey respondents who said they had also lost their cash taco, or had it stolen.

I relapsed again recently on a Saturday morning road trip with my wife and some friends, trying to convince myself that I would enjoy attending a college basketball game more than sleeping until noon. We had stopped at a convenience store on the way to the game, and when I reached for my wallet to pay for a nutritious gas station breakfast, the flaccid denim of my back pocket told the sad, well-worn tale.

At that moment, I took my missing wallet in stride, assuming I had (once again) just forgotten to grab it at home – distracted by grief over my recent breakup with the cool side of my pillow.

But when we returned that evening and the wallet was not in its usual place on the kitchen counter, I panicked – almost as much as my three teenage daughters when I told them we might have to cancel the credit cards.

Despite my state of acute frustration, I carefully searched in all of the logical places, starting with the freezer and working my way to my wife’s underwear drawer.

I even called all of the businesses I’d visited that day (mostly Mexican food restaurants) to see if they had found a wallet with an empty and seldom-used bill compartment.

Eventually, I just gave up and figured that some disappointed thief was now reevaluating his or her career choice.

My sweet mother reminded me to pray about my lost wallet, which I did – even though I assumed that the Almighty was probably rolling His eyes and trying not to laugh the whole time.

But, sure enough, my prayer was soon answered when, a couple of days later, my wife received a phone call at work from a Texas state trooper, who curtly asked if she knew a Jase Graves.

Terrible thoughts raced through her mind as she frantically wondered whether I had been in an accident–or arrested for public doofusness.

Apparently, the wallet had slipped out of my pocket and fallen onto the running board of my SUV, finally making a desperate leap for its freedom and landing on the shoulder of the highway. (Imagine Morgan Freeman narrating that last sentence.)

The trooper had found the wallet, my long-suffering credit cards, and an unusually large number of Mexican restaurant receipts when he stopped to move some debris out of the road.

Fortunately, I also keep my wife’s business card in the wallet – in case I get lost when I go to Walmart.

Even though it’s a relief to have my old wallet back, aggravating my sciatica and causing me to list to the left when I sit, I think it’s time for something new. My friends told me I should go buy a wallet with a chain, but I’m just not a chain kind of guy. Besides, with a chain wallet, I worry that I’d also be expected to get a neck tattoo – or be mistaken for that biker dude from the Village People.

I think the solution might be one of those newfangled wallets furnished with an Apple AirTag that you can track with your cellular device.

Now, if I could only find my iPhone.

–

Copyright 2022 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

Recently, Texas passed the Safe Outdoor Dogs Act, which enforces humane guidelines for restraining pet canines outdoors. Unfortunately for me, the act fails to impose similar guidelines for the treatment of grouchy husbands and embarrassing dads.

This news about dogs has had me thinking a lot about these magical creatures whom we love so much that we’re willing to stand outside in nostril-chafing weather and praise – even applaud – them for soiling our landscaping. When was the last time someone scratched behind your ears and offered you a treat as you exited the restroom?

Actually, I’ll bet our two doglets would praise me for my bathroom habits if they could. (Maybe that’s why they insist on joining me in there – to return the favor.)

I truly think that God must have had at least two purposes in blessing humans with dogs. First, He wanted to give us a form of unwavering companionship, the kind that doesn’t mind (and even prefers) when we don’t smell so good.

Second, He wanted to demonstrate his imaginative power in creating an animal that routinely displays so much of the potential for good in people (unwavering loyalty, unconditional love, unending forgiveness, unbridled joy, etc.) – never mind the incessant yapping and carpet scooting.

I have some wonderful memories of the dogs in my life.

The first dog that I could call my own was an apricot-colored toy poodle named Fluff, gifted to me by my parents when I was a kindergartener in the 1970’s (No, I wasn’t into using people names for my dogs, though I did consider “Art Garfunkel.”)

Fluff’s claim to fame was that he was paper-trained, meaning that instead of going outside to do his business, he used a variety of local periodicals arrayed on my bedroom floor. This probably explains why I was always caught up on current events, but I’m still afraid to get out of bed in the dark.

My family soon adopted a second dog – a beautiful springer spaniel/golden retriever mix named Happy, whom I met when she was still a puppy with her littermates. Ironically, my first meeting with Happy included having her mother mistaken my left buttock for a Texas Roadhouse dinner roll.

Because the bite broke the skin, there had to be an investigation, which, thankfully, revealed that there was no risk of the mother dog catching rabies since I was current on all of my vaccinations.

When I was in middle school, our canine menagerie grew again with the addition of Sparky, a hyperactive Boston terrier who quickly earned the nickname “Spaz.” Due to a desperate need for more discipline, Spaz and I attended formal obedience training one summer, but regardless of how much we practiced and how many Oscar Mayer wieners were offered, Spaz could never teach me to sit and stay properly.

After my marriage and the purchase of our first home, my wife and I decided to make a trial run at having children by adopting two pet pugs, Wilkie and Benny, both of whom lived a full 16 years. Of course, we have since discovered that having human babies and having dogs are extremely different experiences–except for the long-term expense, the slobbering, the chewing, the cleaning up of someone else’s “accidents” . . . . Wait a minute. How are they different, again?

Seriously, though, dogs have been an important part of my life so far, and I hope they always will be. Our current doglets are Bailey – a terrier mix who looks like the offspring of an Ewok and that fuzz you find behind the refrigerator, and Biscuit–a Maltese mix who looks like the offspring of the same Ewok and Sam Elliot’s mustache.

Bailey and Biscuit bring our family a lot of happiness, and now that our three teenage daughters are more independent, it’s a comfort to my wife and me that the pups are always excited to see us and spend quality time with us – especially when we go to the bathroom.

–

Copyright 2022 Jase Graves distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Graves is an award-winning humor columnist from East Texas. His columns have been featured in Texas Escapes magazine, The Shreveport Times, The Longview News Journal, and The Kilgore News Herald. Contact Graves at [email protected].

I was recently invited to speak at a local women’s organization meeting in my hometown. Apparently, I was pretty much their last option, right behind the auto-warranty telemarketer and the tax auditor.

Since I couldn’t imagine what I would discuss that might interest a women’s group, I went for the obvious–my lifelong, chronic case of the girl crazies.

In my younger years, it had always been my dream – even my goal – to be surrounded by women, and now I live in a house with four of them, I work in a department with twenty of them, and there I stood in front of a room full of them–all looking at me. I call that a win!

I’ve always thought that one of God’s greatest creations was women (and Mexican food). In fact, in the book of Genesis, when God looked on his creation and recognized how good it was, I’m pretty sure he was mainly thinking about women. Even better, he made the first woman out of a rib – and ribs are absolutely delicious!

Even as a young dorkling in kindergarten, I managed to land a five-year-old girlfriend who sported the cutest purple polyester pantsuit I had ever seen. I don’t know if it was her sparkling personality, her bright smile or her keen wit that attracted me – but I’m pretty sure it was the pantsuit. (Don’t judge! It was the 1970s!)

I never had the heart to tell my girlfriend that I was also secretly in love with my kindergarten teacher. She didn’t wear enough purple for my taste, but her hand lotion smelled like Twinkies.

In elementary school, I had a fairly steady girlfriend upon whom I could usually rely to accompany me to the latest Disney movie. Apparently, she wasn’t bothered by my geek-chic ensemble consisting of Toughskins Jeans, Bionic Man prescription glasses, and Chewbacca necklace with swiveling arms. (How could she resist?) One time on Valentines Day, she even presented me with a value-size bottle of Jōvan Musk cologne, which I’m pretty sure I emptied with one application.

By junior high, the nerd gene had really started to kick in, so finding a girlfriend at that age was a bit more challenging, especially since I only used deodorant sporadically and spent most of my time making rude noises with my armpits. In those days, I had to settle for staring wistfully at the heavily Aqua-Netted hair of the girl sitting in front of me in math class, fantasizing about holding her hand while strolling through the local shopping mall to the rhythmic “swish-swish” of my nylon parachute pants.

In high school, I finally learned to use deodorant properly, started working out, lost my love handles (briefly), and got a used Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais (aka “The Love Machine”). Suddenly, I noticed that girls were smiling at me – and not because my fly was open. It was the greatest thing ever, at least I thought it was at the time.

A few months after high school graduation, I met my gorgeous wife in Sunday school. That day, it was definitely good to be in the house of the Lord! She was so far out of my league that I knew I had to act fast before she figured me out, so two years later, I convinced her to settle for me permanently.

I sometimes think that when God created Eve, she must have opened her eyes, taken her first look at Adam standing there naked, looked up to God and said, “You’re kidding, right?”

Because let’s face it. Women are superior to men in so many ways. Their brains develop faster than men, they live longer than men, they have far less back hair than men, as children, they’re less likely to eat dirt than men and regardless of how much Jōvan Musk cologne men wear, women invariably smell better than men.

So, thank you, God, for creating women – especially that one who settled for a guy like me 31 years ago. I call that a win!

–

Copyright 2022 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 again when I reminisce about the important events that have transpired over the past 12 months, like how in the world I grew so much ear hair in one year.

My elders have often told me how fast time flies, but I never really believed them until I began to feel like I was shaving about every 30 minutes. Now, another year has already come and gone, and I still haven’t found time to teach our pets to use the toilet or develop a vaccine for love handles.

And speaking of vaccines, the COVID-19 shot, jab, dose, puncture, skewering, or whatever you want to call it (and still get censored on Facebook), has really been the story of 2021. In fact, thanks to the COVID-19 vaccine, we now have another controversial topic to avoid discussing at our family gatherings – along with politics, religion and the correct pronouns to use for that emu in the Liberty Mutual Insurance commercials.

Actually, though, I’ve been quite open with friends and loved ones about my willingness to have not one, not two, but three COVID-19 vaccine doses – and I still haven’t grown a second head. I’m even willing to take an additional Sonic Route 44-dose of the vaccine if it will help bring this pandemic to an end and get Dr. Fauci off of television so he can spend more time at home arguing with his wife about where to go out to eat.

Along with the ongoing pandemic, this year has brought us a new U.S. president, who, like his predecessors, is loved by some of the American people, while the others refer to him using shocking obscenities – like “Brandon.” I guess Brandon will now go the way of other perfectly good baby names like Karen, Thanos and Omicron. So sad.

But let’s move on to more fascinating and consequential matters than the presidency and the global pandemic. In 2021, my family life was full of change and personal growth – and not just for my love handles.

Our eldest and most expensive daughter began her freshman year of college, meaning that, along with her challenging academic pursuits, she’s learning important independent life skills, mainly how to spend our money at a distance.

Our middle daughter is now in her senior year of high school. She is currently unsure about her future college major, but based on her teenage years so far, we’re thinking she may be leaning toward something in the boyfriend arts, hopefully with a minor in breaking up with doofuses.

Our youngest daughter is now 15 years old and keeps pestering me to give her driving lessons. I’ve assured her that I’ll begin her driver training as soon as Amazon Prime delivers our new body armor and M1 Abrams Tank.

Seriously, though, we’re very proud of all three of our daughters, and we can’t wait to experience the surprises they have in store for us and our blood pressure in 2022.

Whatever happens in the coming year, I choose to look forward to it with hope for renewal and faith that God is ultimately in charge. My prayer is that in the next 12 months, He will lead us out of this pandemic, bestow His richest blessings upon us, and help us to become better humans – love handles and all.

–

Copyright 2021 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].

Children all over the United States are currently wringing their iPhone-calloused hands over the possibility that Santa Claus might not make it this year because he’s trapped in a delayed shipping container somewhere off the coast of California.

The situation is a little different at my house. With three daughters in their mid-to-late teens, my wife and I are starting to wonder how much longer we should renew our private contractor partnership with Old Saint Nick.

When the girls were younger and asked me if there really is a Santa Claus, I always answered them with great sincerity and insight. I told them to go ask their mother.

Seriously, though, our family has always operated with the understanding that Santa Claus exists in the reality of our imaginations – along with the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and the U.S. Government’s prudent use of taxpayer dollars.

For us, Santa represents the very real fun of Christmas. And I’m not sure I’m ready to stop giving him credit as the bringer of gifts, stuffer of stockings and nibbler of Christmas cookies in a strategically careless way so that he leaves a few crumbs as evidence.

Although our girls are well into their eye-rolling teen years, there is still something magical about seeing their shining faces as they bound toward the tree on Christmas morning – even if we have to wait for them to get their hair “selfie-ready” and adjust their sports bras first.

When Santa comes to our house, it’s as if I’m reliving my own Christmas mornings as a young nerdlet with an acute case of bed head and Spider Man Underoos. (Yes, my wife and daughters are grateful I’m not still wearing them – although I’d like to.)

On Christmas mornings in those days, my big brother and I always started under the tree with the “big” gifts from Santa. One year, it was a toy “Star Wars” Millennium Falcon that my pet poodle later desecrated by lifting his leg and marking it as his own. Another year, it was a Stretch Armstrong action figure, which I really loved until I could no longer resist the temptation to find out whether or not his syrupy insides were edible. And one year, it was a new Mongoose BMX-style bike to show off to the neighborhood kids, who managed to one-up me with the newly-released and totally rad Diamond Back Pro. (That humility-wedgie still stings a little.)

Then it was on to the stockings that were bulging with the perennial apples, oranges, and Life Savers Sweet Storybooks. (I always felt kind of rebellious when I ate the Butter Rums.) And in the toe of the stockings, there was always a handful of unshelled nuts – as if Santa wanted us to know what Christmas was like in the old days when kids had to forage for sugar plums.

Those were truly joyous childhood moments, and I’ve thoroughly delighted in repeating them with my own kids (minus the stocking nuts). In fact, I don’t think I’ll cancel Santa’s access to my living room – or my credit cards – quite yet. It’s just too much fun.

Amid all of the enjoyment of Santa Claus, though, my family always remembers the profound speech by Linus in “A Charlie Brown Christmas” as we celebrate what Christmas is all about – a miracle that can’t be trapped in a shipping container somewhere off the coast of California.

–

Copyright 2021 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].