Cagle World

Social media has transformed the American prom.

Today’s teens have grown up with smartphones and TikTok, where the real event isn’t the prom itself — it’s the content they edit and post afterward.

My prom experience surely would have gone viral had TikTok been around in 1980.

We arranged a pre-prom meeting at her house to get to know each other.

“I heard about you, a regular class clown,” she said. “You better not show up in a limo, wear a top hat or cane or do anything else to embarrass me.”

The authenticity of that painful video clip — her anger and the painful expression on my face — surely would have racked a few million TikTok views.

Still, I wanted to impress her. I bought her the finest corsage in our high school (it cost $45, which would be about $170 now). I bought a box of frozen steaks, snacks and other refreshments for the after-prom party.

On the afternoon of the prom, my friend Gigs and I — we double dated — took a drive to the prom ballroom downtown to make sure we wouldn’t get lost later.

Later that evening, we picked up our girls for photos and false enthusiasm, but we were late for dinner (we got lost).

I’m certain my date didn’t spend a few thousand dollars on her dress as girls do now, though I remember she looked great.

The truth is, I can’t remember what she was wearing because I hardly saw her all night long. She and Gigs’ date spent most of the night in the ladies’ room, while Gigs and I counted how many times the hard-rock band played “Cocaine” (nine).

Finally, around 11:30 p.m., the dance was over. We took the girls home.

But our suffering was just beginning.

We picked our dates up early the next morning and drove to a lake cabin where my friend Cook was having an after-prom party. The cabin was a two-hour drive, but it took us five (we got lost).

My date didn’t utter a word until 2 p.m., when she challenged Gigs and me to a tennis match.

Gigs is an outstanding athlete and I’m no slouch, either. We crushed the girls, and after the match they refused to talk to us.

Gigs and I spent the rest of the day tossing a football and eating steak. Around dusk, the girls told us it was time to leave.

Five hours later we arrived home (we got lost) and the torturous affair was finally over.

I read that Generation Z prefers to post authentic content over the fake “look how perfect my life is” content that Millennials and GenXers prefer.

Looking back, I can see that my prom had all the raw, awkward authenticity Gen Z loves — I just didn’t have TikTok to prove it.

In any event, I have some advice for Zoomer promgoers: Be kind to your date — or your unpleasant actions might rack up millions of views on TikTok and Instagram.

My date had no idea I’d become a nationally syndicated humor columnist — and retell variations of our awkward experience at least 15 times in hundreds of newspapers over the next 45 years.

That’s not as good as millions of views would have been, but old-school newspaper payback is still sweet.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

I’m 63 and still single, but my mother has never given up hope that she will get me married.

“What about that nice young lady who cuts my hair?”

“Ma,” I tell her, “I’m old enough to be her father.”

“What about the community director at my apartment complex?”

“Ma,” I say, “she’s old enough to be my mother!”

“You’re too picky!” she says.

She is right. I had no small number of opportunities with some very lovely ladies, but I just panicked at the thought of marriage.

Exactly 20 years ago, when I was 43, she’d had enough of that!

“You have six months to marry or else!” she said out of the blue one day.

I couldn’t fault her for her concern. She knows single men can be knuckleheads — that we don’t always take care of ourselves the way we should.

The statistics bear it out. Married men are physically and emotionally healthier. They avoid risky behavior. They live longer. They earn more.

Even Mark Twain, a great critic of humankind, found happiness in marriage. He said, “No man or woman really knows what perfect love is until they have been married a quarter of a century.” That kind of deep closeness is what I’ve always longed for.

But my mother wasn’t interested in longings. She was interested in results.

“You have five months, one week, four days, two hours and 12 minutes to get married!”

“Ma,” I said, “it’s complicated. The world’s not like it used to be. People don’t stay together like they once did.”

“You have four months, two weeks, six days, 12 hours and three minutes!”

“But more people are getting married in their 40s and 50s!”

“You have three months, three weeks, five days, 18 hours and 12 minutes!”

I tried another route: “Fewer people marry at all,” I said. “In 1970, nearly 80 percent of adults between 20 and 54 were married. In 2005 it’s 57 percent.” (In 2025, it’s down to 50 percent.)

“You have two months, two weeks, six days, seven hours and 18 minutes!”

I tried to explain to her that Brad Wilcox, who still runs the National Marriage Project, said in 2005 that we’ve all become too individualistic — we expect too much emotional fulfillment from one person.

“You have one month, three weeks, three days, four hours and 27 minutes!”

“But, ma,” I continued, “Wilcox is on to something. Everyone these days is looking for a soul mate — that perfect person who will make him or her feel warm and fuzzy all the time. But no one person can ever live up to our ideals and so we stay single.”

“You have two weeks, four days, 12 hours and 18 minutes!”

Finally, I said, “Ma, I’ve been looking for someone like you. You’re the most honest, caring, compassionate woman I’ve ever known. You taught me what matters — laughter, honesty, beauty. You set the bar so high that—”

“Put a sock in it,” she said. “You have one day, two hours and 24 minutes to get married!”

Alas, her ultimatum came 20 years ago and I failed to live up to it. My mother will never give up on me — which is why I sense I’ll be getting a phone call soon.

“You have six months to get married or else!”

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Find Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos of his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

Get this: money does make us happy, but within limits.

A few decades ago, Richard A. Easterlin, a University of Southern California researcher, determined that increased wealth does not necessarily lead to greater happiness. He said that the more money we have, the more things we want — and that we end up working longer and harder to get more things.

He said that’s foolish, because the true source of happiness is the same as it’s always been: spending quality time with loved ones and enjoying good health.

However, newer research — like a 2021 study by Matthew Killingsworth, published in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences — suggests that happiness can continue to rise with income even beyond $90,000 a year.

But the boost is small. Once our basic needs are met, money mostly helps smooth out life’s daily frustrations — it doesn’t transform our lives or our souls.

In other words, money can help — especially if you spend it on freeing up your time or sharing it with others — but it’s still the same old things that matter most.

We’re good at forgetting these truths in America.

On one hand, we want wealth and fame. We want people to bow down to us when we walk into a public place. We want adulation and expensive cars and big houses staffed by a dozen servants. We believe in our bones that more money will make us happy, and we work like crazy to acquire it.

But on the other hand, we know wealth and fame are bogus. You never know who your friends really are. You’re surrounded by people looking for a handout. And if you ever do anything stupid, the newspapers will find out about it — and your stupidity will be broadcast around the world.

Where happiness is concerned, I defer to the great singer-philosopher Kenny Rogers, who once said all anyone needs to be happy is three things: Someone to love. Something to do. Something to look forward to.

But of course.

Don Rickles said that his happiest days were when he was just starting out. He had just enough money to get by. He was in love with his wife. And he was among good friends, doing what he loved on stage every night.

How much better can life really get?

But we all know this. And keep forgetting it.

I remember talking with my brother-in-law’s parents during a Sunday outing. They told me stories about growing up in Pittsburgh during the Great Depression. They had no money at all, but had no idea they were poor — because they were wealthy beyond belief.

Their neighborhood was filled with characters, people watching out for them, and lots of friends to play with.

They said it took forever to walk to the store and back, with people stopping them to say hello and ask them how they were doing.

They said they feel sorry for kids today who have material wealth but will never know the fun they had growing up.

Deep down, we already know that the happiest people aren’t the richest — they’re the ones who spend their days wisely, investing in friends, family and simple pleasures.

We don’t need a study to remember this wonderful truth.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

American entrepreneurs have saved my grass-mowing season.

You see, my grass is finally lush and green and growing like wildflowers, which means I spend my weekends mowing it.

Since 2009, however, that hasn’t been so easy to do.

That’s when the Obama Environmental Protection Agency required that the gas containers we use to fill our lawn mower tanks be built with spring-loaded, “spill-proof” spouts.

The EPA’s goal? To reduce spillage by creating a permeation barrier and spouts that close entirely.

But what was the unintended outcome? These mandated spout contraptions were so awkward and difficult to use, we got gas all over our hands, pants, grass and several other places.

Some readers scoffed five years ago when I first wrote about this government-created agitation. Some commented that I was whining about a small matter.

But this spout situation is part of a much larger government-overreach pattern — one that kicked into high gear during the Biden administration.

Biden’s regulators and progressive policymakers went after all kinds of everyday devices to, they argued, reduce the threat of human-caused climate change.

They went after gas kitchen stoves, which briefly faced talk of a future ban.

They went after dishwashers and washing machines that now clean less thoroughly and take twice as long to finish thanks to rules restricting water usage.

They drove up the cost of air conditioners with stringent new refrigerant specifications, and I got clobbered recently when I had to replace two AC units in a couple of rental units.

Which brings us back to gas spouts — the simple, old-fashioned ones.

Our grandfathers often stored their gas in a repurposed 5-gallon oil or kerosene canister with a simple steel spout that lasted for decades and never spilled a drop of gas.

Thanks to some wonderful American entrepreneurs, the simplicity of grandpa’s gas can is back.

Anyone can now buy simple vent kits, flexible pour spouts and even vintage metal cans.

Some kits include a vent hole drill bit so you can restore your gas can to its pre-2009 glory. Others ship with simple funnels.

Sure, the EPA still frowns upon such contraband. In fact, these simple workarounds are only legal, apparently, if you are using them to replace a broken spring-loaded government spout.

This whole situation reminds me of another government misfire that cost me a fortune: the ethanol mandate.

That was a well-intentioned effort to save the environment by adding corn juice to gasoline — a regrettable action that has been gumming up lawn mower carburetors ever since.

According to ATV Illustrated, you see, ethanol attracts water, which causes corrosion and clogs. So far, I have had to rebuild two snow blower carburetors, one push mower carburetor and one riding-mower carburetor.

The solution to that gummy problem has been to buy gas that has no ethanol in it. But to do that, you have to drive to a marina and get boat-engine gasoline, which is pure gasoline.

Things are looking up, though. I learned recently that the Sheetz convenience-store chain near my Pittsburgh home is now selling boat gas!

Hey, maybe we can get the Trump EPA to let stores like Sheetz start carrying old-fashioned cans and spouts that don’t require a physics degree to operate.

What a gas that would be!

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

A few years ago, my then 70-something mom was targeted by telephone scammers.

“Grandma,” said a young man pretending to be her grandson, Jerrod, “I’m in trouble.”

He said he was in Canada, unaware he had been fishing illegally. He said he was arrested and needed bail money.

My mother immediately became aware the caller was a fraudster. In her feeblest voice, she said, “What do you need, honey?”

“They assigned me a lawyer,” said the scammer. “Can I have him call you? Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t even tell Grandpa!” she said.

A moment later, “the lawyer” called.

“This is serious,” said a stern male voice. “We need to raise $575 in two hours or the judge will send Jerrod to jail.”

He gave her instructions to wire money to Vancouver. She told him she’d do her best.

Ninety minutes later, the scammer called back.

“I have the cash,” said my mother, “but my car won’t start!”

“Can you take a cab?”

“I don’t know how,” she said. “Maybe my neighbors can help. Can you give me 15 minutes?”

He called back.

“My neighbor’s husband will be home soon. Can you give me a half-hour?”

He called again.

“I went to Western Union, but the lady said I didn’t have the right information. Can you give it to me again?”

Grumbling, he did.

“Can I talk to my grandson?”

“He’s with the judge,” said the scammer.

“May I have your number in case I forget something?”

“I can’t take calls while in court. How long to wire the money?”

“Maybe a half-hour,” said my mother.

He called back again and again — but my mother always made him wait.

“I gave the Western Union lady the money!” she said at last.

“Do you have the receipt?”

“Receipt?”

“When you give them the money, they give you a receipt,” he snapped.

“I didn’t get one!”

“Lady, how do you give someone $575 and not get a receipt?!”

“I’m so worried about Jerrod! Can you give me another half-hour?”

“For God’s sakes, lady. Get it right this time!”

She gave him a fake Western Union confirmation number. When he realized it was useless, he called every two minutes for over an hour.

My mother never answered.

She tied him up for over seven hours — and hopefully prevented someone else from being robbed.

But detecting such scams is not so easy anymore, thanks to artificial intelligence. Scammers can now clone a loved one’s voice using just a short clip lifted from voicemail or social media.

These AI-generated scams are so sophisticated that elderly scams are growing rapidly.

According to the FBI, Americans aged 60 and older reported losses exceeding $3.4 billion in 2023. Victims lost, on average, nearly $34,000. More than 100,000 people filed complaints.

Elderly victims are currently being tricked by deepfake videos falsely claiming Elon Musk is backing a new DOGE cryptocurrency. Others fall for fake Medicare calls or IRS impersonations.

We must encourage our elderly loved ones to screen unknown calls, never give out personal information, and remember that real government agencies never demand money over the phone.

In our digital world, we have to assume every contact could be from a fraudster.

By teaching more people to detect scams, they’ll be able to outwit the scammers — just like my mother did.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

I can only imagine how President Trump would have handled the three rogue beavers who chopped down America’s beloved cherry trees along the Tidal Basin.

The National Cherry Blossom Festival is underway in Washington, D.C. Some 3,700 cherry trees, given to America by the Japanese in 1912, are in full bloom.

I lived in the Washington, D.C. region for nearly eight years and greatly enjoyed hosting family and friends to enjoy that festival every year.

Back in 1999, however, three beaver vandals were chewing down cherry trees faster than you can say “timber!”

Washington bureaucrats and advocacy groups responded to the crisis in their usual convoluted ways.

PETA was first out of the gate with a reasonable solution: its spokesperson said it’s best to trap the beavers in the most humane way possible and relocate them.

No sooner was PETA’s idea floated than wildlife experts began crawling out of the woodwork.

One expert warned that it would be tragic to separate the three beavers, since they’re likely from the same family; one beaver is a yearling, she said, and beavers should stay with mom and dad until the age of two.

Another expert said you can’t move beavers to a new colony, anyway, because the new colony — beavers are Republican? — would reject the freeloaders.

A third wildlife expert said that all things considered, the most humane thing to do might be to just kill the buggers.

Boy, did the public react negatively to that suggestion. That’s because beavers are really cute.

Heck, if they looked more like their pointy-nosed cousins — rats — even PETA might ditch their principles to have those varmints whacked.

But PETA wanted nothing to do with euthanizing beavers. A spokesperson said they should leave the beavers alone — so what if they created a gigantic cherry tree dam.

I can only imagine how Trump would handle the situation if it happened now.

He would fire out a 3 a.m. tweet that said “Beavers are DESTROYING our beautiful cherry trees — a GIFT from Japan, very historic! Total disrespect for America! SAD!”

He would order the USS Harry S. Truman to steam down the Tidal Basin with its 4,500-round Gatling guns blasting away.

Trump would open his press conference by boasting “Nobody’s been tougher on rogue beavers than me!”

“But Mr. President,” reporters would shout, “Why didn’t you relocate the beavers?”

“I did relocate them,” Trump would say. “To Heaven!”

Alas, in 1999, after weeks of bickering, the Park Service finally hired a professional trapper who caught the beavers and carted them off to a “safe house,” which, I believe, is a sort of witness protection program for semiaquatic rodents.

But the beaver bickering did not stop. Multiple D.C. types complained about the solution. Some beaver advocates accused the Park Service of misinformation before that term was in vogue.

All I know is that spring has arrived in Washington and, like or dislike Trump’s aggressive approach to governing, he has taken a sledgehammer to the way Washington has long operated.

It’s lucky for Trump critics that the great beaver invasion happened in 1999 and not during his time in office.

Otherwise, tourists would be visiting the annual “Make Cherry Blossoms Great Again Festival.”

The Tidal Basin would be renamed “Trump Waterscape — 100% Beaver Free!”

And three very confused beavers would be wondering how the heck they ended up in Guantanamo Bay.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

She came home with a high temperature, feeling very ill. The next morning, her legs gave out when she tried to get out of bed. By that evening, she was so weak she could barely move.

It was 1951 when polio struck her. She was 12 years old, just starting eighth grade. The nation was in a panic. The ambulance driver wouldn’t take her to the hospital, fearing other patients might become infected. Her uncle had a car. Despite unknown risks to his own family, he drove her.

Her father told her not to worry. To placate her, he said she had a new virus called “Virus X.” She found it odd, then, that she was placed in the polio ward with other children. She told the nurse she didn’t have polio. She had Virus X — just like her father said.

The nurse nodded but said there was a possibility it was polio. Now the girl was really worried — worried about her family. She wrote her parents a letter. She hinted that she may have polio, but that she’d be OK. Her father cried aloud when he read it.

The county health department quarantined her family for two weeks, posting a notice on their door. Only her father could leave for work.

Within 15 days, polio ravaged her body, partially paralyzing her limbs and weakening her neck.

She was moved to the D.T. Watson Home for Crippled Children in Sewickley, Pa., to begin her long and painful rehabilitation.
A year later, she returned home with a full back brace, leg brace and crutches.

The principal recommended she not return to school, fearing for her safety. But her father insisted she be treated like anyone else and she went back.

Friends took turns driving her to school. Classmates carried her books. The school adjusted her schedule, so she’d only have to navigate the stairs once each day.

Her rehab continued for two years. Though she would always need crutches, the braces eventually came off.

Determined to be independent, she decided to walk to school — over a mile up a steep Pittsburgh hill. Soon, she walked every day.

Beautiful and lively, she made many friends. Eventually, she married, had four children and now has eight grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.

At 86, she has lived a wonderful life with her beloved husband, who she lost recently after 63 years of marriage.

This remarkable person is my Aunt Cecilia, my mother’s sister.

While at the D.T. Watson Home, she bravely volunteered for Dr. Salk’s early trials, aiding the advancement of polio research. In recognition of her selflessness, she would later receive the Poverello Medal from the College of Steubenville.

Back then, fear and doubt about polio were rampant. But the nation didn’t dwell on problems. We did what Americans always do — focused on solutions.

The March of Dimes mobilized millions to raise money and Dr. Salk and other researchers refused to accept defeat. Seventy years ago, on April 12, 1955, the vaccine was declared safe and effective.

It’s easy to see the clarity of past successes but harder to find it in today’s challenges. The country appears divided, with many voices focusing on what’s wrong. But the best way forward is to unite and focus on what we can make right.

Just as my Aunt Cecilia did.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Find Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos of his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

Here’s something that can make us miserable if we let it: too many decisions!

Social scientist Barry Schwartz says Americans are becoming less happy because we’re allowing ourselves to be overwhelmed by too many choices. His groundbreaking idea, originally published in his 2004 book The Paradox of Choice, has been echoed by recent studies.

Researchers from the University of Pennsylvania recently found that while having some choices is beneficial, excessive options often lead to decision paralysis and reduced satisfaction.

No sooner do we wake in the morning than we have to choose among hundreds of breakfast cereals, drinks and coffees. There are more than 40 kinds of toothpaste to choose from, hundreds of shampoos and, for the self-care-obsessed, hundreds of other ointments, salves and moisturizers.

Throughout the day, we’re pestered by telemarketers, pop-up ads and random texts that promise us we’ll be fit, smart and stylish if we buy the products they are pushing — and fat, dumb and dorky if we don’t.

Schwartz gives an example of a visit to a Gap clothing store to buy a pair of jeans. In the old days, the average fellow had only to choose between Wrangler or Levi’s, but not anymore. The Gap now offers slim fit, easy fit, relaxed fit, baggy, stonewashed, acid-washed, distressed, button fly, zipper fly, faded or regular.

Gone are the days of the cardboard-thick Sears Toughskins I was forced to wear as a boy.

But decisions over material things are just the beginning of our confusion. We’ve allowed ourselves to become as equally overwhelmed by the careers we choose, our jobs, our spouses… or even if we should marry at all.

From the Greatest Generation to now, the percentage of people of marrying age who got married dropped from 81 percent to just 44 percent, reflecting a dramatic decline in marriage rates over the decades.

And many young people who still hope to find a life partner aren’t just looking for a spouse or a companion, but a soulmate — that perfect person who is going to fill their hearts with joy every moment of every day.

The peculiar thing about the American mind — and I’m more guilty than anyone — is that we equate freedom with unlimited choice, when it is the opposite that is actually true. It is by limiting our choices that we are set free.

G.K. Chesterton said that marriage brings a man happiness because it gives him clarity and focus. By focusing his energies and affections on one woman, he is able to know the inner beauty and closeness of one woman.

Could you imagine being an artist, he said, who was trying to paint a canvas as large as the moon? Where do you start painting? No, it is the frame that liberates the artist. By being boxed into a small rectangular area, he is given a point of reference and perspective. It is the frame that sets the artist free.

Chesterton argues that true freedom comes not from limitless choices but from making a committed choice and sticking to it. Marriage, in his view, is an example of how committing to one person for life creates genuine freedom within boundaries.

That makes perfect sense to me.

I’m going to mull this important concept over as soon as I’m done choosing among 47 streaming services, 63 flavors of coffee and 27 types of hamburger patties — some of which have no meat!

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

It’s a growing concern that world leaders, economists and even Pope Francis have warned about: people aren’t having enough children.

Across the globe, birth rates are plummeting below the replacement level of 2.1 children per woman, the minimum needed to maintain a stable population.

Countries such as Japan, Italy and even the U.S. are now facing shrinking workforces, aging populations and economic uncertainty as a result.

Pope Francis, too, has urged families to embrace more children, praising the value of big families, which teach children selflessness and sharing — benefits that extend far beyond the home.

And I couldn’t agree more.

I was raised as an only boy in a family of six kids, which was at once a blessing and a curse.

When I was 12, the neighborhood bully was constantly picking on me, but I had no brothers to teach me to fight. My sisters taught me. I looked the bully dead in the eye and said, “You are soooooooo immature!”

Despite having no brothers, my father made me wear hand-me-downs. It wasn’t too bad most of the year, but Easter Sunday was unpleasant. Do you know how hard it is to outrun the neighborhood bully with your pantyhose bunching up and your bonnet flopping in the wind?

Though my sisters loved and doted on me many times, other times they complained to my parents that I was stinky and gross, which meant I was forever banished to the third seat in the back of the station wagon.

One of my fondest memories was going grocery shopping with my father every Thursday night. We hit the Del Farm grocery store, the beer distributor and the butcher and we arrived home just as “The Waltons” theme song was playing on television.

Like a Red Cross operation, everyone in the house unloaded and packed away our weekly supplies, then we joined for some potato chips and orange and cherry soda pop as we watched John Boy and his many siblings show us what life was like during the Great Depression.

Pope Francis has said that “having brothers and sisters is good for you.” He said, “the sons and daughters of a large family are more capable of fraternal communion from early childhood.”

He has also said that “each family is the cell of society, but the large family is a richer, more vibrant cell.”

I found this to be true.

My parents’ house was a wonderful, raucous place, filled with laughter, chaos and lots of love and joy. You had no choice but to interact.

I can’t help but wonder how many of today’s kids — without siblings and isolated with their smartphones alone in their rooms — are missing out on the childhood I was blessed to have.

According to a 2023 report from the U.S. surgeon general, young people are experiencing record-high levels of loneliness and anxiety.

Being part of a big family would solve that problem. You simply can’t isolate yourself with so much commotion going on all around you.

And if you attempted to hide from the rest of the family, one of your siblings would demand you come out of your room or risk the greatest punishment that can happen in a big family.

Someone would threaten to brush their teeth with your toothbrush!

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Find Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos of his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].

St. Patrick’s Day couldn’t come soon enough this year.

Half the country is giddy as the Trump administration undoes our reckless spending and $2 trillion annual deficits, which have resulted in a frightening $37 trillion national debt.

But the other half of the country is mortified by Trump’s bull-in-a-China-shop approach to government and foreign policy. They’re angrier than a colony of ground bees after a landscaper’s blade ripped through their nest.

We must learn from the Irish that neither overconfidence nor overreaction is a good idea — that the only way to successfully navigate our lives and our politics is to maintain a healthy sense of humor.

The Irish have endured famine, oppression and war. Rather than succumbing to these miseries, they defied pain and suffering through their legendary wit.

In response to famine: “We had three meals a day — one on Monday, one on Wednesday and one on Sunday.”

On British occupation: An English general was asked, “What was the biggest problem fighting the Irish?” He sighed and said, “Bullets? We had plenty. Bombs? No shortage. But the Irish? They had something far deadlier… a sense of humor.”

On war: An English officer asked an old Irishman, “How did you fight off so many invaders?” The Irishman smiled, “Simple. We invite them in for a drink, and by the time they sober up, they’ve forgotten why they came.”

According to author Bob Callahan in Salon, the Irish influence on American culture is sizable. Nearly 40 million Americans have Irish ancestors.

Irish vaudevillians, masters of knockabout physical comedy, influenced early Hollywood filmmaking and even gave birth to the newspaper comic strip.

But it is the mischievousness of the Irish spirit and wit — the “hard-boiled, darkly humorous, racetrack-bitten” language of the Irish — that has really benefited America.

Irish spirit and wit were the precursors to “brilliant, wisecracking Irish-Americans,” who were precursors to the gregarious American spirit and sense of humor.

But are we losing the gift of humor?

In these highly partisan times, when our candidates lose, we get lost in the narrowness of our own point of view — or we get cocky when our candidate wins.

The Irish know better than to get too comfortable with success — they know that triumph and disaster are just different stops along the same road.

As the Irish say, “Don’t break out the good whiskey just yet — wait until the bill is paid.”

Here are some Irish lessons on how we can restore a healthy sense of humor:

First, we must laugh at ourselves. The Irish love self-deprecating humor because it’s disarming and likable, as shown in this joke:

“I’m not saying I’m unlucky, but if I bought a cemetery, people would stop dying.”

Second, we must turn frustrations into funny stories, as this classic joke illustrates:

An impatient man said, “Excuse me, how do I get to Dublin?”

“Are ye walking or driving?” said the Irishman.

“Driving,” said the man.

“Well, that’s the quickest way then!”

Third, don’t take life so seriously. Don’t sweat the small stuff, because life is hard enough already, as this joke reveals:

An old Irishman was asked, “What’s the secret to happiness?”

He pondered for a moment, then said, “A short memory and a long laugh.”

To be sure, America could use a short memory and a long laugh as we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day this year.

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Copyright 2025 Tom Purcell, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

See Tom Purcell’s syndicated column, humor books and funny videos featuring his dog, Thurber, at TomPurcell.com. Email him at [email protected].