Otis Campbell, Your Magazine Is Ready

Publishers in general support freedom of speech, but one magazine champions freedom of slurred speech.

According to the “Los Angeles Times,” Frank Kelly Rich of Denver circulates 50,000 copies per issue of “Modern Drunkard” magazine. “Modern Drunkard” is not a genteel journal aimed at wine sippers or the occasional imbiber, but a macho magazine designed for drinkers who embrace the blackouts, impaired judgment, and haywire motor skills that go with being three sheets to the wind.

I tried to research the “Modern Drunkard” website, but it’s “members only.” Still, I hear from reliable sources that the magazine provides stimulating articles on a wide range of topics. For instance:

* Geopolitics (“Who cares about Communism? I wanna know how many bottles of beer may have fallen off the Berlin Wall.”)

* Childrearing (“Put yourself in your toddler’s place; which would you rather have for your birthday -- a pony or a fake i.d.?”)

* Home improvement (“The Frugal Sot: How To Drink Your Guests Under The Table When The @#$%& Furniture Store Has Repossessed All Your Furniture.”)

* Romance (“That Cute New Girl Who Was Puking At The Same Time As You: Is She Your Soul Mate Or Just One Of Those Pathetic Bulimic Broads?”)

* Psychology (“Those Aren’t Your Inner Demons You’re Wrestling With – They’re The Two Ug-leeee Sisters You Picked Up At Closing Time”)

* Etiquette (“Remember: What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas. What? We’re Not In Vegas? Where Are We???? Where’s My Wallet?”)

Playing with cause and effect, Rich asserts that society’s most accomplished people (such as Ernest Hemingway and Dean Martin) have been hard drinkers. One might also discover that a lot of talented people had parents with tuberculosis, which would lead to parental brainstorms such as, “We’ll get Junior a piano and a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, then break into the Centers For Disease Control. This kid is gonna be a prodigy!”

Rich insists that alcohol is conducive to a happy family life. I’m sure many families have fond memories of going on rollicking scavenger hunts for Dad’s new liver.

Rich says there’s a tidal wave of new evidence that drinking is actually good for your health – or at least the health of the liquor industry executives’ bank accounts. It’s only unhealthy when the execs choke on something as they laugh all the way to the bank.

I’m sure Rich gets a good chuckle when he sends out subscription renewal notices. (“Maybe you sort of kind of remember renewing last week, but you didn’t. Pay your tab. *Snicker snicker*”)

Similarly, advertisers must enjoy hawking their wares to gullible Einsteins who consume a depressant in order to be happy! Don’t let an alcoholic use his logic on your household projects. (“Don’t worry about that broken dish. I’ll glue it back together with dynamite.”)

Rich paints heavy drinkers as an “oppressed minority,” but the NAACP has had a hard time equating “lift that keg, tote that six-pack” with the old cotton-picking days.

Still, if you’ve ever entered a “12 Stumbles” program or realized halfway through a party that there ain’t no karaoke machine, you might be a candidate for checking out “Modern Drunkard” yourself.

I hear there’s a really thought-provoking article about religion in the next issue. (“If God is so loving, how come he makes butterflies so dadgum loud? Ouch!!”)

This column appeared in newspapers the week of January 10, 2005.

Danny Tyree 

Gideon Tyree and Santa 

Beware of Greeks Baring Buttocks

Surely by now you’ve heard of “Musica,” a four-story, classically-styled bronze statue at the entrance of Nashville’s Music Row. Alan LeQuire’s sculpture has received much of its notoriety from the fact that it features nine nude figures frolicking.

If you’re an uptight person, perhaps you interpret “Musica” differently, but the statue is supposed to make us think of music. Of course. When parents return home and find their teenage daughter and her ne’er-do-well boyfriend naked, the father’s first thought is always “Don’t move! Where’d I put my harmonica?”

No, seriously, the statue is supposed to spotlight the universality of music and the ancient heritage of music. Well, some people would feel a little less squeamish if it spotlighted the universality of The Gap or Old Navy. And some citizens question the logic of harking back to the ancient Greeks , who participated in athletic competitions naked, to the tune of ditties such as “The Skin Cancer Boogie.”

Some people are miffed that the statue pays homage to the style of a long-dead civilization, while ignoring the feelings of our grandmothers, who for the most part didn’t drop their drawers in public. Of course grandmothers do ask a lot of impertinent questions, like “If all the Greeks were jumping off a bridge, would you do it, too?” (“Depends on whether it featured classical architecture.”)

“Musica” is an earnest attempt to destroy stereotypes and show that Nashville’s music is more than country music. Just the same, I’m glad that Burger King advertises itself as “more than a burger joint” without commercials in which Brad and Jason get their zit-covered derrieres burned on the grill.

The cavorting in “Musica” illustrates the joy of the human spirit. Maybe at your house. But when we’re in a hurry for a social engagement and my wife announces “I don’t have a thing to wear,” ain’t nobody happy.

Fans of “Musica” are sorely tested by the Philistines who can’t comprehend the value of nudity in art. (Of course they’re also sorely tested by the assignment “Write a sentence WITHOUT using the word ‘diversity’.”)

Nude art of the perfected human body is supposed to inspire. Maybe it inspires you to smash your mirrors and bathroom scales, but it still inspires.

Nude art symbolizes man’s heroic qualities. Surely you can name hundreds of famous nude heroes, like, well, The Lone Ranger (“Who was that masked man with his cheeks stuck to the saddle?”)

The nudity illustrates the liberating effect of music. Try stripping down at your next music appreciation meeting and you might wind up liberated from large amounts of cash in the form of paternity payments. (Although, LeQuire points out that the genitalia on the statue are semi-hidden. I guess that means if people are inspired to party naked, they’ll get only semi-pregnant.)

Don’t bring your puritanical prejudices to bear on this project. It’s Art. Or is it a “national security issue,” or “a guy thing”? I never can keep those “Get out of jail free” excuses straight.

“Musica” is what it is, although perhaps the statue would have been designed differently if the spirit of the times were different, if LeQuire’s muse had whispered something different, if LeQuire hadn’t fallen asleep in class the day they learned to sculpt fabric…

Whatever, enjoy the statue or avoid it. Just don’t protest it or you’ll be branded as a yahoo.

That’s the way it goes: you can’t criticize art, but you can set it out for pigeons to poop on.
Only in Greece and America.

Originally published the week of October 26, 2003.

Tyree's Guide To Macon Love

Fans of hillbilly music and olden days in general will be trekking to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, July 9-11 for the 27th Annual Uncle Dave Macon Days.

Dave Harrison “Uncle Dave” Macon (1870-1952) didn’t perform professionally until he was almost 50; but he was one of the first superstars of the Grand Ole Opry, thanks to his talent and rollicking showmanship.

The Opry’s “solemn old judge” George Hay dubbed Macon “The Dixie Dewdrop.” With a macho nickname like that, he should have been touring on a double bill with The San Francisco Hairstylist.

Let’s put Uncle Dave in perspective. Not only was he a professional performer before Hank Williams Sr. was even born, but he was making country music in the days before the earth cooled enough to make the mining of rhinestones feasible, and when “downloading” was something done in a building with a crescent moon.

Although Uncle Dave was posthumously elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1966, he is still underappreciated in many ways. It’s a travesty that Country Music Television’s list of the greatest love songs of all time omitted sentimental ballads such as “Carve That Possum,” “Visit At The Old Maid’s,” “The Cross-Eyed Butcher and the Cackling Hen,” and “Keep My Skillet Good And Greasy.”

To add insult to injury, Percy Sledge drew widespread music industry acclaim when he remade “Carve That Possum” as “When A Man Loves A Marsupial.”

In some ways Uncle Dave’s music was timeless; but a few of the songs would be politically incorrect, and songs like “The Gayest Dude Who’s Out” would take on a new meaning in the military’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” era.

Furthermore, I’d hate to see Dave’s gospel classics updated to “Don’t Get Weary, Children (But Do Take Your Ritalin),” and “Just One Way To The Pearly Gates (And One Way To The Pits Of Hell -- By Opposing The Iraq War, You Commie Pinko Traitor).”

Uncle Dave remains a major influence on today’s country performers, not necessarily because of his song topics or instrumentation, but because most of them look like 80-year-old men in their DUI mug shots.

Uncle Dave Macon Days will be held in Murfreesboro’s Cannonsburgh Village, an authentic recreation of a pioneer settlement. Cannonsburgh has become a tourist draw thanks to upbeat marketing campaigns such as “Colonial Williamsburg: Say, Isn’t That The Birthplace of Carbs?”

The event is tailor-made for folks who yearn for the days of blacksmith shops, one-room schoolhouses, milk cans, hand-cranked phones, well buckets, and peddler wagons. Of course the people who go overboard about the Good Old Days probably also over-romanticize Custer’s Last Stand as “Free Haircut Day.”

Yes, people are so nostalgic for simpler times that they’ll travel hundreds of miles, employing global positioning satellites and cell phones to reach the rustic village in their air-conditioned cars.

Uncle Dave Macon Days includes the national championships in old-time banjo, old-time buckdancing, and old-time clogging (as opposed to “new-time clogging,” which, I assume, involves rollerblades and Michael Jackson’s moonwalk).

It’s heartwarming to see our heritage of music and dance preserved for a generation that thinks a “buckdance” involves dollar bills and a G-string.

If you enjoy gospel singing, arts and crafts, historic photos, and free admission, make plans for Uncle Dave Macon Days. Family fun is guaranteed for all -- unless you’re a family of possums…

Originally published the week of June 27, 2004.

The South's Gonna Do It Again -- Apologize, That Is

According to news reports, the University of the South at Sewanee is trying to downplay the “University of the South” name in its marketing.

A “task force” of educators and administrators – aided by outside consultants --painstakingly researched and deliberated to decide that a lot of potential students have negative feelings about the South. Of course it never occurred to them that even more people have negative feelings about task forces and outside consultants!!!!!!

To be fair, other institutions are considering name changes to eliminate the possibility of offending anyone anywhere. Duke University is worried about ticking off people who hate John Wayne. And William and Mary is being redubbed William and Brad, so it doesn’t sound so darned heterosexual.

It’s understandable that the highly ranked liberal arts school wants to evaluate its strengths, weaknesses, and options. Sewanee is locked in an intensely competitive search for the best and brightest students. But isn’t it possible that the students who swallow all the old redneck stereotypes about the South maybe aren’t the best and the brightest???? They probably think Poly Tech is a college for parrots.


Granted, the university isn’t entirely jettisoning its rich 147-year history by deemphasizing its name. It’s just trying to face reality -- by shielding potential students from reality! (“To save the village, we had to destroy it.”) They want to reel the kids in before they know what hit them. But it’ll cost a fortune for remedial math classes for all the Einsteins who couldn’t put two and two together and deduce that “Sewanee” and “Tennessee” are in the South.

I don’t doubt the sincerity of the task force, but the methodology of the research involves a few too many leading questions. (“What’s your first impression of the South, boy?”)

The task force seems to take a little too much satisfaction in the fact that some visitors are unnerved by the tiniest remaining vestiges of antebellum heritage on campus. (“A former slave owner was buried here a hundred years ago. And he had a hook for a hand. And if you and a date are ever at Inspiration Point on a dark night…Woooooooooooooooo!”)


They say the best defense is a good offense, so maybe the University of the South should launch a preemptive strike against anti-Southern bigots. (“Your SAT scores are excellent, but we understand that you’re named for your great grandfather, who once shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die…”)

They also say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Why not turn the school catalog over to the caricatures that bigots expect of the South? Examples:

1. “Remember, your camouflage cap and gown can also be worn at your wedding, as long as your cousin says it’s okay.”
2. “Our cafeteria serves the finest food, with tread marks only from imported sports cars.”
3. “All buildings are handicapped accessible, as long as the wheelchair has a gun rack.”
4. “All freshmen must take History 20. We call it History 20- ‘cause we ain’t got enough fingers and toes to count to History 101.”

Whatever approach the University of the South eventually takes, I hope at least a scant majority of people will be satisfied. Everyone seems thrilled with Harvard Law School’s plans to change its name to The Army Bombing Range At Cambridge.

Originally published the week of May 2, 2004.

Onward, Plastic Soldiers

Despite the best efforts of the world’s evildoers, the stalwart G.I. Joe turned 40 this year.

That’s four decades and 400 million Joes, fighting the stigma of being “a doll for boys.” From Day One, toymaker Hasbro has scrupulously referred to Joe as an “action figure.” Recently declassified Pentagon memos show that Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld briefly flirted with the Hasbro strategy in reporting casualties. (“Hey, they’re not sons and daughters -- they’re action figures!”)

Joe is a central part of the childhood of every American boy, unless you count the underprivileged kids, who had to make do with cheap knockoffs like Defense Contractor Delbert and lovable loser “4-F Freddie.” . (“See Freddie use stealth technology to hide from the guy who comes to repossess his Jeep. Empty whiskey bottles not included.”)

Joe is viewed primarily as an American icon, but his fame is international. He has traveled the world, leaving behind a trail of smiles, fond memories, little plastic babies, etc.
Joe’s body had an amazing amount of articulation when the toy was first introduced -- 21 moving parts. Many of our soldiers in Iraq are probably jealous of their old playthings. (“Hey, somebody move ME!”) At the rate we’re going, all those old Joes stashed away in the Smithsonian, closets, and basements will be called up for active duty!

Joe started out at nearly 12 inches tall, but he has also been eight inches, 4 ½ inches, and 3 ¾ inches. Maybe Barbie and Ken need to stage an intervention about Joe’s “binge and purge” routine with those military Meals Ready to Eat.

Hasbro is always on the lookout for ways to modernize and publicize Joe, so the rumors are flying about special presidential candidate versions. The John Kerry action figure would be perfect for selling more accessories; the action figure would throw away his medals, and Mom and Dad would have to buy more.

The Kerry doll would not be good for taking on a sleepover, however. He’d injure himself trying to get back home.

If you opt for the George W. Bush National Guard version, be sure to keep your receipt in case you need to return it. (“Are you sure you bought this here? No one recalls having seen it.”)

G.I. Joe has always been controversial.(And I don’t mean just the photos of him standing triumphantly over a bound, naked Mr. Potato Head.) Many child psychologists say the toys help youngsters release their aggression in a safe environment. Left-wing critics, on the other hand, charge that the action figures glorify war and brainwash children into blindly supporting the military-industrial complex. Hey, how glorious can war be for Joe if the neighbor’s Chihuahua can bury him in the back yard?

Sales figures have seen double-digit increases for the past several years, so Joe seems poised to last at least another 40 years. But he does show signs of middle age.

The phrase “Give me 20” now refers to antacids instead of pushups. Joe has to get a hair transplant before he can get a buzz cut. He drives a “relaxed fit” tank. And his dreaded “Kung Fu Grip” has lost a little of its luster. (“See Joe fight the terrorists of C.O.B.R.A. with his awesome Carpal Tunnel Syndrome Grip!”)

Originally published the week of July 11, 2004.

Rebel Yell Or Bronx Cheer?

“We’re not a country music town, but we play one on TV.”

That may be the slogan of New York City in 2005 as it hosts the Country Music Association Awards -- an event televised only from Nashville since the program’s inception in 1967.

Yes, Music City U.S.A. lost out to “The City That Never Sleeps.” I didn’t know insomnia was such a selling point. Maybe Nashville should promote itself as “The City With The Heartbreak of Psoriasis.”

(The awards almost went to Paris, France. The opening number was going to be Toby Keith and Willie Nelson singing “Whiskey For My Men, Utter Contempt For The Lowbrow American Swine.”)

Actually, New York was chosen because it’s a “media center.” Some in the country music industry fear that Nashville has been “out of sight, out of mind” as far as East Coast sponsors and ad agencies are concerned. This, in spite of post-9/11 anthems, two country music cable channels, talk show appearances, and the enduring fame of Garth Brooks. I guess some Manhattan media types are a little slow on the uptake. (“Five years I’ve worked for this agency, and they still haven’t told me where they found a singing gecko!”)

So, by granting NYC the $30 million economic impact of the awards, the CMA is basically rewarding ignorance. The show returns to Nashville in 2006, but maybe in 2007 it could be broadcast from the garage of the bank robber who wrote a holdup note on the back of his own deposit slip.


This promises to be quite a duet: the “raw honesty” of country music paired with the exuberant exaggerations of Madison Avenue. (The fine print of the song “Daddy’s Hands” would reveal that stunt hands were used instead.)

To its credit, New York is trying to make country fans feel at home. All taxi drivers will wear a name tag proclaiming “Rajeev Earnhardt.” Central Park will become Central Trailer Park. Rather than a torch, the Statue of Liberty will hold up a largemouth bass. Yankees owner George Steinbrenner will try to trade one Dixie Chick for one Brooks or Dunn to be announced later. And there will be a new answer to the question, “Who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?” (“For one night only, it’s Con-waaaaay Twitty!!!!”)

But will it be enough to make up for the disruption? I can just see Kramer bursting into the middle of a Faith Hill ballad with some wild scheme. And the songs just won’t be the same in a New York setting. No more “Redneck Woman,” “Who’s Your Daddy?,” or “Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.” Instead we’ll hear “Redneck Transvestite,” “Who’s Your Faddah?,” and “Save A Horse, Ride A Sewer Rat.”

I hope the New Yorkers know what they’re getting into. Terrorists may aim twin planes at Dolly Parton. “New York’s Finest” may find crime scenes contaminated when too much boot-scootin’ erases chalk outlines. And there will be little suspense with the opening of award envelopes because the New Yorkers ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWERS TO EVERYTHING.

I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to stop New York’s hunger for snapping up cultural events. I hear rumors that they’re going to swipe Pamplona’s famed “running of the bulls” at the same time as the CMA Awards. (“Please help me, I’m falling/In Saks Fifth Avenue…ooo…ooo…ooo…”)

Originally published the week of October 17, 2004.

Don't Press Your Cluck

It may ruffle your feathers, but your Ma and Pa Kettle image of farming is running smack-dab against the 21st Century.

According to the Shelbyville Times-Gazette, Tyson Foods and Georgia Poultry recently hosted an open house near Wartrace, Tennesee, for the high-tech chicken house of the future.

The structure houses 32,000 birds, is computer-controlled, and costs 200,000(although Jimmy Carter and volunteers from Habitat For Poultry claimed they could do the job a lot cheaper).

The chicken house contains eight independent heat zones. The computer can maintain the optimum temperature -- unless, of course, the computer’s wife gets cold.

The lighting is carefully controlled, with a dimmer to calm down the chickens. I hear they even pipe in songs such as “Dancing Beak To Beak” and “If I Had A Hammer, And, Oh, Yeah, Opposable Thumbs.”

If anything goes wrong in the chicken house, the computer sets off an alarm and phones the owner. Of course with all the glitches computer owners are accustomed to, the message may turn out to be “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?”

The owner can monitor the computer from anywhere in the world via the Internet. That means three batches of chickens will have matured before he slogs through all the “spam” e-mail for vinyl siding, “work at home” schemes, and male enhancement products.


I have it on good authority that the computer is loaded with the beta version of Microsoft’s revolutionary Chicken Little software. Any breech in the structural integrity of the roof will be met with cries of “The sky is falling!”

Of course predators are still a worry, but at least now the proverbial “fox in the hen house” has to go to the expense of hiring a hacker.

The greatest concern of owners is that the restaurant-bound chickens will somehow catch wise and gain access to the computer. Browsing the Web, they might encounter “the F word” (“fried”), or be disillusioned by job search sites. (“My guidance counselor told me I should have gone into the egg production side of the business.”)

Some birds might stumble across forbidden information that changes their whole life. (“Son of a gun! The sun would come up even if I didn’t crow! I’m gonna start sleeping in.”)

The new chicken house allows chickens to grow more comfortably. Partly, that’s because Tyson wants to placate People For The Ethical Treatment of Animals and partly because the “Disgruntled thighs from disgruntled chickens” ad campaign flopped with focus groups.

The high-tech features enhance the mission of having chickens ready for the processing plant by the time they’re a mere 51 days old. Mature at 51 days! Some husbands can’t manage that in 51 years. At this rate, soon someone will say, “Look, a gleam in that rooster’s eye! Let’s eat the gleam!”

Some may quibble with the feeding program that produces the chickens, but I think they’re Nervous Nellies. I don’t see any ill effects of consuming the accelerated poultry. In fact, it will enhance our language, with phrases such as “Which came first – the chicken or the eight-year-old going through puberty?”

I think we’re in for true progress with childrearing. (“Yes, she started walking when she was nine months old. Okay, maybe she falls down because she’s a 38D, but…”)

Originally published the week of Sept. 19, 2004.

Party Like It's 1861!

As 2004 careens to a conclusion, I’m lamenting some of the opportunities I missed this year. For instance, a historical society program about the Columbia (Tennessee) Athenaeum School For Young Ladies.

The Athenaeum existed from 1852 through 1904 and won national renown as a high-quality all-girls school. It was quite progressive for its time, as the general wisdom was that only males deserved a formal education. Why is unsure. Basically, all men of 1861 needed to know was (a) how to open jars while pontificating about states’ rights, (b) how to wait another 8 years for football to be invented, and (c) how to say, “Pull my finger and hear what secedes from my body!”

The well-equipped departments at the Athenaeum offered an outstanding education, although in those days some subjects were simpler. The reproductive health chapters were rather thin, merely giving instructions on how to leave an immaculate veranda for your husband’s next wife after you die during childbirth.

Of course it was society’s upper crust who attended the Athenaeum. Although, for a few years the white trash crowd had its own Prof. Crescentmoon’s Institute For Redneck Young Women. Classes included calligraphy (“fer writin’ love letters to yore half-brother”), color coordination (“Make sure yore toes is all the same shade of blue whilst you’re waitin’ for yore first pair of winter shoes”), and cartography (“fer maps of the mobile sharecropper-shack park”).

The Athenaeum lives on for one week each year, as girls (14 to 18 years of age) from all over the country come together to wear period costumes and learn the customs and curriculum of the 1860s.

Young ladies attending the modern Athenaeum find the sessions to be an enriching experience -- once they get over the culture shock. Not all of them are prepared for the technological “conveniences” of 140 years ago. Examples of notions they have to shed:

* “I hear the microwave ovens are coal-powered.”

* “Is it true that the credit cards were made of wood instead of plastic?”

* “I hear that the home entertainment centers only played Negro spirituals and‘Eatin’ Goober Peas.’”

The Powers That Be (Powers That Were?) of 1861 placed some arbitrary restrictions on women: dainty eating, side-saddle horseback riding, ever-present gloves, no exposed ankles, etc. Women had to wear layers, layers, layers of clothing. If Janet Jackson had attended the Athenaeum, her “wardrobe malfunction” would have taken longer than the Battle of Bull Run.

Yes, it was scandalous to own a knee-length skirt, but okay to own another human being. What zany times! (“Lawzy, Miss Scarlett, I don’t know nothin’ about recognizin’ no moral contradictions!”)

Young ladies enjoyed music, art, cotillions, and other entertainment -- but not magic shows. A magician sawing a woman in half loses some of its pizzazz when you’re accustomed to wearing a corset.

Ah, but there was method in the madness of Southern matriarchs who demanded flawless etiquette from the belles. Women were the first line of defense against invading Yankees. In a brilliant strategic move, they could drive away the troops with the sticks that were perpetually up their butts!

2005 will mean new opportunities for all of us. But, in the words of Prof. Crescentmoon, “Be keerful about stickin’ yore pinkie out whilst eatin’, in case the buggy didn’t completely kill the possum.”

Originally published the week of November 28, 2004.

Tales Of Whoa! Straight From The Mule's Mouth

Breeders, trainers, farriers, farmers. They all make good interviewees for Mule Day articles.

But, priding myself on my unconventionality, I’ve opted to stay away from the herd (of journalists) by embracing the herd (of mules). Yes, I’ve decided to interview the guests of honor themselves. Here are some “Mule On The Street” comments on a variety of topics:

* “Honestly, would a simple ‘Gee, please’ and “Haaw, please’ kill anyone?”

* “My family has always worked in the timber business, but I just don’t know about the work ethic of the younger generation. One of my kids thought ‘snaking a log’ was something a plumber does.”

* “No, really, the Four Mulemen of the Apocalypse just didn’t have the right press agent.”

* “Hybrid vigor of mules? Ha! When my husband Old Zeke gets a feedbag and a rerun of ‘Murder, She Brayed’ or ‘Trading Stables,” he’s practically comatose on the sofa.”

* “A mule isn’t like a horse. He’s not going to work past the point of exhaustion -- but the union dues are a son of a gun!”

* “True Hollywood story -- Francis was a ventriloquist and did all that klutz Donald O’Connor’s lines.”

* “Humans are funny. They’re fascinated by mules because we remind them of Hard Times. That’s like saying you’re fascinated by weasels because they remind you of your ex-wife’s divorce lawyer.”

* “I still say the Mule Day Parade needs that giant Underdog balloon.”

* “It’s about time we females had some rights. The males are trying to keep us barefoot and preg -- ** Well, barefoot, anyway.”

* “We mules are more sure-footed and more intelligent than horses. We’re stronger and have more endurance. We’re still working on that ‘humility’ thingie, however.”

* “I can’t quite put my hoof on it, but there’s something about Prince Charles that makes him a dreamboat.”

* “That’s right. George Washington had 58 mules at Mt. Vernon. But don’t get me started on George. He’s a big hero because he told the truth about chopping down a cherry tree. But who do you think had to drag that *&^%$#@ cherry tree back to the house?”

* “Hey, I thought this movie was directed by Mule Gibson. I want my money back!”

* “Humans think their mothers give them guilt trips about what they went through during pregnancy. You ought to hear my mom talk about all the kicking…”

* “I’m not stubborn. I’m just ‘differently motivated.’”

* “If some politician doesn’t do something about all these burros coming into the country and taking our jobs…”

* “I don’t mind that we mules have to work as a team; it’s Pete Rose betting on us that sticks in my craw!”

Wow! I’ve used up all my space and haven’t even solicited the opinions of the younger set. Join me next year for “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Yearling,” or “What A Foal Believes.”

· Originally published in the Columbia Daily Herald, April 2004.

Porn In The U.S.A.

Published in newspapers the week of October 10, 2004.

Upcoming events at my old alma mater are sure to arouse passions.

On October 27 the Ideas and Issues Committee at Middle Tennessee State University is spending two-thirds of its annual budget to sponsor a debate on the merits of pornography. The debate pits Ron Jeremy (star of 1800-plus adult films) against feminist author Susan G. Cole.

When I was on that same committee (circa 1981), we had our share of red-hot topics (“Pac-Man Fever: A Job For The World Health Organization Or Trapper John, M.D.?”), but things are really heating up in 2004.

I suspect this will be livelier than the classroom debates I had at MTSU. Instead of “That’s a good question,” you’ll hear “That’s a good question -- a really good question. Yes! Yes! Oh, yesssssssssss!!!!”

From what I’ve read of earlier stops on the Jeremy/Cole tour, the rowdy campus audiences tend to view Cole as the “heavy” and Jeremy as a hero. My, didn’t heroes used to be made of sterner stuff? At one time heroes introduced themselves with “I freed mankind from the grip of polio” or “I busted open a Nazi concentration camp,” not “I liberated a village of naughty librarians—six times, if you count the sequels.”

Jeremy and his forces view “fornicating for dollars” as just plain old entertainment. Commented one Sunday school teacher, “If he thinks whips and chains are entertaining, he’ll have a ball with pitchforks.”

Entertaining or not, porn does raise unreasonable expectations about the frequency and magnitude of sex. (“So, the delivery room isn’t romantic enough for you now, eh, Your Highness?”)

Jeremy contends that porn doesn’t, in and of itself, degrade women or force men to be creeps. The feminist view is that porn exacerbates existing problems by sending the wrong message to men. A woman’s “No” is interpreted as “Let me phone my five stewardess friends.”

The smut superstar scoffs at contentions that porn leads to violence against women. Still, he can’t explain away the growing number of men whose “little black books” are not alphabetized but carry the legend “Nuke ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.”


The pro-porn forces wrap themselves in the First Amendment, citing documents from the Founding Fathers (whose slogan was “You can’t prove we’re Founding Fathers without the DNA evidence.”) I speak of phrases such as “All men are created (*snicker, snicker*) equal” and “the pursuit of life, liberty, and contraceptives.”

Porn defenders bring out the “slippery slope” theory, contending that the curtailment of one form of expression will lead to the censorship of others. Porn opponents mostly just try not to imagine what the slope is really slippery with.

Jeremy is quick to cite happily monogamous couples (“Porn: it’s not just for pathetic dateless losers anymore”) who are able to explore exciting new options through porn. (“Mike, let’s explore the exciting new option of dividing the house and bank account in half.”)

Jeremy just wants to help people shake off the shackles of puritanical restrictions and experience being fully human. Apparently he has already achieved this for my neighborhood dogs, because I see them being fully human quite often.

Rest assured of one thing about this one-on-one debate between Jeremy and Cole. Somehow or another, President Bush will manage to lose the debate. (“Down with pornoscolators!”)

Note: Danny Tyree, a 1982 graduate of MTSU, welcomes e-mail at tyrades@localnet.com.

Purr Your Instructions...

Okay, so I’ve been goofy over cats in my lifetime.

If a cat beats me to a chair, I’ll usually sit on the floor. I didn’t blink when it cost $205 to put a permanent metal pin in Roxanne’s broken leg. Melissa and I keep a tacky chair in the living room because it was the comfort zone of Roxanne’s half-wild mother (Momma Kitty), who passed away more than seven years ago.

But – unlike the infamous Texas woman who went to great lengths to prolong her relationship with her late cat Nicky – I’m not spending $50,000 to clone one of my cats.

For one thing, a cloned cat may be an amazing facsimile of the real thing, but it ain’t the real thing. It’s more like an Elvis impersonator who licks himself. (“Hunka hunka burning hairball!”) Except instead of saying, “Thank you, thank you very much,” he asks, “So what have you done for me lately?”

Julie (no last name given) is ecstatic about cloned kitten Little Nicky. She claims he’s indistinguishable from the original -- same dark spots in the mouth, same love of water, same tendency to meow, “Help! Someone please get me out of this nut house!”

It’s a free country, but I must say Julie has a strange way of getting her jollies. (“I so enjoyed watching Nicky get feeble and die, I’m glad to start the whole process over again. *Sigh* Life would be perfect if I just had another appendix to remove!”)

How you spend your own money is up to you, but before forking over $50,000 for a cloned cat, be honest with yourself about three questions: (a) “Can I afford it?,” (b) “Could the money be better spent adopting strays?,” and (c) “If the roles were reversed and I kicked off first, how would the cat spend $50,000?”

You might ask how a cat would get $50,000 in the first place. Maybe the lottery would start issuing scratch-off drapes instead of scratch-off tickets. Or maybe the feline would win a paternity suit against Morris The Cat. (“He wasn’t so finicky after he had a few catnip daiquiris, believe you me.”)

Anyway, what would a cat with $50,000 and a deceased owner actually have to say?

* “Darn. The butler forgot to buy kitty litter. Get some of those ashes from that urn.”

* I want all these trees done up with those airplane emergency slides.”

* “I’m hiring a good lawyer for a million-dollar defamation of character suit about all these slanderous ‘stealing a baby’s breath’ charges.”

* “I’m puttin’ in fake doggie doors. Those mutts are gonna help me win on ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos.’”

* “How would ‘Ol’ What’s His Name’ look on my master’s grave marker?”

* “I’m staying at the Ritz Carlton, and I want a king-size bed of clean laundry.”

* “I’m hiring a lobbyist to campaign for a 40-hour work lifetime.”

* “Fertility drugs! I want fertility drugs!”

Still, you may have that one cat in a million that would opt to bring you back and continue your friendship. There’s not really anything I can add to that sweet sentiment.

So, this week’s “Tyrades!” curtain is coming down. The fat lady has sung. Elvis has left the building. No, wait -- he came back in. No, wait – he went out again. No, now he’s…

Published in newspapers the week of December 26, 2004.