Ready for random thoughts on life and death?

Blame it on Daylight Saving Time discombobulating my circadian rhythm, but a smorgasbord of random thoughts has swirled in my noggin recently. I suspect other folks have something different in mind when they boast, "Livin' the dream." When I'm livin' the dream, it usually means I'm not wearing any pants and I think I can fly to the assignment I haven't studied for. Yes, in this era of divisive social media, I admit I have strangers living rent-free in my brain. Just don't tell them about the asbestos and lead paint. No wonder the centuries-old question "How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?" has never been adequately answered. Your calculations must account for the wallflower angels lurking in the corner, the angels rushing off to Hollywood with an idea for "Dancing with the Seamstresses" and the angels who are gun-shy from stepping on a Lego. To say nothing of the heavenly messengers who are more interested in solving, "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" Most people are blissfully unaware of public figures satirized in the original Mother Goose rhymes, but those with an appreciation for poetry are nonetheless fortunate that the verses were written in simpler times. Nowadays, we would have "(REDACTED) was a merry old soul," "(REDACTED) has lost her sheep" and "There was (REDACTED); she had so many children, she didn't know what to do." How are you supposed to respond if someone scolds you, "You kiss your momma with that mouth?" I vote for "I tried kissing her with my elbow, but she was allergic to the moisturizer." If we tell an automotive mechanic that our vehicle is making a "funny" sound, how would we describe the normal sound? ("The engine seems contemplative today. Those carburetors are sober as a judge. Windshield wipers are counting their blessings one by one. Look out! The tailpipe is spewing gravitas!") I sympathize with the anguish and disillusionment of parents who have lost a child. But it's possible to overthink the "natural order of things" and exactly when spouses, offspring, etcetera are supposed to shuffle off this mortal coil. If we're going to micromanage lifespans, we might as well go whole hog and assign the relative death order of siblings, the cousin who experienced a drunken "wardrobe malfunction" while toasting the bride and groom , Aunt Prunella's fourth husband, faithful rescue pooch Trailblazer, grandchildren who can't be bothered to write a "thank you" note and all the rest. ("My evil twin? Well, he can die – again – whenever the writers run out of things for him to do.") Can there really be that many people who "die surrounded by their loved ones"? Bless their hearts, but I've known people whose obits should probably read, "and their dimwit relatives spilled out into the hallway single-file." "The secret ingredient is love." You've probably been told that when begging for a cherished recipe. But I'll bet your doctor has never told you, "Love is blocking six major arteries." Whatever the impact on your circadian rhythm, I hope you have pleasant days ahead. As one reader commented, "Spring is when the days are long and the Tyree columns are mercifully short." Hmph. If I can just get my pants off, I'm flying down to settle this. Yes, sir, just me and Yosemite Sam… – Copyright 2026 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate. Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at tyreetyrades@aol.com and visits to his Facebook fan page "Tyree's Tyrades."