Tyrades! by Danny Tyree

My morning routine: wonder, “How many business ventures has Elon Musk launched in the time it took me to microwave this sausage patty?”
My evening routine: read Terri Libenson’s “The Pajama Diaries” comic strip, in which protagonist Jill Kaplan is often shamed by the well-intentioned SuperMom neighbor she has dubbed “Perfectville.”

It can be a SuperMom, SuperDad, SuperSibling or SuperColleague, but I imagine most of us endure a “Perfectville” in our lives.

They are good people and handy to have around in a pinch; but their boundless optimism, energy, skill sets, luck (“I donated my PowerBall winnings to the Humane Society and could have donated even more if I had actually purchased a ticket”), free time and bankroll are aggravatingly intimidating.

I purchase obstacles and rationalizations in bulk, so I am in awe of the flexibility of “Perfectville.” (“Wednesday morning? I’m scheduled for surgery to donate a kidney, a lung and a bellybutton then; but if you’ll hold the ladder, I think I can clean out your gutters before the anesthesia kicks in.”)

“Perfectville” kids take industriousness to a whole new level. And by new level, I mean selling enough black licorice fruitcakes in front of Radio Shack on a rainy Saturday afternoon to pay off the national debt.

“Perfectville” types pride themselves on never saying anything inappropriate; but let’s face it, if you capture a litter of rabid wolverines from underneath a neighbor’s shed and dismiss it with “Shucks, t’weren’t nothin’, ma’am,” that is inappropriate. It just is.

“Perfectville” people are not all exactly alike. Some work six difficult crossword puzzles a day blindfolded, on stilts; but others eschew such brain-teasers altogether. (“Crosswords are extremely triggering for me, because I had a cross word with my mother on August 13, 1975.”)

Yes, “Perfectville” people are big on multigenerational family commitments, vowing, “None of my family will ever be consigned to a nursing home.” But they maintain their modesty. (“I’m not one to brag about my ancestors coming over on the Mayflower. But if you want to talk to them yourself, they’re in Guest Bedroom Q.”)

“Perfectville” can give you a detailed review of every five-star restaurant or vacation destination you’re curious about. And they know every person in town. (“George Appleby? Sure, I can direct you to his house. And I can recreate his fingerprint whorls if you have trouble at the front gate.”)

Many of us view home as a place to collapse, but “Perfectville” is always eager for a Tour of Homes hosting slot, as long as they have an hour’s notice to give the lawn a manicure, pedicure, colonoscopy and gender-affirming surgery. (“We’ll have to pause because a horde of Visigoths just invaded the mezzanine. Give me five minutes to tidy up and we’ll resume.”)

If it’s any consolation, “Perfectville” people have their limitations. They may speak five languages fluently, but they can be stymied by unfamiliar concepts. (“Bad hair day? Clutter? Perspiration? What are these things of which you speak?”)

They are also under intense surveillance by the federal government. This is understandable, because they have the ingenuity to restart the entire Iranian nuclear program by rubbing two sticks together.

If there are one or more “Perfectvilles” in your life, I feel your pain.

If you ARE a “Perfectville,” could you be a pal and talk Elon into delivering my sausage patties via SpaceX every morning?

–

Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.

Danny Tyree welcomes email responses at [email protected] and visits to his Facebook fan page “Tyree’s Tyrades.”