J.D.’s Columns

A SAD Story         Engraved on the chunk of plastic pinned to her blue grocer's smock was the word “Delphine.”  She was one of five clerks handling the pre-holiday crush in a grocery store with aisles wide enough to accommodate forlklifts. Delphine was not smiling the smile that  “mystery shoppers” have forced upon the unions.      She slapped the bacon down like she was squishing scorpions. She hammer-threw five pounds of spuds against the back boards. She scooted the catsup with enough force to score against a Canadian goalie, smacked that bottle with the maple syrup, bowled a strike on the orange juice with a back-handed grapefruit, then helicoptered a dozen eggs into the pile.       "That'll be nineteen dollars and thirty-five cents."       I've never wanted to become a grocery clerk when I grow up. Even a good union clerk doesn't draw enough o...

  I collect one-liners. Here is a bucket of recent acquisitions.... Don't skinny dip with snapping turtles 24 hours in a day. 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? A cat almost always blinks when hit in the head with a hammer. A man and his truck: It's a beautiful thing. A penny for your thoughts, a dollar if you flash me. A synonym is a word you use if you can't spell the other one. A truly wise man never plays leapfrog with a Unicorn. Advice is free: The right answer will cost plenty. Alaskans For Global Warming. All I want to do is massage your back. TRUST me... Anarchists of the world unite! Another Deadline, Another Miracle! Any book worth banning is a book worth reading. Friends don't let friends line dance. Anything not nailed down is a cat toy! Are lightning rods contrary to God's will? Artificial Intelligence is no match for natural stupidity. Ask me about my vow of silence. At Exxon, we help Jesus walk on water. The best things in life are free plus tax. Be ye ...

Elmer Fifty years ago, in the Salmon River Mountains of central Idaho, I was detailed by the rancher who was my boss to help Elmer Brown harvest a few thin crops of oats from a dry hillside that his family farmed for more than a hundred years.      I was in my early thirties, hung-over every morning from chasing barmaids around pool tables. Elmer was a short person, an 89-year-old widower without teeth. He wore bib overalls, lived in the house his mother built in the late 1800’s, required a booster pillow to see over the steering wheel of his Oldsmobile, and hoarded scrap iron.      He lived in the kitchen of the three-story home. The rest of the house was crammed with stuff, floors to tin ceiling.  Paths led through towers of magazines, winter coats, cigar boxes and unopened mail. Propped in the living room doorway was a tidy bundle of a hundred curtain rods.      Our workdays began with a ritual. At sunrise I wander...