anchises: (Default)
anchises ([personal profile] anchises) wrote2010-03-10 12:06 am

The fifth epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.

The fifth epistle of JD Nielson

by Anchises

Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.

Creative Commons License

ma chère mitchell,

honey, i'm not home. as even you, with your age-dulled wits and senses will have by now realized. i am still in chicago, chicago, that toddlin' town, and no, mitchell, i am never fucking showing you around. if i have my druthers, mitchell, i will never come back to this overrated pissant orgy of midwestern excess in my entire fucking life.

you will recall the purpose of my visit: to make sure the knuckledragging cretins at our dearly beloved consortium partner actually got the fucking tender response in on time. that time, mitchell, was 1700.

now, you would imagine, i would expect, on account of being a talented, beautiful, intelligent, perceptive and savvy lady (happy international women's day, by the way; did you know that the chinese now use the name of the day, san ba, as slang for 'bitch'?), that the mouthbreathing idiots whose dynamic solutions we leverage to maximize corporate synergies would have realized that the 1700 was 1700 at destination, namely, the five-sided inimically inimitable metonymically materfamilias of us all. you should have seen, mitchell, the looks of stunned silence reverberating around the room like a contagious cerebral infarction when i pointed out that they were in a different time zone and might wish to complete revision 83a of our gloriously combined document at 2200 zulu instead of 2300 zulu, on account of the rules clearly and presently repeating the dangers of submitting a late tender; id est, instant and total disqualification from this and any future rounds under the epics framework.

of course, after they finished having simultaneous strokes (and after mary, the buxom and busty representative of our trusty hardware partner and i exchanged a tired, weak and worn glance, precious lady), they raised their arms in a fashion that reminded your intrepid hero of nothing quite so much as a simultaneous sieg heil auf den brombeereführer, until ms hardware-partner and i happened to remind them of the standing orders banning discussion of epics frameworks on non-secure communication lines, which would, of course, include their fucking blackberries. the fact, mitchell, that we had to remind them of this, makes me (a) wonder how the motherfucking fuck they got any motherfucking bids on their motherfucking contracts, and (b) love the exceedingly endowed representative of our illustrious and illuminating hardware partner more and more. did you know she's a dyke?

you would not believe the look of disgust with which we were graced at that point by our market-leading high-performance outcome-focused customer-oriented convergent creative stakeholder group. we might as well have stood above their high and tight heads, pissed on their uniformly white, uniformly buttondown shirts, wiped our asses (and her ladytrench) with their brooks brothers ties, and holistically interfaced our gender-specific anatomies on a pathway together to mutually beneficial outcomes right in front of them.

the morning, mitchell, deteriorated from there. my relief upon the announcement that lunch was arriving in the adjoining secure conference room was palpable. palpable like a pustulent and purulent swollen furuncle, so ubi pus, ibi evacua, and, unfortunately, it was about as pleasant in the end. i do not know, mitchell, why our valued partners in delivering coordinated excellence are unable to provide a lunch that consists of anything other than food on the color spectrum of beige. a stronger man than i would attempt to rate the varying levels of disgust of the gluelike tuna fish, the overprocessed alleged turkey, the "mexican" "chicken" [sic and sick], or the potato spackle, sorry, salad. i have never been so glad to have a fucking granola bar in my laptop bag. i swear to god, mitchell, by the end of the afternoon my stomach was trying to eat its way through my spine. which would have been more pleasant than eating the cajun rice. it wasn't cajun. it wasn't even rice.

you will be proud of me, mitchell. i never once called anybody a donkeyfucker, or impugned their parentage, or even implied that they were educationally subnormal in anything more than a thought. fine, fine, or a backchannel exchange with mary the lesbian, but still. i deserve a cookie, because the displays of stupid, mitchell, were abundant as milk and honey in the land of canaan, or as overprivileged wasps in new canaan. and then, when i had influenced and persuaded and cajoled and entirely avoided actually committing physical violence against any of our knowledgeable and capable partners in sustainable success, and revision 102b of our tender had been completed, the motherfucking goatraping dickscratching cuntsanding exchange server died.

at 1555 eastern.

"oh, nielson", you will say, "there was over an hour to fix that problem! surely our experienced, dynamic and resourceful field-leading consortium could synergize their resources to solutionize a way forward?"

or perhaps you wouldn't. perhaps you would say "oh, fuck, nielson, am i gonna have to sell your bony ass on the street to make rent this month?".

the answer, mitchell, light of my life, is no, because hardware partner mary, hail mary, full of grace, may the force be with her, had a portable inkjet with her. two hundred thirty pages later, and after the good offices of bernice the awesome office manager (who is the only person at morons, inc. who can execute an anal-ulnal differentiation) and her trusty fax machine of doom (seriously, i kind of want to hire bernice, mitchell, and don't tell me we couldn't use someone to keep the tedious shit in check), not to mention a nervous breakdown on the part of marty from dynodine (who are they and why are they in this consortium again?), we received the official confirmation of receipt.

via bernice's trusty fax machine of doom.

at 1805 local.

which meant there was no fucking way in hell that i was going to make it out to o'fucking hare in time for the last flight of the day to nasha rodina. i could have got to denver, mitchell, were it not for our current airline of least-worst-choice, who had managed to break their previous two denver-bound planes and were apparently attempting to fit two 737-loads of people onto a regional jet.

not thinking that this was a productive experience nor one i was likely to escape without a significant time as a guest of the local, state or federal penal systems, i threw myself on the mercy of bernice, who called her travel agent friend monica, who knows candi at united, who got me on the early flight tomorrow.

bernice (did i mention bernice is sending us her resumé?), with a twinkle in her eye, looked me up and down as i was thanking her profusely for rescuing mary's, my, and her bosses' asses, and said, "well, you gonna wanna go down to boystown, ain'tchu? yeah, i thought so. my boy darnell, he runs fruity marie's bar on clark, and you go tell him i said hi, and i'mma get you our corporate rate at the belden-stratford. it's a little showy, but it's the nicest hotel round there and i reckon you done this company more good than ten of the idiots we got on this work, so we owe you one. you tell maria i said hi. and candi gonna take care of you at o'hare tomorrow too."

the belden-stratford, mitchell, is very nice, and so was the bellboy (shut up, mitchell, he was hung like a fucking donkey), and i have not had an email from our hosts since i left their corporate barad-dûr. and yes, mitchell, i have been checking, and no, i have not been distracted surfing porn over the secure shell from the hotel room. you know i can multitask with the best of them.

i remain, your worshipfulness, y'r ev'r ob'd't s'rv't,


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