anchises: (Default)
anchises ([personal profile] anchises) wrote2010-03-30 10:04 am

The ninth epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.

The ninth epistle of JD Nielson

by Anchises

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

Creative Commons License

dear mitchell (you so fine, you so fine you blow my mind, dear mitchell),

you will be doubtless wondering (because you're more bone idle than american idol, frankly, and it's not like you've done anything recently, and don't tell me you're not playing bewitched or bedazzled or besmirched or whatever that godforsaken game of yours is called, because i can tell from here, in the bosom of your family) why i have an eighties power pop song in my head. i blame your idiot boycousin spencer. no, you do not get to know why. what happens in vegas, mitchell, what a pity you don't understand.

now (you take me by the...who's ever gonna know?) mitchell, you will remember my fondness for your family. including your cousin jennifer, who has really appalling taste in music. who knew the 80s were coming back in? i know you remember the 80s, mitchell, oh what you do, mitchell, do, mitchell, don't break my heart, mitchell, because i've seen those pictures of you in a fucking rah-rah skirt, and your momma hasn't yet found a place to hide them that i don't know about in that house. helping your uncle ernest with the rewiring last summer was just eye-opening. i'm pretty sure that sweater in your seventh grade mugshot is banned under several united nations conventions. yes, i have proof. no, you will never find the places on the backup drives where i have stashed them. it is part of my strategy in case you ever defect to russia with our secrets. the phrase 'rather be caught dead' has never been so appropriate. it is, as the saying goes, something i can use, so don't say no, mitchell. (refrain.)

i am currently ensconced in the den pretending to work to avoid your uncle al trying to fleece the pants off me at poker like he's an argonaut. my strategy is mostly successful. (mission accomplished! just try to stop imagining me in a flight suit on the deck of the lincoln now, mitchell, baby please, baby don't.) he is admittedly the only person keeping me sane in this batshit crazy madhouse that you call your familial abode, and is also the only person who keeps normal person hours like me. (shut up, mitchell, 0500 is a normal person hour.) if your uncle al and i had our way, the house would be painted at night, and damn the moths and other assorted lepidopterodactyls or whatever the fuck you have flying around like tiny tiny cessnas around here, instead of your idiot boycousins, who feel that painting in fahrenheit 450° and 2000% humidity is a sensible way to get this house painted before your momma comes home from visiting your aunt betsy. (by the way, i continue to have severe doubts about the morals of your idiot boycousins. turpitude ain't the half of it. i also continue to be amazed that they have not been gelded in a vigilante action by outraged fathers of buncombe county, a 501 (c) (3) nonprofit corporation.)

against my better judgment, spencer and violet (which is, for reasons that will remain more classified than the cia's killing of jfk, my new moniker for your idiot boycousin beauregard, and don't tell me you didn't find the tim burton remake of that movie as disturbing as i did, mitchell) have decided, in addition to repainting the outside of your ancestral home and castle (and, holy crap, i have just had a vision of your momma in a mrs-banks-from-mary-poppins style outfit, together with 'votes for women' sash) it also makes sense to redo the guttering. joe bob, who is their high school friend's cousin's huntin' buddy's barber's barber's wife's brother does guttering. or, at least, does what your uncle bud calls 'that dayum fancy schmancy gutt'rin' that don't get no dayum leaves in it'. it's basically an extruded aluminum gutter with a uniquely patented hood (tm) that uses the scientific principles (tm) of liquid adhesion (c) and molecular attraction (r). joe bob was keen to show us all the scientific principles. (just imagine the significant capital letters there, mitchell, do, mitchell, don't break my heart, mitchell.)

joe bob, on account of being a sensible businessman in the swannanoa valley, offered to install his dayum fancy shmancy gutt'rin' on your momma's house at cost as something of a loss leader. not known for her reticent opinions, is your momma, and joe bob is likely hoping that your momma will tell all her friends. plus, i think that joe bob is hoping to get into your cousin jenny's pants. (shame for joe bob that jenny's a babydyke. i have never heard so much acoustic chick rock as when jenny had her turn as ipod dj for the gulag work party, and she has turned up in a different pair of carpenter's overalls every day this week. girl's a natural on a ladder with a nailgun, though. i'm totally paying her flight out to help me when i build you a separate house because of your snoring.)

the work is going to plan, though, and your uncle bayliss (who is, as ever, project managing, and can we hire him too, mitchell, you're so pretty, can't you understand?) was walking around this evening with a smile on his lips and a beer in his hand, which counts as success in my book, let me tell you.

in other news, your aunt mary jane made us all livermush sandwiches for lunch yesterday. i have nothing to say about that other than: 'livermush', mitchell? your idiotic backwards state couldn't even go as far as the english in their lack of euphemistically pleasant offal nomenclatures? (i had three of the sandwiches. that stuff is good. although i did not try the livermush sandwiches spread with grape jelly. there is only so much a man will do to assimilate.) your uncle bill made ribs and your aunt lindy brought over a pickup truck load (literally, mitchell, i swear to god) of coleslaw, potato salad and homegrown tomatoes so good that we were eating them like fruit for supper yesterday. (i keep meaning to grow tomatoes, mitchell, because why is it that the tomatoes we get from the grocery taste have no taste? i feel that they should taste of something. perhaps tomato? am i being unreasonable here?)

i hear, mitchell, that the menfolk of your famlly are starting to arise, shine, for thy light is come. (or, more accurately, it is 0800 and one of your idiot boycousins has just blown reveille outside like he is the motherfucking bugle boy of company b. no, it has not taken me three hours to write this. your uncle al is sneaky and persuaded me into a game and won twenty bucks off me. he's sneakier than the damned navy. speaking of which, how did your meeting with the admiral go in scenic san diego? in the event that you can avoid murder until monday, i'm pretty sure i'll be on the morning flight bernice booked me on. (i have to fly us air, mitchell. us air. from clt. fyi? it still smells of pee. never say that my love for you is not demonstrated through actions and sacrifices.)

i smell coffee. my love for you, even though it extends to us air, does not extend as far as writing to you when there is coffee made by other people awaiting my inhalation.

i remain, mitchell (any way you want to do it i'll take it like a man),

y'r ob'd't paint'r s'rv't,


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