anchises: (Default)
anchises ([personal profile] anchises) wrote2011-12-27 09:13 pm

The eleventh epistle of JD Nielsen. Mezzanine. Mature.

The eleventh epistle of JD Nielson

by Anchises

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

Creative Commons License




my dear mitchell,

once in royal david's city stood a lowly cattle shed. apparently. i'm pretty sure they had cows. there was at least a manger. did you know there are 3.59 times more cows than people in western north carolina (or perhaps northwestern carolina?), mitchell? well, your idiot boycousin violet (epistles, passim) changed the ratio nigh on imperceptibly just now.

you would not believe, mitchell, how hard it is to find out whose fucking cow one's idiot boycousin-by-not-exactly-marriage has run down. they do not come with little tags saying 'in case your idiot boycousin-by-not-exactly-marriage has run down this cow, please contact j. r. sheepfucker, jr of sandymush or the n.c. cattlemen's association' (why, mitchell, is there a place called sandymush? is it related to livermush in a strange and unfathomable way? also, no cattlewomen? i refrain from the obvious joke since it is christmas and i am a giver, mitchell. let it not be said that i never get you anything, ho. ho ho.)

you would also not believe, mitchell (although in this especial case you might just find it within the bounds of credulity to conceive thereof), of our luck. your intrepid explorer, your idiot boycousin, your other idiot boycousin, and your much more sensible girlcousin jenny of the carpenter's overalls, found ourselves explaining precisely what had occurred when a fine upstanding example of the north carolina state police happened across the remains of cow f 3257 (hereafter referred to as 'bessie') spread all the way across u.s. 19 and through a fair part of the hood and assorted mechanical workings of your idiot boycousin's truck.

i do not mind beef: it is that which is for dinner, as the saying goes. i even, in fact, relish the meaty, meaty maillard-generating aroma of sizzling bovine on the grill, as you well know. i am, as they say, an aficionado of most things steak. (i do not understand the current fad for oxtail, but there you go, mitchell, i am not a perfect man.) beef, however, that is freshly mown down like a first world war infantry brigade going up, up, over the trenches, boys, into the sputtering fire of no-man's-land? not, mitchell, as they say, so much.

officer krepke (oh, mitchell, how i yearned to break out into, variously, tchaikovsky, rachmaninov and laurents/bernstein/sondheim) clearly had nowhere better to be than right there as we attempted to manhandle (cowhandle?) bessie the ex-cow across the road while waiting for the tow truck to make it across from spruce pine, on account of your idiot boycousin's inability merely to clip the snout of the erstwhile cow. no, skipper had to smack the thing right on the shoulder, right through the engineblock and right over the front axle. the boy does not do things by halves.

neither does officer krepke, it would appear, who had weapon out and drawn faster than you can say 'dashing through the snow'. he was, apparently, under the impression that we were cattle-rustlin', cow-knockin'-down, no-good varmints, and wanted to make sure that we did not up and run with any of bessie's legs. or head. or other assorted pieces of ex-cow.

explanations to dear kindly sergeant krepke, who did not in fact understand, despite the impressive amount of former bovine smeared redly on your idiot boycousin's white truck, that we were not punks and merely the victims of unfortunate circumstance, did not suffice (alas, poor christina rossetti). he ran everything: deinen papieren, bitte, citoyens, and may i yet again rejoice that we all sound like good christian men (except jenny; poor jenny) and none of us is called abdul, nor are any of us brown.

in further tales of your indubitable lack of surprise, the staffing of the state police hq radio appears to be a single woman with what sounded like very few teeth named darlene whom i could barely understand. after a thirty-minute set of calling-in (during which time approximately four hundred and thirty-seven cars backed up at the scene of bessie's and skipper's truck's unfortunate demises [desmise, mitchell?]) darlene eventually managed to spell b-e-a-u-r-e-g-a-r-d and verified that your cousin was not, in fact, a cow-murdering fanatic bent on the terrorization of the bovine and human populations of your fair state, moral turpitude (although, let's face it, mitchell, the computers messed up on that one) or other assorted un-american activities.

at which point, officer krepke permitted us to continue moving ex-Bessie around in the bleak midwinter while frosty wind was making moan so that some semblance of normalcy could be resumed to u.s. 19.

and lo, the tow-truck of the lord came upon us, and its lights shone roundabout us, and we were sore relieved. and buddy the tow-truck driver said unto us, "aw, don't y'all worry about it, we'll tow this to the shop and y'all'll be on the way home afore evenin'."

naturally, mitchell, naturally, none of us is above the ripe old age of twenty-five. (the irony, mitchell, the irony.) which is, as you may remember from your early twenties (in, oh, that's right, the early twenties), a problem when attempting to pick up a rental car. it did not help that the only rental car agency in spruce pine with an available vehicle was enterprise, which is hardly helpful in this sort of situation.

(you will recall my aversion to just about every rental car agency, mitchell, but to this one in particular. you will also recall that i bring a video camera capable of hd recording whenever i am forced to rent from them.) at the end of the sorry saga with marlene at enterprise in spruce pine, i had to provide them with a guaranteed bond (which is coming out of your housekeeping; you can take the pound of flesh from skipper, as he did from bessie) roughly the price of the vehicle we were rented.

i say vehicle, mitchell.

i did not know, mitchell, what an aveo was. if pressed, i would have suggested it were part of the nipple, right behind the areola. or possibly a sort of cookie.

i was unaware that it was a four-wheeled motorized vehicle. it is certainly not a car. it appears to be a kind of large rollerskate, or potentially a tonka truck suitable for a small giant. i am currently writing this from the back seat, because your idiot boycousins were physically unable to both fit anywhere but in the front. they had better not crash this one.

especially since jenny and i are, in the most ladylike thing either she or i have done in some time (not that way; get your mind out of the gutter), sitting sidesaddle with our knees interlocked because there are precisely 3.25 inches of legroom once your idiot boycousins got inside the car.

all of which is to explain, mitchell, pursuant to my earlier text, precisely why we are six hours delayed in returning to the bosomy, bosomy bosom of your family. we ate'nt dead. but bessie is.

ready the showers. we smell like cow.

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

-jdn

ps. the ding-dongs were not my fault. we were stuck in spruce pine. and any disapproval on your part should be tempered by the fact that your idiot boycousins do not react well to a junk food high and i have been stuck in an aveo with them.

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