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The second epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.
The second epistle of JD Nielson
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
my dear mitchell,
sound the trumpets, bang the drums, clash the cymbals, start cooking up a storm of your homemade hungry man dinners, for i am victorious and we will be on tomorrow night's connecting flight from dfw, and since the brits want some revisions i have a strange and unnatural feeling that none of us are going to be seeing the light of day for a week. still! i am victorious, champion, triumphant!
fine, *we* are triumphant, mitchell, because daniel is sitting over my shoulder and i swear to god i am about to punch him in the cock -- ah, that's better, he's gone to use his own goddamned laptop.
you will, no doubt, fail to recall sir adrian bellington, formerly 'bell-end', on account of your advanced age and mental decrepitude. if you will permit me to enlighten you, and (since, if you had failed to notice, on account &c, I am currently over five thousand miles and a good dozen hours in flight away from you, and i have hacked your notifications to play cher's 'believe' throughout the entire house until you open any email from me containing the phrase 'operate fulcrum eggplant flange quincunx', you really don't have a choice) i shall assume you will, bell-end is the crazy fucking brit who helped us out with that little access problem we had in northwest china. (did you know, by the way, that the chinese word for 'sheep' and 'goat' is the same? i feel slightly bad about calling that nice pla man who insisted on pulling apart our code a motherraping goatfucker now, even if he did deserve it.)
sir bell-end, at any rate, and jesus motherfucking christ, daniel, i don't care that the cultural form is to follow the 'sir' with his first name, and do you really want me to hack your bedroom's tv so that you have all night russian lesbo porn?
sir bell-end, mitchell, now that we are again alone, is currently lord high chap in charge of the brits' counterterrorist software, after the minor scandal with the five al qaeda goons they managed to hire out of cambridge. he says hi. so does his boyfriend. i guess the brits figure that the queen is unlikely to betray the king. bellum bellum belli bello bello bella bella bellorum bellis bell-end, delightful man that he is, apparently likes version 4, and i quote, 'better than buggery and offal, and you can tell madam colonel that verbatim, you bloody code wizard shirtlifter'. he then 'broke out the bolly', which is not code for an obscure british act with cucumber sandwiches, an umbrella and an inbred german, but is in fact a champagne called bollinger that is like hot boys 69ing on your tongue, and daniel, if you don't stop making comments i swear to god i am going to tie you to the chair.
daniel sends his regards. or, more accurately, he says 'mmph mmph', which doesn't really sound like 'please let me out, jd, and i promise not to fucking rubberneck when you are emailing mitchell on the satphone vpn that costs us more than the case of bollinger that sir bell-end has had shipped to her so she can taste it', so you'll forgive my confusion, mitchell, if i do not pass on the specific thing that he is trying to say through my boxer briefs.
so version 4 is a go. the brits want their own people to swarm over components a, j and ab like an outbreak of fungus in a bathhouse, but i'm mostly okay with that as long as they don't screw it up like those navy cocksuckers did, and if you quote me kelly's rule 15 I will fuck daniel with a tubload of lube on your side of the sheets before you go to bed.
since i have not (a) been notified that your two boy-cousins have been arrested, (b) heard of an outpouring of outrage from fathers of daughters in the area surrounding our fair abode, (c) received an email from you bitching, nor (d) heard from your momma wondering why you need her to bail you out of jail, i will assume that your visit from the captains griffith was fun, or at least did not involve anything legally actionable. i will also assume that you informed skipper that he was under no circumstances to drive our car after the last time of giving me a fucking conniption fit, because i know you are fond of the boy and i would be heartbroken on your behalf to have to murder him with a hatchet. i have ordered the internet to send us more of my beer.
to close, darling mitchell, apple of my eye, shadow of my wings, very girl of very girl, daniel and i were planning to go out tonight, on account of having exhausted the possibilities of the restaurant in our delightful hotel room and suites. however, i have decided to fuck him senseless instead and then order in some room service.
oh, and mitchell, in case i forget, although that's unlikely given the amount of time it took to explain to the metropolitan police, never take daniel to the british museum. several japanese tour groups were offended.
see you tomorrow. and in answer to your question, lemon bars, please. i am sick to death of this french pastry nonsense.
i have the pleasure to remain, madam, now as ever,
your ob'd't s'rv't,
-jdn
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
my dear mitchell,
sound the trumpets, bang the drums, clash the cymbals, start cooking up a storm of your homemade hungry man dinners, for i am victorious and we will be on tomorrow night's connecting flight from dfw, and since the brits want some revisions i have a strange and unnatural feeling that none of us are going to be seeing the light of day for a week. still! i am victorious, champion, triumphant!
fine, *we* are triumphant, mitchell, because daniel is sitting over my shoulder and i swear to god i am about to punch him in the cock -- ah, that's better, he's gone to use his own goddamned laptop.
you will, no doubt, fail to recall sir adrian bellington, formerly 'bell-end', on account of your advanced age and mental decrepitude. if you will permit me to enlighten you, and (since, if you had failed to notice, on account &c, I am currently over five thousand miles and a good dozen hours in flight away from you, and i have hacked your notifications to play cher's 'believe' throughout the entire house until you open any email from me containing the phrase 'operate fulcrum eggplant flange quincunx', you really don't have a choice) i shall assume you will, bell-end is the crazy fucking brit who helped us out with that little access problem we had in northwest china. (did you know, by the way, that the chinese word for 'sheep' and 'goat' is the same? i feel slightly bad about calling that nice pla man who insisted on pulling apart our code a motherraping goatfucker now, even if he did deserve it.)
sir bell-end, at any rate, and jesus motherfucking christ, daniel, i don't care that the cultural form is to follow the 'sir' with his first name, and do you really want me to hack your bedroom's tv so that you have all night russian lesbo porn?
sir bell-end, mitchell, now that we are again alone, is currently lord high chap in charge of the brits' counterterrorist software, after the minor scandal with the five al qaeda goons they managed to hire out of cambridge. he says hi. so does his boyfriend. i guess the brits figure that the queen is unlikely to betray the king. bellum bellum belli bello bello bella bella bellorum bellis bell-end, delightful man that he is, apparently likes version 4, and i quote, 'better than buggery and offal, and you can tell madam colonel that verbatim, you bloody code wizard shirtlifter'. he then 'broke out the bolly', which is not code for an obscure british act with cucumber sandwiches, an umbrella and an inbred german, but is in fact a champagne called bollinger that is like hot boys 69ing on your tongue, and daniel, if you don't stop making comments i swear to god i am going to tie you to the chair.
daniel sends his regards. or, more accurately, he says 'mmph mmph', which doesn't really sound like 'please let me out, jd, and i promise not to fucking rubberneck when you are emailing mitchell on the satphone vpn that costs us more than the case of bollinger that sir bell-end has had shipped to her so she can taste it', so you'll forgive my confusion, mitchell, if i do not pass on the specific thing that he is trying to say through my boxer briefs.
so version 4 is a go. the brits want their own people to swarm over components a, j and ab like an outbreak of fungus in a bathhouse, but i'm mostly okay with that as long as they don't screw it up like those navy cocksuckers did, and if you quote me kelly's rule 15 I will fuck daniel with a tubload of lube on your side of the sheets before you go to bed.
since i have not (a) been notified that your two boy-cousins have been arrested, (b) heard of an outpouring of outrage from fathers of daughters in the area surrounding our fair abode, (c) received an email from you bitching, nor (d) heard from your momma wondering why you need her to bail you out of jail, i will assume that your visit from the captains griffith was fun, or at least did not involve anything legally actionable. i will also assume that you informed skipper that he was under no circumstances to drive our car after the last time of giving me a fucking conniption fit, because i know you are fond of the boy and i would be heartbroken on your behalf to have to murder him with a hatchet. i have ordered the internet to send us more of my beer.
to close, darling mitchell, apple of my eye, shadow of my wings, very girl of very girl, daniel and i were planning to go out tonight, on account of having exhausted the possibilities of the restaurant in our delightful hotel room and suites. however, i have decided to fuck him senseless instead and then order in some room service.
oh, and mitchell, in case i forget, although that's unlikely given the amount of time it took to explain to the metropolitan police, never take daniel to the british museum. several japanese tour groups were offended.
see you tomorrow. and in answer to your question, lemon bars, please. i am sick to death of this french pastry nonsense.
i have the pleasure to remain, madam, now as ever,
your ob'd't s'rv't,
-jdn