![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The fourth epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.
The fourth epistle of JD Nielson
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
oh my fucking god mitchell,
why, for the grace of our lord jesus christ, and the love of god, and the fellowship of the holy motherfucking ghost, are there (i counted) twenty-six bottles of various and sundry forms of cooking oil in the bottom pantry in that cavernous yonic replacement that you call the kitchen and i call the fiery, fiery domain of despair, duty, devotion, dishes and deliciousness?
i can understand several different kinds of oil, mitchell, truly i can. i have even, after far too many years clasped to your bosom, formerly pert and lovely and now, alas, sagging like a harbor on the long island sound, sagging like sag mir wo die busen sind, clasped in mitchell armen (wohin, wohin, wohin), come to realise (a) the difference, (b) the taste, and (c) the purpose of peanut oil vs vegetable oil vs sunflower oil vs canola oil vs the world. i have, like a lesbian exploring her first local wholefood homemade slowfood organic vegan cafe, come to appreciate the point of cold pressed extra virgin single grove olive oil.
but, mitchell, my darling, my darling, my darling, mitchell my darling, the none too young anymore grenadier, what the fucking fuck could you possibly fucking want with twenty-six fucking bottles of oil? are you planning to oil up the kitchen floor and slide around it on your ample ass? are you planning to grease some poles for me to slide up and down like i'm at the buncombe county fair? (if so, i would like to request jerzy at the polish restaurant near the hardware store, tomasz who you'll remember was the one with the prodigiously long cock, and stanislas who delivers the drycleaning for mrs park when her son is at college.) i am, clearly, mitchell, at a complete fucking loss. i am like a p&l account if you remove the profit. i am lossy like a thrice-re-ripped mp3 track. i am scattered and absorbed like round-trip loss. i am so much at a loss that i am actually loess. i need a fucking stop-loss policy.
what, st mitchell the archangel, are you doing with all that fucking oil? i feel that i should have been notified of any intentions to start a biodiesel production line in our back yard, or if you were going to turn into a local branch of the minutemen and mix it with fertilizer to blow shit up. not, of course, that i am in any way opposed to blowing shit up in principle, depending on whose shit it is (i.e., not ours; hopefully, that goatraping earfucker with the suv who you keyed for the third time outside the drugstore yesterday), but i would like to request that you consult me in the event of any change of profession or the development of an intention to become an outlaw.
sesame oil, soybean oil, walnut oil, mustard oil, coconut oil, grapeseed oil, almond oil, pistachio oil, poppyseed oil, bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens, carcinogens, hallucinogens, men? moooooooo, i say to you, mitchell, mooooooo, because even starting to recall part of the list of the ridiculous quantity of oils you have in your boudiccan boutique boudoir of bounty turns me into a rent-quoting nutjob.
rice bran oil. i literally have nothing to say about rice bran oil, mitchell.
and what the fuck is a safflower?
y'r ob'd't (and oleaginous) s'rv't,
-jdn
ps. where's my fucking crisco?
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
oh my fucking god mitchell,
why, for the grace of our lord jesus christ, and the love of god, and the fellowship of the holy motherfucking ghost, are there (i counted) twenty-six bottles of various and sundry forms of cooking oil in the bottom pantry in that cavernous yonic replacement that you call the kitchen and i call the fiery, fiery domain of despair, duty, devotion, dishes and deliciousness?
i can understand several different kinds of oil, mitchell, truly i can. i have even, after far too many years clasped to your bosom, formerly pert and lovely and now, alas, sagging like a harbor on the long island sound, sagging like sag mir wo die busen sind, clasped in mitchell armen (wohin, wohin, wohin), come to realise (a) the difference, (b) the taste, and (c) the purpose of peanut oil vs vegetable oil vs sunflower oil vs canola oil vs the world. i have, like a lesbian exploring her first local wholefood homemade slowfood organic vegan cafe, come to appreciate the point of cold pressed extra virgin single grove olive oil.
but, mitchell, my darling, my darling, my darling, mitchell my darling, the none too young anymore grenadier, what the fucking fuck could you possibly fucking want with twenty-six fucking bottles of oil? are you planning to oil up the kitchen floor and slide around it on your ample ass? are you planning to grease some poles for me to slide up and down like i'm at the buncombe county fair? (if so, i would like to request jerzy at the polish restaurant near the hardware store, tomasz who you'll remember was the one with the prodigiously long cock, and stanislas who delivers the drycleaning for mrs park when her son is at college.) i am, clearly, mitchell, at a complete fucking loss. i am like a p&l account if you remove the profit. i am lossy like a thrice-re-ripped mp3 track. i am scattered and absorbed like round-trip loss. i am so much at a loss that i am actually loess. i need a fucking stop-loss policy.
what, st mitchell the archangel, are you doing with all that fucking oil? i feel that i should have been notified of any intentions to start a biodiesel production line in our back yard, or if you were going to turn into a local branch of the minutemen and mix it with fertilizer to blow shit up. not, of course, that i am in any way opposed to blowing shit up in principle, depending on whose shit it is (i.e., not ours; hopefully, that goatraping earfucker with the suv who you keyed for the third time outside the drugstore yesterday), but i would like to request that you consult me in the event of any change of profession or the development of an intention to become an outlaw.
sesame oil, soybean oil, walnut oil, mustard oil, coconut oil, grapeseed oil, almond oil, pistachio oil, poppyseed oil, bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens, carcinogens, hallucinogens, men? moooooooo, i say to you, mitchell, mooooooo, because even starting to recall part of the list of the ridiculous quantity of oils you have in your boudiccan boutique boudoir of bounty turns me into a rent-quoting nutjob.
rice bran oil. i literally have nothing to say about rice bran oil, mitchell.
and what the fuck is a safflower?
y'r ob'd't (and oleaginous) s'rv't,
-jdn
ps. where's my fucking crisco?
no subject
carthamus delenda est. have we suddenly sworn vows of poverty? (i recall none.) is there something now wrong with using actual saffron? i happen to rather like crocuses, as you will see come late february or potentially early march given the goatfucking motherraping assdestroying winter that i feel certain is somehow your fault. they better damn well end up spelling 'i (heart) cock' as they poke out of the snow, because do you know how long it takes to cut out sod in the shape of a fucking heart and then replace it without ol' beady eyes noticing? i think not, mitchell, i think not.
mitchell, it breaks my poor young heart to hear that you have failed to tell me about the miraculous recovery with which you have doubtless been blest. clearly, the lord above (or, in your case, most likely the lord below) has seen fit to heal you of all your wounds and cleanse you of all your sins (i imagine he used an entire swimming-pool of bleach), and that you somehow managed to carry out a full installation of a teleoperated waldo that would allow me to (a) find the fucking dustpan, behind the poppyseed oil in the unmarked box with colonel mustard, after five minutes of looking everywhere in what reminded me of nothing quite so much as attempting to fit a normal-sized dildo in your overstretched, cavernous, sarlacc pit of a vagina, (b) remove the dustpan from the box that i feel sure, were it not for the sterling hebdomadary efforts of marianna, rocio, guillermo and dave to save us from despair and dirt, would be covered in dust so thick that it could be used for loft insulation, (c) extract said dustpan from aforementioned box using a fucking chisel, (d) sweep up the remnants of the substandard and unacceptably crumbly batch of lemon bars that, through no fault of my own, had a freedom/gravity/floor interface problem, and (e) struggle through the jungle of oil bottles like i am fucking mowgli or something to return the dustpan lest you at some innominable future time castigate me unnecessarily and unjustly for not replacing our heretofore vestal dustpan in its appropriate location. where, as they say, is waldo?
kiss kiss bang bang,
y'r ob'd't s'rv't,
-jdn
ps. found the crisco. is it fisting time?
no subject
Also, there are some things that you really *can* say with flowers!!