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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