The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau – Episode 1: The Tragedy of Petty Officer Sal Man
The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau – Episode 1: The Tragedy of Petty Officer Sal Man
My Grandfather was a noble, powerful figure in my life growing up. As a humble and stern elderly gentleman and WWII vet, he helped define what it was to be a man for me. Though not muscular by today’s pumped-up/oiled-down standards, he continued to run 10 miles a day and practice Judo into his late 70s. Without a disparaging word or angered look, he could quickly subdue and snap a few wrists on some of these ‘roided up sissy boys that try and pass themselves off as male specimens that pollute our great nation nowadays.
But alas he was taken by Alzheimer’s back in ’89 (there was no physical ailment on earth that dared test his wirey 6 foot, 175 lb frame of calm and collected badassery). Once the Parkinson’s-like jitters started to set in, his over developed sense of stoicism forced him to just stop talking. For the last five years of his life he never said a goddamn word, rather than risk sounding like some stuttering six-year-old. Oh, he continued to run and practice Judo every day. Though he started getting lost more and more often, and several CNAs at his nursing home suffered broken wrists and scraped noses from his lighting quick takedowns. Eventually they just locked him in his room, and he sat in quiet solitude, reading books and magazines, never once requiring a bedpan, sponge bath or undressing. He died sitting in an easy chair with his glasses and shoes on, and a book of transmitter schematics in his lap. Like a f*%king man.
Which brings me (sort of) to pink-fleshed and fishy requisite Sal Man and his unearned dog tags.
My grandfather was enlisted in 1942 and quickly promoted to Master Sergent in the Army Signal Corps due to his education and knowledge of the miraculous technology of “amplitude and frequency modulation”. Radio for you laymen out there. One thing he hated more than anything in the armed forces were officers. “A bunch of self-righteous ignorant apple-polishers” he called them. He believed the enlisted man was an honorable man, though as dense a yokel you may find in the enlisted ranks, they earned their stripes by demonstrating quick thinking, bravery, leadership, and a strong work ethic under the most miserable and dangerous conditions that human endeavor could ever dream up. Officers on the other hand, went to school with the sole intent of joining up and sitting around at HQ pushing little toy soldiers around on a board while gently cupping each others’ balls. They wore dog tags just like the enlisted men, but they didn’t need them. Dog tags were meant as a means of identification after Fritz sends an 180 grain hunk of lead flying out from his pillbox at 2,800 fps that caves your face in and blows it out the back of your helmet.
Sal is no better than those officer types. If you don’t have a 1 in 3 chance of getting unrecognizably mauled by the machines of war, those dog tags are unearned buddy. Though at least officers have to pass a basic reading comprehension test.
Yet Kristie giggles at Sal’s irreverent sense of humor with his silly hat tilt and impression of a computer geek (“Ey yo…I play video games all day in my mom’s basement…DER!”). Was it worth spending half an hour that morning slutting yourself up with clear lip gloss, body glitter, and those obviously fake extensions for 7.7 minutes of Sal sweatily pumping away at your scorched crab pot?
F*%k my life.
@ Jacques
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ALL officers are Fobbits. Your grandfather was a man’s man. R.I.P.
@ Jacques
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Word
My dad served in the Army Corps of Engineers in WWII. He was one of the first troops in to clean up for Fat Man’s mess in Nagasaki. He took a bullet in the leg in the Phillipines for a Purple Heart and had a horrible scar across his stomach from a meatball appendicitis operation. Good stuff, good stories
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Say a disparaging word about General MacArthur and he’d kick you in the nuts
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He told me one of the the first things The Corps did on the ground in Japan was level out a baseball field. So Dice-K has my pops to thank for his millions
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Basebaru
transmitter schematics (Respect)
My pop was an Anapolis Midshipman. He said it was the hardest thing he ever did & he raised 10 kids. tho technically class of ’46 they expedited his graduation to that gryst mill known as WWII in 3 years, 1945…all I’m saying is that it’s a matter of perception
respect
that’s quite an ear infection stick figure hott has
Stick figure hott kegels with bowling balls
Stick figure hott’s blood type is K-Y
Stick figure hott’s IQ has been acurately measured with a micron meter
Stick figure hott does squat thrusts in asparagus patches
Stick figure hott poops once a week, the size of a grain of rice,
Mrs. Scrotato Head’s grandfather on her father’s side served in Europe during WWII. Air Corps, then infantry. Liberated a death camp. Never spoke a word to anyone in the family about his experiences and nobody had the nerve to ask. Not his kids. Not his grandkids. But for some reason he opened up to me, gave me a few brief glimpses into what he had experienced, what he’d endured, what had made him the quiet, self reliant man that he was. I never knew why he decided I was worth talking to. It wasn’t my place to ask. I just accepted the blessing for what it was.
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Cancer took him ten years ago.
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Respect JD.
Stick figure hott hides two extra cokk holes behind her glasses.
Stick figure hott can sit on my stick anytime. The greasy dick rinkle douche next to her probably smells like a mix of patchouli oil and crotch paste. He could do us all a favor by pulling his lip over his head and swallowing. No respect,
God bless all of our veterans. Absolute respect!
stick figure hott juggles gorrilla scrote with her tonsils
stick figure hott dances in the rain & fails to get wet
you get paper cutz when you finger stick figure hott
You had me at Parkinsons. I nominate Jacques for the irrelevant Rev Chads Pulitzer Prize for “Short Narrative.” Son
I forgot. Mrs. Kroeger not 30 minutes ago, after I asked her (a regular occurence) respect , about sex said to me in her own loving way, “Get this over with so I can read my flyers.” Death begins this day my friends, get some. Son
stick figure hott is sausage casing for cocxkses
My Grandfather was too old and drunk for WWII.
My mother’s father and uncles died. That’s all.
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I’m depressed.
Wait a second…
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I didn’t write ANY of this.
Join me next week for Episode 2 of The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau, “Beavers of North Carolina”.
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preview
After I clicked on that link I was going to write something nice about Jacques’s post. Instead I just vomited.
Racist.
To the MAN who wrote this post, not his avatar Doucheteau, I say great post. I was not sure where you were going with this until half way through. I do not want to make any jokes to cheapen what you said. I just want to say you have zeroed in on the problem with these wastes of flesh. Despite their chemical enhancments with hormones, these things drift ever farther away from being men. You said it best. Thanks.
“Scortched crab pot?” HAHAHAHA ee gads Doucheteau you have outdone yourself with that one.
USMC vet here and permanently deranged for the experience. Which is why I am a Foreign Service Officer now in Afghanistan. UGH
Not bad for a briney frog in a red beanie, Jacques. The only thing I know about officers is they have to carry Debra Winger out of a factory after getting kicked in he nuts by Luis Gossett Jr. Doesn’t make much sense.
My uncle Joe D was killed in Vietnam. I am not sure what his real name was; that’s what they always called him. And yes, all my uncles have two first names – John Earl, James Lee, etc. I met him only once, when he was home on leave. I don’t recall the occasion, because I was 6 months old, but I’m told he nicknamed me “Maggot” because I squirmed endlessly.
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Anyway, one summer Saturday this older guy with a Yankee accent shows up at Gramma Crain’s house with his family saying he knew Joe D; the extended family (and I do mean extended; Gramma had 12 kids, 10 of whom survived childbirth) lived within a mile of one another on what used to be a vast parcel of Simpson County that great great grampa Crain gambled away drunkenly (Respect). So we all mustered up at Joe D’s grave and this gentlemen, Tom Polish-Sounding-Last-Name proceeds to tell us how Joe D died. Joe D’s platoon was pinned down at the edge of a rice field. The evac chopper came in to the hot LZ. Tom took a couple of bullets as they hauled ass to the chopper. Joe D turned back, threw him over his shoulder, and took a number of rounds himself but got them both on deck. He died on the way back to the base.
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Anyway, the reason I share this long-winded echo of Jacque’s excellent write up is to say “FUCK YOU, TAKE THOSE MOTHERFUCKING DOG TAGS OFF, BOY” to the soft douchebag in the above photo.
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Also, note to self: Stop clicking on Jacque’s BCS Memorial Links.
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Gynos.
I heard Steven Hawkings likes blackholes.
Great post. This is not just mock, but an accurate commentary on a shameless practice.
I’m filing “scorched crab pot” next to “kicked in the tar hole” and “stole Vicodin from her purse” to purloin later.
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Pipe Farters.
” Officers on the other hand, went to school with the sole intent of joining up and sitting around at HQ pushing little toy soldiers around on a board while gently cupping each others’ balls.”
Still true.
While I prefer JD’s rants of past sexual exploits, this was a good, humble tale as well.
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For someone that can’t access this site at work, he sure is upping the odds I’ll soon be in the same boat- gotta remember not to click his links
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Shameless plug on the topic- my buddy wrote a book based on his Dad’s WWII memoires- he also got Alzheimers late in life but still swam a mile everyday, into his 90s. It’s a really fast read and has a part about grafting skin off dead babies, so there is that. His dad was at Pearl harbor too.
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If you buy it, make sure you click into Amazon from DB1’s link so he gets the credit- http://www.amazon.com/Flying-Doctor-Life-William-Requarth/dp/B001TJT2E6
Great post.
Whoever wrote it…stand down soldier.