The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau
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Tuesday, July 16, 2013
True Confessionals With Jacques Doucheteau
HCwDB’s own Hall of Mock enshrinee Jacques Doucheteau unleashes some cold, hard truth in Saturday’s Walnuts After Dark thread. Well worth a read:
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I saw my first boobies whilst getting baptized.
So I was raised as a born again Christian, or that is to say, my parents were ex-hippies that were burned by the whole hedonism of the late ’60s and fallout in the early ’70s and thusly converted, so I was by extension born again. Raised in a community non-denominational Evangelical church in rural Idaho, I learned very early of the dangers facing me if I dared puff a cigarette, taste a drop of liquor, or partook in any carnal pleasures including – but certainly not limited to – eying a woman with sinful intent and shamelessly torquing it.
So I happily gave myself over to the lord, and agreed to have myself baptized in Jesus’ name when I was a mere 10-years-old. Never mind that part of my intent was to quit being shut out of the whole communion gig. I mean, they set kids up for getting voluntarily baptized through bribery. You sit there through service on a wood plank (pew) through hours of monotone hell and damnation talk, getting slapped on the back of the head every time you try to amuse yourself by sketching in the hymnals and changing all the lyrics to “on top of spaghetti”. But then half way through you’re tempted with a reprieve, snack time! Grape juice and little crackers. But no, you can’t have any because “you haven’t given your life over and accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior.” Well sign me the heck up!
And so I confessed all my sins, said the Lord’s prayer in front of the minister, read chapter blah blah by the apostle blah-dee-f@#k and gave my blah blah blah BLAH! Let’s get this baptizing shit ON.
And so I was to be baptized at the end of Sunday service, and my whole family was to be there to witness my rebirth. The whole thing involved going into a private room behind the baptismal, changing into some white robes, and having the minister dunk you in a big bath tub while spouting some deep sounding religious shit. They insist that you strip naked before donning the baptismal robe, and for some reason a senior church member had to be in the room with you while you changed. This struck me as weird at the time, but in retrospect was particularly creepy.
Anyway, I changed into my holy white robe and waited in the room behind the baptismal for my time. For you see, I was not the only young person being baptized that day. Just before my rebirth, a young woman in the youth group named Amber was getting baptized. She was 14 or so, and developing nicely, though previously I hadn’t cared to take notice of such things, being both prepubescent and wanting to keep good standing with Jesus and all.
So I was led to the baptismal just as she was exiting, after being submerged in the holy waters by the minister and accepting the Lord Jesus Christ as her personal Savior….
In that holy water.
That cold holy water.
Very cold…holy water.
In her holy white robes.
With nothing underneath.
Sheer white…holy robes.
In that coooooooold, cold water.
I passed very near to her as she was exiting the pool, the thin white robes, dripping with cold holy water, clung to her young taut body. I got an eyeful of dark round areola perched on top of her small perky boobs. Flat white tummy, and a small dark triangle at the apex of her glistening thighs. She moved in slow motion, the water sheen on the sheer fabric and exposed naked legs, accentuated her goose bumps and smooth, hairless, barely-pubescent skin. Long blonde hair plastered against her head, my eyes met hers, with matted eyelashes and mouth slightly agape, gently inhaling extra air from the cold immersion under water.
Who knows what she was thinking – probably something about how spiritual experience it was and how happy she was I was going to experience the same wonderful rebirth and salvation – but I know what I was thinking, and it was something new. Something I have never thought before, but something I have thought of many times since. Something I have gotten very, very GOOD at thinking about…in multiple scenarios, and with multiple women.
Long story short, I was baptized with my very first legitimate boner. You know how when as a young boy you may have experienced many little hard-ons, but they’re never real. They just happen every so often while taking a bath after taking that “extra time” to soap up certain hard to reach areas. A mere curiosity more than an imperative. Basically, I barely heard a word that preacher said, other than to say “yes” when he asked me if I renounced my previous sinful life and accepted Jesus as blah blah blah. I said “yes”. But I was saying “yes” to Amber…for she was in my head, just as she was in real life but a few seconds before. But this time, asking me if I wanted her to remove her sopping wet baptismal robe in front of me.
Yes, I do. Lord be praised, yes!
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Monday, January 21, 2013The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau: Ep. 3 The Sound of Dolphins Dying
You think you had some weirdos on your bus ride? Try my daily sojourn to the CNC shop, bitch.
I worked just up the street from a pallet manufacturer that was able to get tax exempt status by hiring nothing but ‘tards – sorry, “mentally handicapped ” ‘tards – and had to ride the same bus to work as them.
Forty minutes to and from downtown everyday having to listen to a mess of gimpy bike helmet-wearing half-wits yell children’s songs out of key at the top of their lungs while spitting their Cheerio peanut butter breath all over the side of my neck.
I swear if I ever hear anyone start belting out “The Wheels of the Bus Go ‘Round and ‘Round”, including my own kid, I will tear out their toenails with vise grips and staple their genitals to their gawdamn forehead.
Meanwhile, Ed Hardy bikini sportin’ Shoshana displays her wares for Chinstrap Jason, who exudes a deep spiritualism born of his own brand of disingenuous Catholicism. Shoshana has not been keeping up with current events, and knows nothing of Netanyau’s weakened position as the centrist Yesh Atid Party picked up 19 seats in the parliamentary elections over the weekend. She’s just digging this new concealer that makes her nose look more “petite” like her Caucasian friend Sandy’s.
No it doesn’t.
Off in the distance, oohs and ahs can be heard as Smallman John demonstrates his invisible “skills.” You wanna see some funny sheit? Go to Google images and search “people coughing”. It looks like a bunch of people giving BJs to invisible snausages.
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Thursday, January 17, 2013The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau
Today I got full on blindsided by the flu, WHAM! And it seems to be centered around my colon. Yes, I have the usual eye splitting headache like a nasally ex-girlfriend who’s way into cosmetics and Real Housewives, feverish chills, crawling skin, and body aches coupled with the general grossness of feeling like I just got compacted in the back of a garbage truck…but the evil, evil things it’s creating in my ass is unequivocally other-worldly in its appearance, sound, and stench.
It started off innocently enough this morning with some gas and a normal-consistency poo that was so grand in its stature and voluminousness, that I had to raise my chair a notch after sitting back down at my desk afterwards. I was even forced to give the sucker a preventative breaking apart with the plunger to make sure it flushed all down without issue. The farting continued however, becoming increasingly noxious and violent, until it reached a fevered pitch and crescendo when I s#!t my pants. Before I could waddle back to the restroom, the fever set in, and I excused myself from work to go home and take a shower.
That shower has done me a whole hell of a lot of NO GOOD AT ALL, as I’ve been blowing chunky brown urine out my puckered starfish every fifteen minutes for the past five or six hours. Personal hygiene will have to take a backseat so that proper hydration can keep me from dying.
And so I hunched over my laptop with a cup of peppermint tea and a fist full of Imodium, and perused the interwebs in search of a picture with which to appropriately convey my sad, desperate physical state. This silly little Heineken-fueled suaré in the Lagoon of Caustic Ships seems appropriate enough, though it’s hard to tell through my blurred vision and the wrenching gut pain. Judging by the trees in the background, this floating get-together is taking place in a subtropical climate, no doubt on some swampy pollutant and microbe infested lake, half of which was spewed out my ass early this afternoon. Though bouncy-boobled gigging Tammy’s concave tummy is definitely worthy of some light paddling and a spackle rub-down, I have not the energy nor gastrointestinal stability to dedicate towards a well focused lusting.
I also can’t find it in me to initiate a sound mocking of Big-Shouldered Dave and his pancake nipples as they slowly engulf his persistently sagging moobs. Even Crawdad Dan there just isn’t inspiring me with enough disgust and scorn to make proper fun of his Sarah Palin sunglasses, complete lack of nipples, untanned belly crease and oh my GOD IN HEAVEN WHAT THE F@%K IS HE WEARING FOR SHORTS!?!?!?!?!?!
Seriously, what the hell is wrong with this guy that he would wear $5 board shorts sold at the airbrush booth in the mall? If given no other alternative, I would rather wear the boxers I completely destroyed this morning on the outside of my pants while on a date with Julie Banderas than let anyone I know ever wear shorts like that.
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Wednesday, January 9, 2013The 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.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005Friday Thoughts n' Links
DarkSock here, for a pensive Friday Thought and Links. Son.
Pensive, because, y’know, we’re fortunate to live here, in 2005, in a prosperous country protected against greedy f*ck-society me-first sociopath bankers that would, if left to their own devices, destroy the world economy. A country free from the e’er present threats of the world’s avowed anarchists.
No…ours is a country filled with unsung and selfless heroes. Such as Plinky’s Mom, who donated the trimmings from her labiaplasty for Lindsey Lohan’s lip reconstruction. (*YOBBITA-YOBBITA-YOBBITA-PHRAPPPFTH*)
A country where we are free from dilution by illegal aliens. (*AKK! AKKK AKKKK AKKK!*)
Where red-blooded U.S. men can do what they wish with their Best Girl. Unless a sign prohibits it. But you can always try and get her to see things your way.
Butt enough…let’s now see things OUR way:
Volleyball Bonanza Featuring The Holy White Pixel.
Unintentional Digital Man Pear That Jacques Doucheteau Would Prolly Still Hit. No Homo. Son.
Bulbous Bunny Booty Boner batin’ Pear.
Beloved Bulbous BeachBall I’m Starting To Get Kinda Drunk n’ Horny and Need to Go Do Somethin’ Pear.
Monday, January 3, 2005The Undersexed World of Jacques Doucheteau – Episode 4: The Sleeping Sharts of Miami
I work with some very strange people. I mean, we all do…but the folks I work with are REALLY effed up. I could write a new HBO comedy series based on my work life, but nobody would buy it due to it being “not believable”.
For starters, I work in a manufacturing plant, which by itself attracts plenty of lower class, underprivileged, low IQ, no-college, white trash, crackhead, maniac, weirdos already. Not to mention this plant is situated in one of the more “socially diverse” cities in Oregon, replete with a nice mix of urbanized hippies, rural rednecks, suburban meth moms, college-age pot heads and pseudo-bohemian hipsters all drawn together by their lack of education and incentive to do anything worthwhile with their life.
I have to deal with folks like Halona Crow Foot, who up until a few months ago was known as Frank. Originally a strange Native American man with an obsession for anything that shoots projectiles and kills living things, showed up one day wearing full make-up and Go-Go boots, insisting on being called by “her” new name. Management was already about to fire him…sorry, her…for falling asleep on the forklift…WHILE DRIVING…and causing an accident, but now is faced with the awkward position of firing a newly-converted transsexual. Not that they’re necessary afraid of a lawsuit, but they don’t want to be thought of a “unprogressive”. So they kept Halona on for as long as they could until he (she) got into another accident, failed the drug test, and they had to fire him (her) in order to keep their workman’s comp insurance. That didn’t stop her (him) from spending the next three weeks with a sign and sundress out front of the plant protesting the “discriminatory practices” of the company. We’re off a freeway, and NOBODY pays attention to a fat woman with a goatee protesting stupid crap. Well, that is until she showed up one day with an AR-15 over each shoulder yelling something about the 2nd Amendment and little bighorn. That’s when the cops were called.
Or there’s Keith, one of only three African Americans that works for a company of 250, and the only flaming gay man that we know of on site. He’s also a conservative Republican, which is of note because whenever politics comes up in a conversation it usually ends with him calling Obama a “purple lipped monkey bastard” and some rant about how we should kill all the poverty stricken and homeless. He still has a job, and is guaranteed one despite him testing the bounds of our anti-harassment policy by continually threatening some of the younger men on the staff with violent ass rape. Seriously, what is HR to do? Tell the NAACP that “yeah, we fired the one gay black man on staff because he’s always saying the ‘N’ word, calling Obama a ‘purple lipped monkey’, and threatening to rape all the new guys because of how much ‘fresh white ass’ turns him on.” No jury in the world would convict this guy.
Oh yeah, the picture above. Three guys all wearing board shorts, sporting Jesus bling (albeit only one of them), oversized sunglasses, lobster abs, overly manicured facial hair, and just general pumped up douchiness are an affront to civilized discourse and conduct. Big flippin’ deal.
However miss dark-haired Jenny gives a subdued grin and sublime belly pooch I would paddle most heartily with the stretched out skin from my last hemorrhoidal lesion. Most heartily says I. I would drag my tongue through a WWI-era trench of putrid corpses and mustard gas whilst perfectly enunciating every syllable singing “Five Fruit Flies Flew” at 256 BPM for the oft chance to get the skin on my derriere scorched off with a lighter and can of WD-40 produced in China by a 23-year-old woman with pancreatic cancer who watched 15 seconds of the same makeup tips Youtube clip that Jenny saw back in 2010 and has since forgotten about completely. Damn gurl.
