JJ Gives Some Drunk Girl a Butt Chin

Detective Dufresne

I saw J.J. Dufresne last Saturday night. Al and I stopped by his apartment. I used the bathroom. When I went to wash my hands, rusty water trickled out of the faucet, but there was a copy of Existentialism from Dostoyevsky to Sartre on the back of the toilet, and a tube of St. Ives Apricot Facial Scrub on the side of the tub.

J.J. told us about what had happened to him that morning, how the night before he’d been at a wedding and how when he woke up, he sisn't know where he was. He was on a couch but he didn’t know whose or where.

“The apartment was immaculate,” he said. “Really clean. And it smelled good. That’s how I knew a chick lived there.” He spotted a photo album on the book shelf, and as painful as it was to get up, walk across the room, and retrieve that album, J.J. suspected it might provide him with some clues, maybe it would contain a photograph of somone he knew.

"Did it?" we asked.

"Yes," he said, and before we could press him for further details, his cat Marvin began using the side of the couch as a scratching post. "He's allowed to do that," J.J. said.

J.J. with Facial Hair (and possibly something up his nose)

Got a Whole Lotta Love

A Text Message from J.J. Dufresne

Received just yesterday:

This one is just a mess. A loud splattery dump that all the kids on tour of the capital can hear. Christ, I just had to tell a lady janitor to go away.

J.J. Dufresne loves all things scatological: fart jokes and girls who laugh at them; scat exhibits and girls who think farting is funny; the colon; those ditties about diarrhea (“When you’re running in a race and something splashes in your face! When you’re sitting in your Chevy and your pants are feeling heavy!”); girls who laugh when he says pull my finger; the many euphemisms for defecation (“dropping the kids off at the pool” and “taking the Browns to the Super Bowl”); a girl who’d ask him to pull her finger. If J.J. met such a girl, he would love her, he would cherish her, he would drop to one knee and ask her to be his wife. But where is such a girl? J.J. Dufresne is looking for you.

Upon Learning That Trina Is Enjoying This Blog

JJ Dufresne had this to say:

has the chick sent in any boudoir photos?

J.J. Dufresne's Brothers

J.J.'s big brothers tortured him.

They dressed him like a girl, they told him he’s an alien from outer space, he’s adopted, his real parents didn’t want him, Mom and Dad hate him, Mom and Dad ran away and are never coming back, Mom and Dad are dead!
They told him he was dying from a terrible disease, but they wouldn't say what this disease was, only that it would hurt a lot when pus shot out of his eyes, and bugs crawled out of his butt, and nobody would want to come near him, not even Mom. They locked him in the basement where it was dark, scary and full of spiders. They locked him outside when it was raining. They pushed his face in the snow. They pounded on him, pounced on him, punched him, pummeled him, they hit him, smacked him, wailed on him and whacked him. They beat him up. They told him he’s stupid, he stinks, his breath smells like farts, and Mom hates you! They made him cry then they made fun of him for crying.

Thirty years later, whenever one of them walks by, J.J. flinches.

Butt-Chins

When J. J. Dufresne is drunk, stoned, or bored, he likes to make butt-chins.

The first time he did it to me, he was drunk. He came up and stood very close to me, violated all sorts of my personal space, and pinched the sides of my chin together. He laughed.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"You've got a butt-chin," he said. "Ha-ha."

I didn't understand what he was doing. It just felt like he was pinching me, like he was trying to help pop a particularly troublesome zit.

"Ouch," I said. "What are you doing?"

"Butt-chin! Butt-chin!" he chanted. Then he reached over with his other hand and made a tiny indentation in the pinched-together skin of my chin. "You have a butt for a chin!"

J.J. and Pigtails in Black and White