126 “Je Me Déteste Por Mangé Vous” (I Hate Myself For Eating You)
JP: Jean Armstrong, the self-proclaimed ‘French’ pastry puff, is drowning in humiliation after his disastrous attempt to seduce a very intoxicated Phoenix Wright (who is, naturally, nursing his disbarred sorrows with something a little stronger than grape juice!). This delicious disaster unfolds in my pseudo-AU fanfic, Filling the Void (Chapter 16: Déjà Screwed).
Rejected, dripping in croquembouche cream, and utterly obliterated by both unrequited lust and verbal decimation, the phony Frenchman lets out a dramatic sob, lamenting his fate at the hands of the “delicious bel homme” who cruelly spurned his advances. (Honestly, was there anyone who didn’t want to take a bite out of hobo Nick?) Come on, nobody’s that straight, Wright? 😉
In true Armstrong fashion, he channels his devastation into a gloriously excessive (and eardrum-shattering) parody of Joan Jett’s I Hate Myself for Loving You, twisting the lyrics into a declaration of heartbreak over being metaphorically—and almost literally—consumed by his own insatiable desires.
For Turnabout Everlasting readers, don’t worry—Jean won’t be wallowing in whipped cream forever. Enter a certain golden-boy billionaire with a heart of gold and a soft spot for eccentric chefs. Because, in love, taste is clearly subjective. And yes—Armstrong is such a magnificent oddball that I had to invent an original character just to be a plausible love interest for him!
Finally, a huge thanks to funnyman Czar Thwomp for single-handedly keeping Singing in the Courtroom running all these months! This copilot is thrilled to resume flying duties on this crazy train—er, plane—and, as promised, is more than happy to get back to co-navigating the friendly skies. Buckle up, it’s gonna be a ride! ✈️🎤💼
CT: If Phoenix was feeling cruel, he could’ve used this experience as the springboard for his ultimate revenge against Kristoph- simply trick the Coolest Defense in the West into going there alone and then sit back and watch the fireworks as he gets his own Oldbag. After all, given Kristoph’s eye for fashion and expensive tastes, Jean would be drawn to him like a moth to the flame.
But instead, as the bigger man, Phoenix has done the world a favor by bottling up that trauma so tightly that not even the combined efforts of the Magatama, Perception, or the Mood Matrix could draw it out of him.
“Je me déteste por mangé vous” (I Hate Myself for Eating You)
Sung to the tune of
“I Hate Myself For Loving You”
from the stage play “Rock of Ages”
Midnight. Jean Armstrong stood in the dimly lit kitchen, the only illumination spilling from the open refrigerator door of L’huître Bleue. His café—his latest attempt at culinary resurrection—stood eerily silent, save for the distant hum of refrigeration units and the whispered regrets of past financial misadventures. Until the business took off, he was resigned to living in the cramped storage space tucked behind the dining room of The Blue Oyster, his name for the establishment—his gilded cage, a tragic stage for a man who thrived on spectacle.
His silk robe clung to his frame, its folds the lone indulgence amidst his otherwise sparse lodgings. But Armstrong wasn’t surveying his surroundings; his gaze was locked, unblinking, on the Mille-feuille before him—a masterpiece of golden pastry and luscious cream, a confection as delicate and deceptive as the love affairs he chased in vain.
Layers of impossibly crisp puff pastry stood stacked like the precarious foundation of his dignity, interlaced with velvety crème pâtissière that glowed with sinful promise under the refrigerator’s cold fluorescent light. A dusting of powdered sugar shimmered like the first snowfall over a Parisian boulevard—innocent in appearance yet heralding a spectacular downfall. It was temptation incarnate—fragile, fleeting, destined to crumble at the first improper touch.
Much like his own romantic exploits.
Armstrong swallowed hard, his mustache quivering as he reached for the plate.
“Ah… mon cher ennemi…” he murmured, voice thick with tragedy. “Tonight, you alone shall soothe my wounded heart.”
The Mille-feuille sat in seeming judgment, but Armstrong swore he could hear it whisper back—an invitation to surrender, to indulge, to be consumed by his own insatiable desires.
Armstrong’s fists clenched.
Monsieur Nick, you’re a dick! How could you?
Scorn me so cruelly, nearly split me in two!
I know it’s hopeless, but I’m still craving you
“I know my Rubenesque physique needs these empty calories like a hole in the head, but how else to fill the void that meanie bel homme left in my heart?” he wailed, slamming the fridge door shut—only to swing it open again immediately.
“Sacré bleu!”
With a gasp, he staggered back, pointing an accusing finger at a tub of butter pecan ice cream.
La crème de glace sat silently, its lid smugly askew, as if it knew it had already won.
Armstrong pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.
“It’s not that I have no willpower to stick to my diet!” He shouted to the empty kitchen. “But how else am I to find solace after such a humiliating rejection?”
You aren’t the first or last to shoot me down
Makes me so sad, I’m forever the clown!
Saw your horror clear as day, in your frown!
Flashback- that mortifying night:
Armstrong, draped like a Renaissance muse across the restaurant table, strikes his best paint me like one of your French girls pose.
Phoenix freezes. Horror dawns in his eyes as the table creaks… cracks… and collapses under Armstrong’s notable weight.
A bowl of whipped cream explodes into the air like a tragic confetti cannon.
Phoenix stares—gobsmacked, oscillating between the wreckage and his would-be seducer’s trembling mustache. His expression shifts from shock… to pity.
Armstrong moaned, back in the present, the pastry taunting him from the counter.
“I kissed that éclair like it was you,” he murmured. “But it didn’t kiss me back… just left me with a sticky-sweet mustache instead of egg on my face.”
Why must it always have to be this way?
Always falling for the hot men who aren’t gayyyyyyyyyy
Another flashback:
Phoenix, stiff as a board, awkwardly pushing Armstrong’s wandering hands away during a misguided shoulder massage.
“Even if I decided to play for the other team… there’s not enough wine on the goddamn planet!”
Present-day Armstrong flung the fridge door shut—only to wrench it open again immediately, seizing that teasing tub of ice cream with a fierce glare.
“You smug swine, conspiring against me!” He wailed into the abyss. “Why must you taunt me so?”
Je me déteste por mangé vous!
You taste so good Ima lick you through!
Can’t resist shoving you in mon bouche!
Alors je me déteste por mangé vous!
Moment on lips, life on hips, it’s true
A powerless whore for the sin that is you!
Gluttony gained pounds, they stick to me like glue!
Armstrong collapsed onto the countertop, face-first into the merveilleux, whipping cream clinging to his mustache like the shame of a ruined love affair.
Clutching the ruined, decadent dessert, he caressed it mournfully before turning to the croquembouche.
“You have always been my solace in these dark days…”
Why can’t I find un beau to warm me at night?
They always struggle and put up a mean fight
I hogged this croquembouche out of pure spite!
Puffs are my sole friends on these lonely days,
Sugary heaven makes it feel like all’s okayyyyyyy…
His relentless mind flashed back yet again to the final, mortifying memory of his failed seduction of the handsome, spiky-haired man.
Final Humiliating Flashback
A horrendous, piercing screech.
A flurry of rose petals as the abused table beneath Armstrong buckles, giving up beneath his weight.
Armstrong lets out an ear-splitting wail of humiliation, clutching his beloved croquembouche as though it were a sacred monument. Sobbing, he dives headfirst into the dessert, glaring at Phoenix over a mouthful of creamy, sugary goodness.
“It’s too late! You can’t have any, you meanie!”
Armstrong groaned loudly then, reaching out as if to grasp a distant dream.
“I know it’s not his fault that he’s not gay,” he crooned, now eyeing a tarte au chocolat longingly. “There was nothing I could have done to make him stay…”
The dessert remained silent, its silken top glistening seductively under the light.
Suddenly, Armstrong leapt to his feet, a man possessed.
“I hate myself for eating you!”
He flung open the fridge and yanked out the chocolate tart, glaring at it as though it were a cheating lover.
“Can’t break free from this spell that you brew!”
Je me déteste por mangé vous!
You taste so good Ima lick you through!
Can’t resist shoving you in mon bouche!
Alors je me déteste por mangé vous!
You’re my sole comfort on these lonely days
When I taste you, feels like all will be okayyyyyyy
Je me déteste por mangé vous!
You taste so good Ima lick you through!
Can’t resist shoving you in mon bouche!
Alors je me déteste por mangé vous!
The pastry chef snarled, whipping a fork from a drawer with trembling fingers.
Je me déteste por mangé vous!
You taste so good Ima lick you through!
Can’t resist shoving you in mon bouche!
Alors je me déteste por mangé vous!
Armstrong suddenly stiffened, staring at his own reflection in the fridge door. His gelatinous silhouette savagely mocked him.
“They say you are what you eat…” he muttered bitterly. “And looking like zee jiggling puffs I can’t say non to is not exactly helping moi land hunks like Monsieur Wright-but-oh-so-Wrong-for-me, now is it?”
And then, with a tragic mewling cry, he plunged the fork into the tart, annihilating the whole thing in three decadent gulps.
Je me déteste (aïe, euh)
Por mangé vous!
Je me déteste (aïe, euh)
Por mangé vous!
Je me déteste (aïe, aïe, aïe)
Por mangé vous!
Je me déteste (aïe)
Je me déteste
Por mangé vous!
As the final lyric rang through the empty kitchen, the sobbing drama queen slowly sank to the floor, a victim tragically defeated by his own insatiable desires.
JP: To my Turnabout Everlasting readers—May 18 marks TE’s 10th anniversary! 🎉 Subscribers get first dibs on Chapter 202, landing in inboxes this weekend! Subscribe at thejordanphoenix.com.
Comments