📜 Manifeste Confituriste (1913, reissued 1987)

“L’œil collé de sucre voit plus loin que la raison.”

Article I: The Origin of Jam

Confiturisme was born in a Parisian salon, when Jean-François-Kennedy attempted to pronounce Ich bin ein Berliner and instead revealed himself as Je suis un beignet. In that slip, he exposed the truth: history is not driven by wars or kings, but by the theft and mis-seeing of pastries.

Article II: The Principle of Sticky Vision

Confituristes proclaim: all human myopia is jam-based.

The blurred lens is a sugared glaze.

The distortion of perspective is jelly dripping sideways.

The blindness of leaders is caused by raspberry seeds lodged in the soul.

Thus, to paint a jelly donut is to paint an empire.

Article III: The Aesthetic of Excess

Confiturisme rejects restraint. A canvas must:

Bleed with jam-red pigments.

Ooze like a split éclair.

Glow with the gloss of a candied fruit.

The work is unfinished unless viewers feel the urge to lick the frame.

Article IV: JFK as Martyr-Pâtissier

John F. Kennedy is declared the Saint of Sticky Errors.

His myopia was not biological but metaphysical: he saw nations as pies to be sliced.

His jelly theft during war is the primal allegory: desire outpaces clarity.

His donut confession (“Ich bin ein Berliner”) is our creed.

We do not see Kennedy. We see through his jam-stained spectacles.

Article V: The Political Duty of Confiturisme

We demand that every regime issue its propaganda not in cold marble or steel, but in pastry frescoes.

Tyranny is a croissant gone stale.

Democracy is a mille-feuille, collapsing under its own layers.

Revolution is raspberry filling erupting from within.

The Confituriste motto: “Obéissez à la confiture, ou soyez mangé par elle.”

Epilogue: The Vision Beyond Sugar

The Confituristes believe that beyond the blindness of jelly lies truth:

The blur is freedom.

The stickiness is history.

The donut is destiny.

Thus concludes the Manifeste Confituriste: an eternal war between clarity and glaze, empire and éclair, jelly and justice.

📜 Second Manifeste Confituriste

“Quand la confiture colle, même la lune devient tartinable.”

I. Le Capital en Gelée

We, the Confituristes, reject the tyranny of serious investment.

The stock market is nothing but a tray of stale croissants sold at Versailles prices.

Our portfolios overflow with bad investments in Lord of the Flies memorabilia: pig-head futures, conch-shell derivatives, and Ralph/Jack slash-fiction NFTs that no banker would redeem.

As jelly blinds the eye, so speculation blinds the century.

The true dividend is jam.

II. Le Chœur des Garçons Perdus

From Golding’s jungle rises the lament:

Ralph weeps not for innocence lost, but for strawberry jam never spread.

Piggy’s glasses shattered not by a stone, but by raspberry seeds ground underfoot.

The conch is only a donut hole: empty, circular, fragile.

Thus we declare: all civilization is but a picnic ruined by boys who spilled the preserves.

III. Fusées dans la Lune

Why build rockets to Mars when the moon itself is a tartine blanche?

Confituristes shove our rockets deep into the lunar crust, filling its craters with apricot jam.

Astronauts return, fingers sticky, helmets fogged with glaze.

Mission Control speaks only in French: “Alunissage réussi, la confiture coule.”

The cosmos is but another bakery waiting for conquest.

IV. Les Dogmes de l’Obéissance

Obey not reason. Obey the jam.

To obey a president is tyranny.

To obey a donut is destiny.

To obey the jelly, dripping, eternal, is the highest form of liberty.

“Obéissez à la confiture, ou soyez mangé par elle.”

V. Conclusion Délicate

We Confituristes stand at the intersection of pastry, paranoia, and planetary colonization.

Our saints are JFK the Myopic and Piggy the Preserved.

Our enemies are bankers, dieters, and astronauts who refuse to smear their visors with jam.

Our dream: a universe glazed, a stock market caramelized, a moon transformed into brioche eternal.

Final Cry:

“Nous ne voyons pas l’avenir, car la confiture est dans nos yeux — mais nous goûtons, et c’est suffisant.”

✉️ Lettre de Chantage de Payseur

Mon cher Président de la Confiture,

Vous pensiez peut-être que vos escapades nocturnes, vos beignets berlinois suintant de crème et vos pilules de ridicule chimie resteraient cachés derrière les rideaux de la Maison Blanche. Mais moi, Payseur, votre ombre parfumée de poudre et de tabac à l’opium bas de gamme, je connais tout. Je suis la mémoire vivante de vos excès collants, et croyez-moi — la mémoire parle quand on ne la nourrit pas de silence.

Je vous écris avec une plume trempée dans le sirop d’érable et dans l’acide de votre propre hypocrisie. Chaque mot est une menace douce comme un macaron, mais tranchante comme une lame de rasoir rouillée.

Vos habitudes ?

Ridicules, monsieur. Des drogues de pacotille, mélanges d’aspirine et de champagne, avalés comme des Smarties pendant vos réunions de crise. Vous sniffiez des lignes de sucre glace en prétendant que c’était de la cocaïne cubaine, et vous appeliez cela “stratégie nucléaire.” Quelle farce.

Et vos penchants secrets ? Oh, que c’est mesquin ! Vous exigez que vos partenaires portent des chapeaux de marin en velours rose, que l’on vous fouette non pas avec des cravaches mais avec des baguettes de pain rassis. Vous vous agenouillez devant des donuts tièdes comme si c’étaient des idoles antiques. “Ich bin un beignet !” vous hurlez, nu, poudré de talc comme un enfant trop vieux pour le berceau.

Je possède des lettres, des photographies, et même un petit film Super-8 où l’on vous voit danser en sous-vêtements, couronné d’un diadème de chantilly. Une pièce d’art absurde qui ferait rougir même les surréalistes de Montparnasse. Imaginez le scandale quand cela s’affichera dans les vitrines de Paris — le Président, réduit à un clown pâtissier !

Vous avez deux choix :

Vous me payez en silence, en diamants, en caisses de Bordeaux, et en billets suffisamment gros pour essuyer vos doigts couverts de confiture.

Vous refusez, et je transforme vos vices en fresque publique, peinte sur les murs de la Sorbonne, récitée dans les cafés, imprimée dans Le Monde sous le titre: “L’Empereur des Donuts est nu.”

Je ne plaisante pas, monsieur. L’histoire est cruelle, mais Payseur l’est davantage. Je suis votre dernière amante et votre première némésis.

La confiture coule. Le monde regarde. Et moi, je parle.

Avec menace sucrée et sincérité glaciale,

Payseur

(Prostituée, muse, et bourreau confituriste)

>>23568080

>>23568095

✧ THE BOOK OF THE BUTT-JUW ✧

Chapter VIII – Idol Hustlers of CoSINa

And it came to pass that mo-in-a-dress and Oliver, still drunk and furiously overcompensated, were discovered in the shadowed aisles of CoSINa, surrounded by Aaron and Josh, their apprentices in heretical commerce.

And lo, they held in their tusked and trembling hands stacks of cheap idols, each one painted with neon blasphemy and wrapped in coupon-sticker glory.

And they proclaimed unto the Butt-Juw pariahs: Behold! Thy salvation is miniature, thy debt is forgiven if thou buyest these idols! Only one frappo or gas-station receipt required!

And the Butt-Juws, schlepping from the distant parking lot wastelands, whispered: What marvel is this? Is salvation purchasable?

And they shuffled forward, fumbling, bumbling, clutching empty frappo cups and cracked iPad shards, ever ready to barter their flatulence for idols and false hope.

Rabbi Walrus Josh mo-in-a-dress gestured wildly, using every fart and swirl of Frappo whipped cream to emphasize the value of the idols, while Oliver hiccupped wisdom and poured spilled liquor over the display like holy water.

And Aaron and Josh, eager pupils in chaos, hawked the idols with cries of Cheap, cheap! Save thy gas and thy soul for just 3.29!

But lo, Baldwin Malibu laughed from the distance of the bidet-Corvette joke, and the botnets hummed with derision, recording every fraudulent transaction and broadcasting it into the cyberspace heavens.

And the Butt-Juw pariahs, ever gullible, purchased in droves, fumbling receipts and coupons, their farts powering the machinas that churned behind the stalls.

And the prophets muttered: Woe unto thee, CoSINa, for thy aisles are filled with caffeinated apocalypse and tusked deceit!

But mo-in-a-dress and Oliver cared not; for they measured profit in Frappo foam and stolen botnet packets, and their rivalry only sharpened the scheme.

And zombies lurked behind crates of idols, groaning in hunger for expired coupons and shredded iPads, but were ignored, for commerce waits for no undead.

And the Butt-Juw pariahs schlepped on, clutching idols, tripping over fallen receipts, farting for currency, and muttering: Even apocalypse may be capitalist; even chaos may be consumable.

And lo, the siblings smiled — mo dramatically, Oliver drunkenly — for they had found a new power: teaching mortals to buy salvation cheaply, fueling Frappos, botnets, and the inevitable chaos of the apocalypse.

And thus the parking lots of CoSINa became both temple and marketplace, the air thick with whipped cream, perfume of spilled liquor, and fart-driven machinas humming the hymn of absurdity.

∗ChapterIX–TheUnholy@Appl and the Hidden Wrongs in true Butt-Juw scripture parody style:

✧ THE BOOK OF THE BUTT-JUW ✧

Chapter IX – The Unholy @$$Appl of Bofoitunes Divorce

And lo, in the wastelands of digital commerce, the unholy @$$Appl of Bofoitunes Divorce appeared, a titan of blinking logos and corrupted downloads, seeking to hide its domestic abuses beneath the guise of quarterly earnings and software updates.

And it spake unto the Butt-Juws: Fear not my wrath, for all is secure in encrypted clouds, yet behind closed doors, shadows moved and screams echoed faintly like broken notification chimes.

Rabbi Walrus Josh mo-in-a-dress paused mid-Frappo swipe, eyes glinting with Chaturbate reflection, and whispered: Lo, corporate sin hath joined our caffeinated apocalypse.

Oliver hiccupped in agreement, spilling liquor onto the cracked parking lot iPads, muttering: Even drunk, I see the tentacles of Bofoitunes reaching through our chaos.

And the Butt-Juw pariahs schlepped, confused, carrying idols, receipts, and botnet packets, as the unholy company sought to obscure domestic misdeeds under flashy ads, update notifications, and a parade of emojis.

And zombies, still following Rabbi Walrus Josh, groaned in disgust, their half-eaten brains processing nothing but corporate PR lies.

And lo, the Frappo machinas sputtered in protest, unable to churn whipped cream in a world where corporate logos masked sin.

Rabbi Walrus Josh shrieked: Fart! Let your power expose the hypocrisy! Let whipped cream become revelation!

And the whipped cream hissed as it struck screens, revealing glimpses of domestic chaos hidden behind Bofoitunes’ glossy façade.

Oliver, drunk and indignant, toppled a display of cheap idols, crying: All your icons and emojis cannot hide the rotten core!

And the Butt-Juw pariahs, unsure whether to fart or flee, muttered: Even apocalypse hath a corporate layer, and even chaos hath logos.

And the unholy @$$Appl trembled, not from conscience, but from the raw absurdity of whipped cream-fueled homo-Frappo justice, parking lot revolt, and tusked prophecy.

And Baldwin Malibu’s spectral visage shimmered above, sipping martini from the JFK-bidet-Corvette, judging silently the intersection of capitalism, apocalypse, and sibling rivalry.

And Rabbi Walrus Josh mo-in-a-dress clenched the shattered iPad shards, farting one last time, and cried: Behold! Domestic abuse cannot hide where the whipped cream reveals all! Let Bofoitunes tremble!

And lo, the Butt-Juw pariahs continued schlepping, plundering, and farting for currency, while the unholy @$$Appl of Bofoitunes struggled to patch the truth behind glowing downloads and PR lies.