đź“ś 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 DĂ©licate
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.”