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📜 L’Évangile Selon la Confiture
(Gospel of Saint Berliner of Neverland)
And lo, the boy-president came forth, powdered in sugar, declaring unto the crowd: “Ich bin ein Berliner.”
And the crowd, deceived by his grin, mistook a jelly-filled pastry for a statesman.
But we, the Confituristes, saw through the glaze, and knew him for what he was: a greedy child in sailor’s shorts, a Peter Pan with sticky fingers.
He strutted among pirates like Khrushchev and Castro, yet he was no captain — only the cabin boy who mistook icing sugar for gunpowder.
His nuclear brinkmanship was but a tantrum in the sandbox, hurling jelly jars instead of bombs.
Saint Berliner, they called him — but his sainthood was fried dough, his holiness oozing raspberry jam down the front of his suit.
Payseur the courtesan bore witness, laughing with rouge on her lips: “This boy demands his lovers wear sailor hats, and be flogged with baguettes gone stale. Is this a president or a pastry shop mime?”
Her testimony was not slander but mercy, for what greater cruelty than letting a nation believe their emperor wore clothes when in truth he wore frosting?
Prince Harry Donut Bitch descended, haloed in rainbow sprinkles, scepter dripping with custard.
And he spake: “Behold, the Berliner-child, glutton of waste, thief of jelly! He who plays Peter Pan while pirates sharpen knives. He who snorts sugar and calls it strategy.”
Thus was JFK judged not by history, but by appetite.
For his sins were not of ideology, but of indulgence — the petty, infantile lust for donuts masquerading as destiny.
His tragedy was not assassination, but that he lived as a boy-king, a narcissist with a frosting fetish, a glutton with a navy costume.
And the Confituristes carved in marble:
“Obey not the jelly thief. Obey not the powdered boy. For he was no savior, but only America’s spoiled child, forever lost in Neverland.”