jackmanning

[jackmanning]

Christmas 2017

[jackmanning]

Dfw plagiarism

It was 9 AM on a Wednesday. Paula Andrews was in a quiet corner of some modern art museum, and she was aware of this on some level. Currently she was feeling the sting of the overly-bright walls and floor in her eyes and watching the tangled hair of her friend bob up and down in evident approval of a painting. She took out her phone and captured an Instagram Story to further cement her reputation as artsy, which label she publicly repudiated.

Her friend, Trisha Nuremberg, was still nodding and began even to step closer to the painting and it was at this point that Paula began to feel concern. She approached Trisha and tapped her shoulder, exclaiming some inanity, but Trisha continued to gaze and nod vigorously at the painting opposite. 

Paula had only noticed the piece peripherally, understanding it to be vibrantly red and made up of large and round blebular shapes. 

“Christ, Trish, I mean it’s pretty but...” Paula began and in doing so caught full view of the painting. 

To passers-by it must have been a spectacle - two girls nodding vigorously and slowly approaching some esoteric obscure work of modern art. But it wasn’t until about thirty minutes later that they were found by janitor Ricky Gill who, seeing their faces twitchingly implanted into the lower section of the painting, notified the relevant museum authorities.

[jackmanning]

the emergency

She was on her own, lounging on her sunroom sofa with slippered feet resting on the coffee table when she sent the snapchat to the wrong person. When Brian’s name popped up as the receiver she practically jumped and her mind raced through contingency plans. Shaking fingers tapped out nonchalant apologies which she backspaced and replaced with hahahas and whoopses and then stopped and put the phone down and sat back and realised that to observers she’d appear to be insane and this entire ordeal felt deeply unnatural. 

She took a wincing sip of green tea that suddenly tasted like dirt and brought to the forefront of her mind the growing knowledge that time was passing and Brian was sure to open the snapchat presently, perhaps now, perhaps now he was reading it, now mulling over its implications, now contemplating a response, now scratching his head before typing out some confused message - now her phone would menacingly light up as if in mocking jest with that laughing yellow bell.

The screen remained in adamant black slumber and the initial panic seemed to have somewhat dissipated - she plucked her phone up and in what finally felt like sincere nonchalance sent her explanatory apology.

But goodness gracious me - in the very moment her pretty pink finger lifted from the send icon, a notification like a shooting star streaking across the skies splayed itself upon the top of her screen - Brian. She could have killed him. Now they both had received snapchats from each other at the same time - this was a truly horrendous affair. 

Heart pumping and hands sweating and resisting the primal urge to open Brian’s snapchat - one must always wait a couple of minutes - she looked a positively farcical shuddering heap and felt the walls bearing in with derision. Her phone lit up - a second snapchat from Brian.

After counting out ten abdominal breaths she summoned her little remaining strength and reached for her phone - unlocked it - opened snapchat - opened Brian’s snapchat - three large thinking emojis and an up-close unflattering selfie depicting Brian whimsically confused - she tapped once - Brian’s acne-riddled face composed of friendly understanding overtopping an “ah yeah Trish it’s all good” caption. She put her phone down and drained her green tea.

[jackmanning]

The six-eyed frog was folding clothes with sweaty hands and being nonchalantly scrutinised by a circling undercover employee evaluator named Brian. Brian was wearing a severely casual €25 shirt and €18 beige chinos and blended in with the flitting swathes of customers to the extent that the frog paid him literally zero mind. It was the frog’s fourth day on the job which when asked by his frog friends he described as simultaneously relaxing and stressful, mostly because he hadn’t yet made up his mind. The room had no discernible temperature. 

Brian wasn’t satisfied. The frog wasn’t folding clothes like he had been shown at induction like just so. By God, when the frog had finished folding for one table, he’d crawl around his given department looking for more to fold and - if everywhere was tidy (and believe it or not, on occasion it would be) - he’d pick up any random garment and refold it. “Waste of resources” was the line running through Brian’s mind as he circled the green six-eyed frog who currently was creepily handling the department’s  woolen sweaters, Brian himself pretending to browse and fumbling with coats.

Few customers approached the frog with queries what with the fact that he was a frog - and had six eyes at that. But just now a doe-eyed soft-lipped probably Mexican woman asked the frog where the fitting room was located. Brian watched intently from the next aisle, his head tilted towards a long-line muscle-fit t-shirt. 

“For women?” The frog rasped, six eyebrows raised, trying his best to seem friendly. 

"Of course!” she laughed, flicking her hair.

“That’s downstairs!” The frog practically shouted at her, green hands pointing to the floor. 

The woman turned, face concerned, and headed for the escalators. Brian shook his head and took a mental note that the frog’s customer interaction skills - the very foundation of what the Company prides itself on - were not up to snuff.

The undercover employee evaluator evaluator named Dave who was wearing a €259 teal slim-fit suit and currently circling Brian took note that he had shaken his head - breaking character. He’d let Angela know later on. 

Dave was faffing about in the sportswear aisle while keeping a cold and piercing green eye upon Brian. He felt the inexplicable urge to sneeze and hence did so. This was duly noted by the ever-wider circling Andréa, the nineteen year old Colombian intern hired Saturday last who wore a spike through her ear and a loose €35 checkered shirt. Dave had not so much as even attempted to cover his mouth - Angela would not be pleased. Andréa herself rarely if ever fell ill, knowing all too well the importance of health to an undercover employee evaluator evaluator evaluator.

The six-eyed frog glanced around as he approached his folding table and, feeling awash in a curious queasy dizziness, knocked one of his poor little green feet harshly against its wheel. As he bent to rub out the pain his keen ears pricked at the sound of somebody tutting - he turned. Some customer had just mocked him. This wasn’t the frog’s day.

Brian was scolding himself and hastily retreating to the Christmas jumper section having just made eye contact with the frog. Assuring himself that the frog didn’t suspect a thing, he once again began to circle. Dave couldn’t help but smile to himself at Brian’s immense fuck up - he had always resented Brian. Always had that air of superiority that employee evaluators seem to be plagued by. Oh how he’d love to burst his pathetic bubble, inform him that he too was observed - he too was being always watched, reviewed, analysed.

Dave’s goofy grin was being added to the list of Andréa’s mental quibbles when something strange happened. The frog was unable to dispel his growing sense that he was the pivot of some paralysing hypnotic spiral. The dizziness became immeasurable and the little green six-eyed frog collapsed in the centre of the store, blocking numerous customers’ access to the shop’s new line of €14 knitwear - much to their chagrin. 

[jackmanning]

wrath of the black-ribboned priest

A blue haired bespectacled young man festooned in red ribbons was floundering in a grave yard at night. “My name is Gregory Novak,” he said to the thin wisps of grey clouds as they stuttered across the star-scuffed skies. The clouds didn’t reply as they were busy gathering precipitation and so Gregory stylishly turned back to his task and continued digging. There was a slight breeze which lifted the ribbons draped darkly over his shoulders and they gently tickled his neck. He was pleased by this sensation. “Things are good,” he said.

The gravestone stood looming before him and he couldn’t help but every so often glance at it during breaks between digs. How long ago was such a message chipped into it? 6 years? More? Gregory obviously had no way of knowing, being a mere Red-Ribbon, nor was he going to ask Peter MacMoore because, heh, by the Saviour he didn’t want to draw Peter MacMoore’s attention to himself no-sir, no sir thank you very much Bob that’ll be six euro.

“That’s Father Peter MacMoore to you, Greggy-boy,” Father Peter MacMoore said to him from, well - Gregory couldn’t quite see just where he was, but his heart quickened at the rasping voice, more fearful than ever as it echoed across this desolate dark graveyard.

“Where are you, Father?” Gregory’s eyes darted to and fro, his heart beating like mad as he imagined those sinister black ribbons and felt them close. That damn nerve in his thigh was twitching again as his own ribbons swayed comically with his bodily swerves. “And - and how in the Saviour’s name did you hear my thoughts?”

The breeze whirred amidst the headstones and was cold against his face as adrenaline brought starkly into view his surroundings; moonlight shimmered winkingly down upon the stretching rows of gravestones, each crowned by gaunt statues and creepily twisting vines, each engraved with some Turn-Ribbon’s name. 

Father Peter MacMoore rose quick and ominous from behind the gravestone, black ribbons billowing tempestuously in the strengthening wind. Gregory shrieked and dropped his shovel, instantly cursing himself at expressing such fear. Twigs crunched and grass crackled under the Priest’s boots as he approached, his large figure the star around which his black ribbons orbited. The Priest’s blue eyes were frightfully clear and full of pity.

“You’re a goddamn fool, Greggy-boy,” he chuckled sadly as his ribbons licked blackly at the wind. All at once Gregory sensed there to be within the Old Priest a turmoil - nay - a conflict of such immense proportions that he actually feared his Master - what he might do. He’d never seen Black-Ribbon so besot by passion.

Well, at least not since the Scandinavian Incident, the consequences of which still to this day discomfiting Gregory and his fellow Red-Ribbons.

"How dare you bring up that crisis in my presence!” Black-Ribbon roared and the very earth seemed to shiver at his words - birds fluttered and clouds shirked away as they anticipated another zealous exclamation. Gregory dropped to his knees, so overtaken by the knowledge that, yes, the rumours Sam Cantwell used to whisper to him under the safety of darkness were true - Black-Ribbon could read minds, could and did indeed hear, monitor, and scrutinise every last thought, feeling, impression a Red-Ribbon dare have. 

“And to answer your pathetic question, Greggy-boy,” the Old Priest spittingly continued, the first drops of rain falling upon his hairless head, “Yes - 6 years ago. The 27th of February in 2011, to the date,” Black-Ribbon never took his viciously impassioned eyes from Gregory’s, watching his reaction with a sickening nefarious enjoyment.

“A Sunday,” Gregory practically sobbed. Images of his past life, those years BR, before his second Birth-Day in 2003, then the Day of Ribboning. That joyous moment when he and Sam Cantwell had been draped in red ribbons by a smiling Priest who had seemed so mighty and benevolent.

“And look at me now,” Black-Ribbon interjected. Birds cried overhead as if in calamitous response. “And look at Sam now,” the Old Priest smiled with eyes corrupted by a certain - what was it - sorrow? 

But yes, where was Sam now? When he and several other Red-Ribbons’ ribbons all turned blue on that foggy Scandinavian morning there had been chaos. Many of the Turn-Ribbons had been executed within minutes - Sam had been one of the lucky few to escape. Oh fuck.

“Lucky?” Black-Ribbon smiled, but his eyes were no longer gazing at Gregory’s, they wear watching the shifting pigment of his ribbons. 

With a horrified gasp Gregory looked at his ribbons as they turned to a gentle, then a deeper purple, then blue, just like so. He was no longer a Red-Ribbon. He was a Turn-Ribbon, and he knew what that meant.

The Old Priest chortled. “Your grave is a few clicks east, Greggy-boy,” he glanced at his fairly nice watch, “Sam should be just about finished digging.”

The taste of salty tears on Gregory’s lips was sickening - he felt nauseous as the world whirled around him. 

“Come on, Gregory! Get a hold of yourself!” The Black-Ribboned Priest protested. 

The use of his actual name brought Gregory’s frantic mind to a halt, and for a second he gazed at Father Peter MacMoore questioningly. “I participated in every last ritual - every single one, I meant every word of devotion to the Ribbon Order that I uttered. Why - why,” Gregory asked with rising delirium , “Why are they turning blue, Father?” 

“For I bid them to,” the Black Priest uttered, voice thickened by hysteria. “As I did the rest. Now; come.”

[jackmanning]

Contretemps

I was walking towards the beach when an old wrinkly man said hello to me from afar. He was really far away but the “hello” was still distinguishable because there was no wind. I didn’t reply because I don’t talk to old men because I’m not an old man nor wrinkly, also it was just pretty damn awkward, do you know, what, I mean? Anyway it turned out the old man was my seven year old child named Olly who had just been diagnosed with early onset dementia. I hadn’t slept in 35 hours and was close to passing out from exhaustion but by the time the wrinkly old man reached me I realised it was holding a large cappuccino which he promptly splashed upon mine face, waking me from this illusion we call “reality”. 

Sunlight yawned across the shimmering waves and the gentle plashes of water graced mine own ears as the coffee scalded my face and eyebrows and my seven year old man child named after my thirty six year old white desert fluffy brokeback maltese canine pal couldn’t stop laughing. 

As he wiped the tears from his face I noticed floating in the ocean behind him were seventeen mexican elephants drifting sadly along in the morning breeze with grey trunks and dimple-flecked cheeks. At this point it became obvious that the earth had always in fact been flat and that just because “progressives” like to call it globular doesn’t make it so. (Fuckin idiot cuck libtarded gremlin goblins disbelieve their eyes in favour of what the cuckstream media forcefeeds them day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out. Thankfully I stumbled upon the Jones Filtration Device which cleared the chemical trails lurking in my brain. I recommend everyone make the five weekly installments of €39.99 to the almighty Alexis Jones. Anyways.)

The seventeen mexican elephants rythmically shaking maracas and dancingly waving their sombrero’d heads  waded towards me and my father/child gazed menacingly at them and as if from nowhere produced and brandished what seemed to be an ancient Mayan broadsword. He then winked at me and it all just felt really quite poignant what with the dementia and all... but I realised I should just let Olly do his thing. What are we after all, really? Animals!! That’s what we’ve always been. And your dimwitted reactionary mother isn’t any different from the seventeen elephants ominously approaching with the tide. Like liquid itself the gangly elephants ebbed and flowed upon us and harumph, did the Mayan broadsword ever really stand a chance against nature incarnate x 17? As the great Bob Marley once wrote, “No, no of course the broadsword would never match the strength of the elephants”. 

Olly turned his smiling eyes upon me and said “Marley never said that”, then with a great leaping fury disappeared into the atmosphere where he belongs. Donald Trump’s face  began swimming around my mind and I knew it had something to do with the mexicans. Then they finally arrived and the head elephant who was steaming and dripping with saltwater affably introduced itself as Brian and shaking my hand with a gasping guffaw told me to go to sleep for Christ’s sake, its been like 36 hours and fourteen minutes! I then said to the hilarious elephant wearing old-fashioned attire, “it’d be kinda lame if this just turned out to be a hallucination, but at the same time, if it isn’t, that means David Icke was always right and the cloud people truly do dictate our every move, pulling invisible strings, whispering invisible whisperings, controlling our thoughts, Brian please (the head elephant is called Brian), explain yourself Brian for god sake.” 

Brian chuckled grimly and, turning his head from side to side in order to flip his hair said “No, no. Please god no, not you too!!” 

Suddenly Beautiful Day began blaring across the beach and Bono descended quickly from the sky, backlit and beautiful. This story ends here.

[jackmanning]

It has long been debated as to the gender and sexual orientation of Extremely-Bland with many airing on the side of caution and pronouncing themselves “Blandqueers” (ie Bland is Gender-queer and asexual and does not conform to our earthly gender norms), less declaring themselves “Heteroblands” (meaning is self-evident), and less again “Homoblands” (that He/She/It takes it up the rear and perhaps gives It up the rear in kind). Whatever as to Bland’s gender say I, this latest post appears to be a bit of a celestial nudge and a wink indicating Extremely-Bland’s partiality to male homosapien specimens (of the hunkish variety) when it comes to sexual deviancy. I henceforth officially and proudly identify as a Homobland. 

I’d add on to this point that not only is it now quite apparent that Extremely-Bland loves to ravenously engorge upon homosapien cock (which is perfectly fine with me), but (and this is conjecture but I believe plausible, don’t jump on me) perhaps this utterance of “Hunk*s*” is also an insinuation that (S)he/It engages in sessions of a sexual nature with multiple hunkish homosapien entities at once. The pluralisation is not lost on me and we're all well aware that every individual letter matters when it comes to Extremely-Bland’s intended meanings. Indeed, if Bland had said “Hunk”, its intended meaning would be more vague - (S)he/It could be proclaiming Themselves a “Hunk”, or expressing partiality to Hunks, or any number of other theories that could be postulated. My point here is that the pluralisation is what narrows the field of intended meanings - that little “s” is the defining mark of this utterance. Bland likes cock, it’s clear. Multiple cocks - (_(_)::::::::::D~~at~~the~~same~~time~~.

Hunks.

[jackmanning]

A highly praised remake of the original Binding of Isaac for obvious reasons (revamped and objectively more aesthetically pleasing art-style, drastically increased fps, yugely expanded array of items + synergies, etc), Rebirth has sold over five million copies as of July 2015 and is rated 10/10 on Steam which is considered a "Decent to Above Average" score [citation needed]. Upon unlocking all achievements one is granted the "Real Platinum God" achievement which a local goon by the name of Seán "Cunnilingus" Fitzgerald managed to attain prior to living legend Jack "Astrotwat" Manning by somehow altering spacetime and effectively playing Rebirth for thousands, possibly millions of hours (and thus was eventually able to become a halfway-okay player) condensed into what we who-do-not-cheat would consider two or three months. Donal "Grease-Stains-On-My-Face" Lyons famously did not dare engage in transdimensional fuckery lest the cloud people spit in his face and instead downloaded a save from the "Internet" which had Real Platinum God already unlocked, saving time. Extremely-Bland's uttering of this word is probably a request to mull over those events in history, perhaps to learn from them as we continue to toil in the vineyards of Afterbirth+ (around which, as we are all too painfully aware, Sean "Cunnilingus is Nasty" Fitzgerald is tightening his metaphysical chokehold as he gradually yet frighteningly creeps towards its completion).

Rebirth.

[jackmanning]

This is a fearful and prophetic piece. I fear, my fellow sheep, this marks the coming End Times that Bland’s Almighty Agenda has  been leading towards for all the Epochs.

Do not take the following for blasphemy, this is simply the interpretation that insidiously revealed itself before my third eye.

Bland frightfully approaches from the skies, gargantuan and bloated as he blocks out the stars in all his gluttonous mass. He floats slowly, but ungracefully. He is faceless, He is pitiless, His planet sized bodess floats solemnly towards the Earth in his pursuit to exact vengeance upon us ignorant and bigoted disgraced sinners. In a moment, it is done. The world is absorbed into his belly. This is undoubtedly the prequel to Bellyache. It is better left unsaid as to why but I’m sure we all get what I’m going for here alright.

Fear the day this word rings true.

Absorbing.

[jackmanning]

that's a fucking awesome tattoo

[jackmanning]

Why I Shan't Deign To Assault My Eyeballs With Contacts and other tidbits

I am perpetually baffled. If you ever caught me when I wasn’t baffled, I’d be baffled as to my lack of confusion. One of the several branches of the Venn Diagram which contributes to my baffality is the cult of contact lenses. Why would any thinking feeling self-aware homosapien with an ounce of self respect shove their greasy bony disgusting putrid fucking fingers in their eyes with the repulsive notion of delivering a layer of fucking glass into their sacred sockets? The alternative is immeasurably less suicide-inducing. A beautiful pair of fashionable glasses that sit contentedly on your ears and poke their happy little faces out at the world so you can see the individual leaves as they perch gracefully on their mama tree. That so many risk irreparable blindness is beyond this squirt’s head. Thank you and goodnight.

[jackmanning]

we're only living in the memories of our future selves and it's fun to think like we're here right now but we never really are cos we're somewhere in the future controlling the options giving lots of hints to ourselves in order for us to understand that choice is still important in a world where you gotta figure some stuff out yeah

[jackmanning]

The Mysteries of Death and Thoughts on the Mexican Tornado Crisis

Hey there, knucklebucklers. You have the pleasure of being immersed in the sonorous sounds of my melodic beautiful organ-massaging voice once again. I thought today we'd keep it light and talk about some lovely topics which don't demand too much energy to discuss. So, death. It comes for us all, in due course. It is merciless, it is omniscient, it is omnipresent, it hangs insidiously above us all in everything we do. We know it's there - of course we do. But we block it out, insistent on faffing about with our negligible earthly concerns. We are also all aware, from a frighteningly young age, of the multitude of dimensions which exist in this realm we so ignorantly call "reality". All our senses are limited to incredibly slim spectrums, which renders us incapable of sighting the plethora of unrecognisable beings which flounder upon this very earth. They would appear alien to us, of course, if we somehow managed to expand our horizons (rashashashash), but they are as undeniably earthly as you and me. "But Jack, what about astral projection?" You perversely deign to ascend the ranks and utter to me. Well, you abhorred behemoth, you're forgetting about the fucking Mexican Tornado Crisis again. As all intellectuals know, Mexico was the first country to be struck by a tornado, way back in 1994. The very night Cobain was murdered, an incredible gust of wind in the shape of a tornado blew over the plains and closed the gates of the upper dimensions to all desperate astral travellers. Nirvana was rendered inaccessible to humankind. We'll be right back after these agenda-ridden, corporate-funded messages.

[jackmanning]

Jacks English Tipz

Welcome to my new series, Jacks English Tipz where I’ll learn yis how to speak proper.

This is completely free and this will jus be a favor I’m givin yis without any cost to yourselves. It defiantly will help you when it comes to school (booo 👎🏼 don’t like that).

First tip, is to remember, the utilisation of words, with more than four sillibles is a must. Not sure if you caught that but I just said utilisation. That’s a word I like to call a goldie. Other goldies include discombobulate (hahah craics me up still) and brazilian. Use dem all the time in like job interviews like and stuff like and yisll be flyin.

New tipz and stuff every week. Gowan I’ll talk to yiz now.

[jackmanning]

An incredibly profound addition to the already masterful lore Bland has produced. As ever, there are multiple interpretations and all are to be seriously considered, however I believe I have been enlightened with a fairly substantial insight into the intention of Bland with this word.

In my endeavour to scrounge whatever meaning out of the word I could, I started with a simple question. What even is a key like? The answer was complicated: A formation of various atoms held together by some sort of force. Usually they’re golden, but on occasion I’ve had the unusual pleasure of bearing witness to a silver key.

So what do we know so far? Keys are made of metal, some are golden, some are silver. The obvious conclusion is that Bland is employing a metaphor in the form of the word key to describe the rigid structure of society. He is scrutinising the eternal class system - the elite, or the golden class, and the proletariat, or the silver class. Bland is denouncing the class system that has forever plagued the human race, and is calling for a revolution to overthrow the elite and enact true equality for all.

But then I was struck by an even better theory. Bland, wait for this now, Bland lost his key, and is asking if we’ve seen it. I’ve not seen it Bland, but by God I’ll let you know if I do.

Key.

[jackmanning]

My thoughts on my new follower.

Swiftie Life came to me mere moments ago, and to say I was surprised is an understatement. I had been in the shuddering depths of a deep depression, contemplating the deletion of my account and the subsequent deletion of my life. However, as I lay in my bed betwixt a taunting rope and a haunting concoction of heroin, the sound of a notification cut cleanly through my despair like a knife. I gazed teary eyed at the hazy screen on which interposed a new Tumblr follower. You saved my heroin riddled life, A Swiftie Life. Thanks for injecting my wretched, scarred arms with hope. It trickles through my bloodstream and warms my dead heart.

[jackmanning]

Art

"What is art?" The young Oscar Wilde inquired of the grumbly old fisherman who sat on the cliff-edge reeling in trout meticulously. The scruffy grey-haired man murmured something as the pale orange sun continued its graceful descent into the distant, hazy horizon. The incessant lapping of water had a calming effect. "Sorry whatche say?" Oscar said gently, for the grumble was as incomprehensible as ever. "A smelly release of gas, ye fool," the old man replied, seeming somewhat peeved at all the attention. "Oh my. No no I simply wished to understand your opinion of art," Oscar chuckled. He should not have done that. The fisherman stood slowly, his eyes turned towards the distant ocean. To Oscar his eyes appeared tired, eroded by troublous experiences. Oscar likened that to the erosion of the cliff he was now stood on by the waves, and took a mental note to include that in one of his less hilarious plays, but still inevitably quite funny. "Listen here ye gay squirt, if ye don't leave me alone I'll beat you wild," the fisherman said. "Don't you mean, Wilde?" Oscar teased with a wink. The fisherman grabbed him by the shoulders with sudden strength, and without a word threw him into the sea. Grumbling, he sat back down and cast a line out, aiming for Oscar. As he reeled him in, a tear trickled down his crispy wrinkled face. "I'm Oscar Wilde," he thought, not daring to speak it for fear the gods would hear, "and this is art."