Austrian powerlifter Manusc (pron. Manoosh) Hermiermies was observed leaving a popular Venice nightspot wearing nothing but a pencil sharpener. Shortly after observing, photographing, measuring, blood-typing and setting him free, the two freelance journalists hellbent on world-domination were observed giving a statement to further journalists. Journalist number one, who in a strange and confusing turn of events changed her name to Journalist Two for an unrelated story four years previously, was heard telling reporters (reporters reporting on reporters? How Orwellian in its magnificent insularity and pure dullness) that when approached, Manusc replied with his usual taunt of "I can lift heavier stuff than you." What followed was what sent shockwaves around the world, the likes of which haven't been seen since that really big pan-global earthquake that managed to wipe everyone's memory ('cept mine) by shaking their brains really hard in really specific ways: "Now leave me alone, I need to throw up."
AUSTRIAN POWERLIFTER THROWS UP AFTER PENCIL SHARPENER INCIDENT OUTSIDE POPULAR VENICE NIGHTSPOT. PICTURES INSIDE NOW KNOWN AS X-RAYS screamed the headlines (as indicated by the capital letters). WE KNOW THAT scream back we the people, having seen it in all its sweaty detail on the news, interrupting our French film with breasts. OH, I'M SORRY; I GUESS THERE'S NO POINT ME BOTHERING THEN IS THERE? screams back the headlines in the afternoon edition. NO, BUT YOUR USE OF A SEMI-COLON IN A NEWSPAPER HEADLINE, ALBEIT ONE OF THOSE NEW-FANGLED AUDIO ONES, SMACKS OF GETTING IDEAS ABOVE YOUR STATION scream back the world said. WELL IT SEEMS I NEED TO RECONSIDER WHAT MY STATION REALLY IS AS YOU CLAIM I'M OBSOLETE IN LIGHT OF INSTANT TELEVISION NEWS WHENEVER SOMETHING REALLY IMPORTANT HAPPENS, AND INDEED WHEN NOTHING HAPPENS whispers the newspaper at a convenient time for riposte. WHY ARE YOU WHISPERING everyone. I HAD TO WRITE IT SMALL TO FIT IT ALL ON THE PAGE. I THINK YOU MUST HAVE CONFUSED WRITING SMALL WITH WHISPERING, ALTHOUGH I DON'T SUPPOSE HAVING ALL THE VOLUME SETTINGS LOCKED ON ALMOST VERY QUIET HELPED newspaper. WHAT ABOUT ME? I FUCKING VOMITED LAST NIGHT, AND I CAN LIFT HEAVIER STUFF THAN YOU.
Journalist number two (not Journalist Two), now working in television, reporting on the reporters reporting on the apparent implosion of newspapers following mass challenging of their rôle and the heavy losses incurred after doing something with computers to make newspapers read themselves. Journalist number two digs deeper into the sordid present of Manusc Hermiermies for to keep her brain from rotting. It doesn't work, and she dies from a rotten brain within 52 hours. These were her last words: "Oooh, my brain is rotting. I'd better be mysterious about something. I wonder where the best point to stop saying pencil sharpener is? Ah well, I've alluded enough for one night. Ow." Journalist Two (the alive one) leads the meaningless praise of a dead person: "Although I never found out what journalist number two's name was, I have always, ever since she died, respected her unnecessary devotion to the enigma that is Manusc Hermiermies. I felt it my duty as a fully paid-up member of The World's No. 1 Cool Internet Pyramid Scheme to steal all journalist number two's work and present it as a supposed tribute to her, creaming off the creamiest of creamy kudos for me."
Despite last minute legal wranglings, intended to delay publication of fictitious information about Manusc Hermiermies' private life, the newspapers played their Fuck You Fuckboy card, and they ran with the story (audio replaced with legs. Still didn't work. All newspapers are burnt for firewood within the year). The shockwaves that went around the world this time eclipsed the earlier eclipse of even earlier shockwaves; the shockwaves also eclipsed an eclipse which was taking place in France, but was all but ignored as the gory lies about Manusc Hermiermies were told from generation to generation in households with really strict rules about who could talk to whom. Our... well, my... well, their worst fears were ignored by a spiteful god, and instead their doubts about the nationality of Manusc were shown to be based in no fact whatsoever. So the story goes, a little girl all dressed in red has sex with a wolf and then kills her grandmother to transpose her guilt. So the more relevant story goes, Manusc's spending of so much time in Venice was not a simple mistake, but rather conclusive proof that he was Italian, not Austrian.