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Awesome new author for George R. R. Martin fans


MaybeMike

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I would totally drink On Fire With Hate. I picture it as a fairly sharp Black IPA, maybe laced with some warming winter spice flavours like cinnamon.

I like your style! Not 100% I can balance hop bitterness, roasted malts AND spice... (although Siren do a hoppy, roasty porter called Bones of a Sailor, I had a lapsang souchong version of it yesterday, all a bit mad). Possibly our next brew, a 100% Brett DIPA, will be called On Fire With Hate. :)

HE: I've had Sloth from that range, we don't see that many Amager beers over here.

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This made my day! Thank you board!






How can he have interest in intelligent conversation with people who express hate towards him as poster?




Mocking is really not the same thing as 'hate'.



Creating an account on a board you don't frequent, solely to promote oneself, is worthy of mocking. Anyone who spent any time at all to get familiar with this place and actually engaged in some discussions other than promoting their own book via sockpuppet is aware that this is the reaction you get, and rightfully so imo.






Talk about hook, line, and sinker. Y'all've had me laughing my ass off. Mike Miller is a Stanek wannabe that spams every list with his drivel and 5 stars himself with obvious sockpuppets all over goodreads (and no I don't feel bad about my prank - he deserves it). I just wanted to pull one on you guys and y'all didn't disappoint. I only hate that peterbound didn't jump in on the action but I guess he's deployed or whatever. I was going to let it go on for a while but the fun's sort of sizzled. Oh well. Happy Thanksgiving everyone and remember, buy my......I mean his books.




:bowdown:



Thanks for this. Best thread I've seen since the Stanek one!





Hey nerds read my new bok




^This is the way to go! :lol:


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I like your style! Not 100% I can balance hop bitterness, roasted malts AND spice... (although Siren do a hoppy, roasty porter called Bones of a Sailor, I had a lapsang souchong version of it yesterday, all a bit mad). Possibly our next brew, a 100% Brett DIPA, will be called On Fire With Hate. :)

HE: I've had Sloth from that range, we don't see that many Amager beers over here.

I don't really associate Brettanomyces with hatred, only mild disappointment.

If including the microbiology is important, then I think a classic Stingo (a soured strong dark ale, for those who aren't familiar with historical beer styles) would be a good option.

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Reasons to love this board






The seamless transition of agonies—from the Himalaya’s of the 1950 to now... The pain of an injured ego, lost face, meaning contorted by the wrong distribution of his words. At first Mike didn’t realize he was awake. It merely seemed that Fitzsimmon’s face had transformed into the inhumanly beautiful face of David Bowie.






“Ah, Mike,” Bowie said, “it’s good to see you seeing—things in this world at least. For some time we feared you wouldn’t awaken at all. You were very nearly killed, you know. The board was in such a turmoil... Sarcasm, attempts a wit, meta-irony—simply because of your stubbornness. How Stanek must howl in the Outside. All his poor books.”


Mike was gagged, naked, and chained, wrists above his head and ankle to ankle, so that he hung suspended over a great mosaic floor. The chamber was vaulted, but he couldn’t see the ceiling’s peak, nor could he see the terminus of the walls that framed the silk-gowned entourage before him. The surrounding spaces were lost in gloom. Three glowering tripods provided light, and only he, hanging in the confluence of their circles of illumination, was bright.


“Ah yes...” Bowie continued, watching him with a thin smile. “This place. It’s always good to have a sense of one’s prison, no? An old IP Board instance, by the looks of it. PHP on top of SQL, I suppose.”


Suddenly he understood.


The Westerosi Literature forum! I’m dead... I’m dead.


Tears welled down his cheeks. His body, beaten, numb from hanging betrayed him, and he felt the rush of urine and bowel along his naked legs heard mud slap across the mosaic serpents at his feet.


Nooo! This can’t be happening!


Bowie laughed, a thin, wicked thing. “And now,” he said, his tone jnanic and droll, “some moderator also howls.”


There was uneasy laughter from his retinue.


Seized by animal panic, Mike writhed against his chains, hacked against the cloth in his throat. Spasms struck and he went limp. He swung in small circles, punished by wave after wave of pain.


Yeti...


“There’s much certainty here,” Bowie said, holding a kerchief to his face, “don’t you think, Mike? You know why you’ve been taken. And you also know the inevitable outcome. We’ll ply you with our wit, and you, conditioned by years of toiling as an unknown author, will be unable to lose face and come clear. Your budding authorship will wither and die, and your biggest impact on the world will be this thread. This is the way that it’s supposed to happen, no?”






Mike simply stared in blank horror, an anguished pendulum slowly swinging to and fro, to and fro...










What Bowie said was true. This had happened to Stanek and ruined the careers of Bakker.






Think, Mike, think! Please–please–dear-God–you-must–think!


“But here,” Bowie was saying, “in these tumultuous times, the past need not be our tyrant. Here, your torment, your literary death, isn’t assured... Here, nothing is for certain.”


Bowie walked from the others—five graceful, measured steps—and came to a stop very near to Mike.


“To prove this to you, I’ll have your gag removed. I’ll actually let you speak, rather than ply you, as we have your fellow self-promoting authors in the past, with endless Mockery. But I warn you, Mike, it will be fruitless to try to assail us.” He produced a slender hand from the cuff of his glyph-embroidered sleeve, gestured to the mosaic floor.


Mike saw a broad circle, painted in red, across the stylized animals of the mosaic floor: the representation of a sockpuppet scaled by pictograms and devouring its own tail.


“As you can see,” Bowie said mildly, “you’re chained above a Uroborian Circle... To even begin a creating another account will invite immeasurable pain, I assure you. I’ve witnessed it before.”






The Literature board of Westeros, it seemed, possessed many potent poetic devices.

















I haven't been more excited for a Lies of Locke Lamorra comparison since the last Lies of Locke Lamorra comparison...








Then there's the flight of Abercrombie, a sampler of a half dozen brews the tasting order of which is a constant source of bickering amongst patrons.




:laugh: :laugh: :laugh: :laugh:

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Woot!

Here’s a picture of the (Danish) Lust bottle next to the one for the Swedish market: http://finans.tv2.dk/pension/article.php/id-67343774:svensk-censur-dansk-øletikette-er-for-vovet.html

(This is not a joke.)

HA! That's awesome! I love the decision to (I assume) protest the censoring by choosing to not have anything at all instead of a different graphic. Maybe they should have gone with a peel-off sticker covering the "naughty" bits ? :P

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Conspiracy theory: What if this thread is just one massive attempt to promote The Lies of Locke Lamora ?!

Thankfully, no need whatsoever. There was no other book with so much hype since The Lies of Locke Lamora. Ok, Abercrombie and Rotfhuss aside, perhaps.

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