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From the Imperial Desk of His Majesty


Litofsky

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Psssh, American beer.

 

Real men drink cider. And by that I mean real cider, not preprocessed stuff coming out of some inner-city brewery. I mean cider brewed on a farm in the middle of Devon and available for all of twenty miles around it*.

 

But if you're too far away, then Dr. Johnson's advice will stand:

 

Claret is the drink for boys, port for men, but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.

 

 

*Twenty standard miles, or three country miles. The distance will be marked on, say, road signs in the latter.

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Psssh, American beer.
If you mean the swill that is produced by Miller, Budweiser, and Coors, then yes, I must agree with you. However, the microbrewery revolution has arrived, and with it, a plethora of unique beers. Have you not tasted the glorious of nectar that is an IPA?

Real men drink cider. And by that I mean real cider, not preprocessed stuff coming out of some inner-city brewery. I mean cider brewed on a farm in the middle of Devon and available for all of twenty miles around it*.
Pfft, I can leave a tub of apple juice out in the air, and BAM, I have cider. Beer, on the other hand, is a delicate art, requiring the utmost skill and attention.

*Twenty standard miles, or three country miles. The distance will be marked on, say, road signs in the latter.
And they say that the American Standard is backwards.
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If you mean the swill that is produced by Miller, Budweiser, and Coors, then yes, I must agree with you. However, the microbrewery revolution has arrived, and with it, a plethora of unique beers.

 

We've had those over in the UK for centuries. Except we tend to do it with a little less fuss, and sensible names.

 

Anyone up for a glass of Nun's Water?

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If you mean the swill that is produced by Miller, Budweiser, and Coors, then yes, I must agree with you. However, the microbrewery revolution has arrived, and with it, a plethora of unique beers. Have you not tasted the glorious of nectar that is an IPA?

Urgh, IPA. Almost as bad as the gnat's piss you listed above. :p

 

Pfft, I can leave a tub of apple juice out in the air, and BAM, I have cider. Beer, on the other hand, is a delicate art, requiring the utmost skill and attention.

Pish. What you've got is rotten apple juice - and real cider uses the apples, not just the juice. This we call 'scrumpy'.

 

It is generally advisable not to consume more than two pints, and on no account to drink on top of beer. Failure to follow these simple rubrics can lead to ruin.

And they say that the American Standard is backwards.

Bah, you're just jealous of our cultural superiority. o_Q

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Urgh, IPA. Almost as bad as the gnat's piss you listed above. :p
*drops monocle in tea*

 

You dare defile the elegance that is of the glory of the hops? The bold, bitter essence of the sacred herb! I am demand satisfaction. :carms:

Pish. What you've got is rotten apple juice - and real cider uses the apples, not just the juice. This we call 'scrumpy'.
Well, at least you don't leave the worm in the bottle.

Bah, you're just jealous of our cultural superiority. o_Q
Might I remind you that we made the hogshead equal to 63 gallons, whilst your "Imperial" system puts the hogshead at 52.5 gallons. You and your coveted half-gallon can sod off.
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Are you my Mummy?

 

No.

 

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

 

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And floundering like a man in fire or lime.

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

 

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in.

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

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To Darth333, Administraterror and High Dark Lady of the Sith is granted the poƒition, entitlement and rank of Despotic Tetrarch, Lord Prefident of His Majeƒty's Most Honourable Privy Council, Petit Gateau Moelleux Herald, Grand Dame Commander of the Most Supreme, Ancient, Noble and Thoroughly Not Made Up On A Whim Order of the Golden Cog of Modding Of Holowan, Chief Mistress of Ceremonies, Interrex, Grand Marshal of the Crown, Castellan and Minister for Pianos and Definitely-Not-Poisoned Apples, and the stipendiary incomes thereby gained.

:argh: I'll never remember all that...

 

Well...I'm going to live up to my reputation (whatever it is) and end this off-topic beer & spam fest... :lock:

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